The Iron Hunt (5 page)

The girl
saw, though. She saw and stared, and I grabbed the back of her jacket, moving
fast, marching her to the mouth of the alley. She tried to fight me. Slammed my
ribs with her brass knuckles. Made an impact like a baby’s kiss. I dragged her
to the sidewalk and rain ran down my face. My skin hissed. Sunset. The sun.

“Why
are you doing this?” I asked the girl harshly. “Who has you scared?”

“Fuck
off,” she snarled, and grabbed my breast, fingers digging in and twisting. I
felt no pain, but it shocked me. It was a surprisingly dirty tactic for a kid
so young. Maybe one that had been used on her. The possibility made me sick.

“I
can help you,” I said, but she spat on me, a big, fat goober on my jacket, and
that was it. No more time. “Fine. Walk away. Don’t look back.”

She
hesitated longer than she should have. Something to lose, something driving
her. I wished I had time to ask. I wished I had a choice, but I could not stay
here and keep an eye on the boy. I could not risk the girl continuing to engage
me. Not now.

I
squeezed my fingers until she cried out, and forced myself to hold on, making
certain she got the message.

Be
more afraid of me.

She
was. I saw the shift when it happened: in her eyes, in her mouth. Her whole
demeanor, small like a kitten in the jaws of a Rottweiler. Bitterness filled
me. I hated this. I hated it all. Monster, me. Scaring little girls, little
broken girls. All of us, lost little girls.

I
loosened my fingers. The teen broke away without a word. She turned, walked
fast, and did not look back. Neither did I. I ran like hell, furious at myself.
Sick at heart.

I did
not go far. I had burned that bridge thirty minutes ago by not returning to the
Mustang and sitting in the parking garage, twiddling my thumbs over a book or
talking to Grant on the phone, digging up dirt, putting our heads together. I
pushed. I waited too long. Now I was in public.

It
was dark for sunset, unusually so, which was all I had in my favor. I slid
between the bumpers of two parked cars—a battered Volkswagen and muscular
SUV—and slumped on my hands and knees, the ends of my hair dipped in rainwater.
No streetlights in this section. No windows full of light. Only shadows—and me,
just one more shuddering body collapsed on a street full of them. I heard
people walk past. No one slowed. I hoped no one saw. I hoped they were blind. I
hoped I was not screwed.

Somewhere,
the sun went down. I felt the horizon swallow, the push of heat in my own
throat, as though inside me the darkness, the vast space of night and the stars
spinning between my ribs. My tattoos began to peel. The boys woke up.

Hurt
like it should. Skin tearing. Flayed by smoke and shadows. I swallowed bad
noises, throat aching, and tore off my gloves. Shook so hard my teeth
chattered. Minutes ago, tattoos would have covered my hands—fingers, palms,
even my nails—black and etched with lines. But now bodies writhed, silver skin
dissolving into a mist that poured from beneath my clothes, and I felt hearts
pound that were not my own. Slender, muscled limbs slid hot and heavy through
my hair. Small fingers caressed my cheeks. Melodic whispers mated with the
patter of rain.

Endless
rain. Chilling, soaking my clothes, heavy and tight. I felt discomfort. Acute
discomfort. The cold and wind, an ache in my knees from the hard concrete. My
palms were frozen. My nose ran. I could hardly think.

My
skin was human again. So very human. Hit, I would break. Stabbed, I would
bleed. Shot, strangled, drowned: I could be killed now. I was human, until
dawn. Vulnerable, until then. Mortal.

“Maxine,”
whispered Zee. “Sweet Maxine.”

I sat
up, scraping my shoulders against cold, slick car bumpers. Three little bodies
crouched before me, lost in the dark wet shadows. Zee, Aaz, and Raw. Skin the
color of soot smeared with silver and mercury, lean and warm. Steam drifted
from the razor scales of their bristling spines and spindly arms—two arms, two
legs—claws instead of fingers and toes. Their feet were vaguely human, as were
their rakish faces, angular to the point of pain. I smelled fire, leather—something
else I could not name, but which smelled like my mother. A scent that had
always been home.

My
home. Their home. Until it was time.

Never
enough time. I tried to stand, but my body ached. I took a moment. Purrs
rumbled against my ears, little tongues scraping skin. Dek and Mal, their long
serpentine bodies wrapped around my neck as they snaked under my jacket to fish
through my inner pockets. They had no legs, and only two arms