One advantage of driving was that you didn't have as many close encounters with ass holes like that frat boy. But she smiled, remembering how he'd blubbered. *Little bastard probably needed clean boxers by the time he got home.* She'd come close to doing exactly what she'd threatened. She could tell by his scent he intended to rape her, and that put him in the category of prey.

She'd held off, though. It was just too damn close to home, right on her own doorstep. She'd have had to move the car, and Acacia didn't like driving someone else's car, especially when she had their remains stuffed in the trunk. Awful hard to explain at traffic stops if something leaked out of the trunk. Besides, there was something else on the schedule tonight.

She had a feeling that this was the night she'd finally find Mercy's old man. Mercy, also known on the street as The Incredible Melting Whore, didn't know she'd engaged Acacia to take care of her problem. Mercy thought that she'd just been bullshitting in a bar with another, more exotic form of hooker.

For some reason, certain prostitutes bragged about the tortures their pimps put them through, wearing the burns and welts like badges of honor. *Maybe it's like the dueling scars all those swashbuckling motherfuckers had in the old movies.*

Mercy probably didn't even see it at a problem. She seemed to think it was understandable, if a bit harsh, for Slick *Oh, damn, that is so original, almost as inventive as Cool.* to pour drain cleaner on her face for daring to hold out on her earnings, just so she could try to fix the tooth he'd broken. He'd said why worry about a broken tooth? Just be sure to pull her lips over her teeth when she gave blow jobs.

From that moment on Slick was dead man walking. It wouldn't do much good, of course. Mercy would find another Slick, or Slim, or an Easy Money, or perhaps a Bubba. Women like her always did. But it would be one less piece of trash in the world, and a good meal for Acacia.

It hadn't been easy, though. Acacia had shadowed Mercy for nearly a week. The poor bitch had to work till the crack of dawn to make enough to keep from getting the shit kicked out of her, and that meant that Acacia had to call off the search before she went back to her crib. Slick was a poor imitation of a real pimp. He never stirred his lazy ass to check on his woman during her shift.

But there was word of a big shipment hitting the streets tonight. That meant every junkie for miles around would be out, trying to score. Slick wasn't likely to be patient enough to wait for Mercy to bring her take home. No, he'd be around somewhere, waiting to confiscate the money.

If she'd been smart, Mercy would have been working the docks. There were always some crewmen around, bored, horny, and not too picky. It didn't pay as much, but it was steady. Instead, she'd moved in a little closer to the main drag, desperately hoping to catch some overflow business.

That was dangerous in several ways, and being picked up by the cops was the least of it. The downtown pimps and whores were very territorial. If you didn't have an arrangement you were likely to end up in the emergency room, dripping through your fingers while they filled out forms.

Mercy had set up shop across from an all night diner, which was just about perfect. Acacia took a booth where she could have a more or less clear view through the fly specked window. She used napkins and some of her complimentary water to swab up the remains of whatever the previous diner had dripped on the sticky tablecloth, and ordered pie and coffee.

That was one of the advantages of being a hybrid, she mused. She wasn't limited to a liquid diet, she could still enjoy human food. Not that the food here was that enjoyable. The lemon meringue pie was as tart as her own personality, the meringue was the consistency of foam rubber, and the crust was almost as tasty as damp cardboard. The coffee wasn't a total loss. It had a nice coppery taste, a pale imitation of the metallic undertone in fresh blood.

She sipped the thick brew, watching as Mercy managed to coax an obviously drunk fat man into the alley. He emerged in five minutes, struggling with his fly. She was disappointed when he didn't catch himself in the zipper.

Another hour passed. The waitress started to say something to Acacia, probably a remark about not renting booth space. Acacia looked pointedly around the diner, empty except for a newspaper vendor grabbing a chili burger before picking up his load, and gave her two dollars. "Help yourself to a piece of that industrial waste you're passing off as pie." The waitress left, blushing as she tucked the bills in her apron pocket. Acacia wasn't mad at her, as she'd waited tables in places like this more than once. It paid shit and you were everyone's doormat and draft animal.

Another man approached Mercy. This one was younger than the first, no more than late twenties. He was pretty tall, at least six-four. Long arms and legs, big hands...He'd probably done well in high school basketball, dreaming of the NBA. Then he found out he was up against guys a head or more taller who could leap like gazelles.

Again Mercy went into the alley, but this time the guy shoved her in. Acacia sat up alertly. If it wasn't Slick, it might be someone else who needed killing. They came out again in a moment. The guy was counting money, and Mercy was rubbing her arms, the unmarred side of her face scrunched like a child trying not to cry.

He finished the count, shook it at her, then slapped the side of her head hard enough to make her stagger on her high heels. Mercy talked silently, spreading her arms to indicate the empty street. He raised his hand to slap her again, and she cringed. Instead he smiled, and took her chin in this hand. He spoke slowly and deliberately, holding up the cash as if as an example. When he released her, she nodded eagerly, and he stroked the hair that fell over the ruin that he'd made of her face.

Acacia heard a grating sound, and looked down. Her nails had extended full length, and she'd unconsciously torn rips in the oilcloth. She retracted them quickly, and put on her shades. Her eyes had probably switched, too, and she didn't want the waitress or customer to notice anything unusual.

Slick was moving off down the street. She grabbed her bag, tossed a tip on the table, and left the diner. The only question was whether or not he'd try to score right away. He might want to get a pre-fix buzz. She didn't want to make contact in a bar. Most bartenders wouldn't remember if the pope had dropped by in full holy regalia, but she was bit...distinctive.

Acacia followed easily. From her biological father she'd inherited natural stealth, and her sire had enhanced that gift with his Embrace. A mortal never heard her coming unless she intended them to, or she was very, very careless.

Slick was impatient. No socializing for him tonight. He walked quickly to where the streets were still alive with pedestrians and cars. Hookers trolled under the watchful eyes of pimps more conscientious than Slick. Customers wandered in and out of bars, massage parlors, and peepshow arcades. There was at least one all night comic book shop, doing a brisk business even at this late hour.

They passed Crowley's and The Decadence Boutique, respectively a goth club and a sex emporium, both favorites of her sister, Naresha. There was also Bounty, a nature/health food store. It was one of the few places Milda, her other sister, would leave the sanctuary of their home to visit.

Slick immediately began to pester anyone who looked like they might be holding. It said a lot about his unreliable nature that he didn't have a regular supplier. Most ignored him, not about to acknowledge someone so blatant in their need. You had to be wasted on your own product not to at least attempt to hide your dealings. One fourteen year old, wearing the badge of a junior Street Prince, laughed in his face when Slick showed him his funds. Slick started to retaliate, but thought better of it when the kid's older, bigger mentor got out of his car, where he'd been supervising the young entrepreneur.

It was beginning to look like Slick wasn't going to find anything at his price, so she'd have to take him straight instead of doped. That didn't bother her. He wouldn't be much of a challenge either way. Slick must've been pretty massive at one time, but the drugs were wasting him away. His clothes bagged, and the skin on his arms looked loose, as if there was no longer enough muscle mass to stretch it taut.