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"You're gonna need a partner," she said.
Jo grit her teeth and muttered something non-committal. The implied criticism stung.
The woman leaned closer for a second, sucking her teeth as she extracted another shard of glass from Jo's shoulder with steady hands and the medical precision of a master surgeon.
Jo was unable to keep from flinching as the shard was pulled free from her skin.
"Damn it, girl! Hold still."
Another bloody bit of glass joined the others in the tray. Jo looked away and up to the rain-streaked window.
The woman got a good grip on Jo's other shoulder, bracing Jo down and holding herself steady.
"This is the last, but it's gonna sting like hell. Don't move." Jo compressed her lips until they were nothing more that a thin white line across her face, and kept her jaw clenched.
The woman leaned forward over Jo's shoulder again, her tongue peeking out as she concentrated on getting a good grip on the last glass sliver. The long tweezers in her hand seemed like an extension of her fingers.
Jo sucked in a breath through her nose and held herself steady. She tensed, and needing to focus on something else, looked down at the woman's head, gazing intensely at the short-cut hair and the uneven line of an old scar cut across the part. She concentrated on the way the faded brown was shot through with gray and wondered, distantly, if her own head would look the same one day.
"Good girl," the woman murmured, leaning back and placing the last sliver along side the rest. Jo pushed aside her resentment and bore the woman's words as graciously as possible under the circumstances. You came to her, she reminded herself, though that refrain was growing bitter in her mind.
The woman busied herself finishing her task, clucking her tongue when Jo hissed at the disinfectant she liberally applied.
"There, all done." The women sat back in her chair, apparently satisfied with a job well done. She reached across the table for the bottle of rotgut that stood against the wall, uncorked it with one hand, while grabbing two shot glasses from the windowsill. She filled both, downed one but offered the other to Jo. Jo blinked in surprise, but accepted the glass and tossed it back, setting the glass down on the table. The liquor burned all the way down, scalding and foul, but the gesture was appreciated.
The woman looked Jo over with an appraising eye, and then gave her a nod, pleased with the lack of sputtering and choking. Jo gave her a steady look in return. Growing up in a bar had its advantages.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and to Jo it felt like an uneasy truce until the woman spoke again.
"Don't think it'll scar, kid. You're lucky that way."
Jo flushed, her anger tinged with humiliation, but she managed to bite back a retort. You came to her, you came to her, a little voice sang in her mind. Talking back would only make her sound like a sulky teenager.
"Oh, don't give me that attitude." The woman apparently saw the protest in her eyes, for she added, "It's written on your face."
Jo took a measured breath, and as evenly as she could she said, "You won't talk me out of this," and braced herself for the inevitable speech about how good little girls should go home where it's safe.
Instead, the woman threw her head back and laughed, and it was horse and throaty and full, no trace of derision. It was an honest laugh. She shook her head.
"I know that. D'ya think I would've let you tag along if I thought you were some stupid kid looking for a thrill? Hell no. I''d have sent you back to your dear sweet ol' mama."
Jo shifted, and snorted. The woman gave her a wry grin.
"I wouldn't be the first, though, hmm?" The woman poured herself another shot, downed it, and regarded Jo with a tilt to her head and a far-off look in her eye.
"I can see why," she added softly. "You're soft, kiddo. And you're instincts are all wrong...but that's not it."
"What then?" Jo said, this time unable to completely curb the bitterness in her tone, but the woman did not seem to hear her. She still had that distant look in her eye. She was tapping the bottle with her fingers, some broken rhythm Jo could not quite follow.
"I was a fed, once, can you believe it? An actual officer of the law..." She trailed off, lost in thought. But then she shook herself, and focused on Jo. She poured herself another drink and held it up to the light, turning it in her fingers and examining it closely.
"Cops and hunters. More in common than either'd ever admit, even if they cared to know." She paused.
"They've all got their reasons. We've all got our reasons," she amended, "for doing what we do. I know you've got yours, which is why I didn't chase ya off, and so do those rookies, so proud of their shiny badges and nice suits."
She trailed off again, and then said abruptly, "I prefer hunters. No one gets into this gig without already having had ten tons of shit fall on their heads."
Jo said sharply, "I know what's out there. I've seen it. Suffered."
"Kiddo, that makes you even rarer. You know it and yet you're still naive as fuck. No one wants to break you."
Jo went white and stood up, sending her chair skittering back across the beat up linoleum. Her arm and neck protested the sudden movement, but she ignored it.
"Thank you for your concern," she said stiffly, "and for your help, but if it's all the same to you, go-"
The woman cut her off, set down her drink, and gestured at Jo's abandoned chair. "Sit down, you idiot."
Jo stayed where she was, neither sitting nor leaving.
The woman sighed. "It's just a sin, that's all, but not a new one for me. I wanted you to understand that." She picked her drink back up and put it out of its misery.
Jo hesitated, unsure where this was going.
"We go at things like the goddamn Lone Ranger. No wonder we're always losing," the woman remarked bitterly. She rubbed a hand across her face.
"First, kid, get yourself a partner. It's not a reflection on your skills, just your smarts. You'll need the backup when the shit hits the fan, of course, but it's more than that. You see a lot of shit, it messes with your head. And there're no psych evals in hunting. No mandatory leaves of absence. I'm sure you know what I mean."
Jo nodded. "Yeah." She knew. She sat down again, put her elbows on her knees, and leaned forward onto her hands.
The woman picked up the long tweezers and used them to trace shapes on the table.
"Find someone who can help you keep your head on straight," she advised, "and stay away from the troublemakers." She gave Jo a crooked smile. "Though I've heard you've already learned that lesson."
She paused and turned a critical eye on Jo. "Grow your hair out," she suggested.
"What? Why?" Jo fingered the ragged ends of her hair, where she'd cut it with a knife. One misadventure involving getting dragged off by her hair had cured her of her vanity
"You're never gonna look hard, girl. You're too slight. Your features are too fine. You look like a victim in the making."
"I thought you weren't gonna tell me to go home like a good little girl," Jo murmured, her curiosity peaked.
"I'm not. Use what you've got. You're never gonna be able to fight like big guys, muscling your way through. You've got brains, and you've got your looks. You're a fine researcher, which is important. Blundering in will always be bad for you. You're always going to be weaker. So use it. Play bait. Hit 'em when they least expect it."
"Next you're gonna tell me to be a ninja in stiletto heels."
"You're gonna tell me that you don't know how to pull your hair back into a braid?"
Jo fidgeted a bit. "I can't seem to keep hair ties."
The woman shrugged. "You'll think of something." She fiddled with the bottle. "Time for you to get going, kid. I've got better things to do than babysit a rookie."
Jo stood. "Thanks, I guess."
"You heard me. Shoo."
Jo picked up her sweatshirt and gingerly put it on. She turned to go, then paused. She bunched her hands into fists around handfuls of her sweatshirt.
"My mom....My mom didn't talk to you, did she?" She hated that she had to ask, and resented how much it made her sound like a teenager desperate to do something on her own.
The woman let out a bray of her throaty, wheezy laughter. "Ellen? Ha! I've been on Ellen's shitlist since I raided her place back in the 80s." The woman shook her head in amusement. "Thought it was some kind of front for gunrunning, which, all things considered....heh. Girl, I'm not doing your mother any favors."
Jo relaxed at that. She blew out a breath. "Thanks, Thea. I'll...I'll think about what you said."
Thea nodded at her. "You do that." She watched as Jo slipped out the back door, and listened for the sound of her car. When she was sure Jo had gone, she pulled out her cell from her pocket, and scrolled down until she found the number she wanted.
It rang only twice before someone picked up. "Just saw your girl," she said, "no- I'm not- just wait a goddamn second, will ya? She's fine- No, that's it. Ellen. It's my own damn business. If you're so worried, why don't you go with her?" She listened for a moment. "Uh-huh." She rolled her eyes. "Bye, Ellen."
Thea stared at the wall, then reached down and picked up her tweezers. She grabbed one of the glass splinters out of the tray and held it up to the light, where it sparkled like some kind of macabre mosaic piece. She thought, for a moment, of bright smiles and shiny new credentials, before setting it back down.
She took a pull directly from the bottle, and looked around the empty room.
"Goddammit."
Then she stood, took a deep breath, and started cleaning up.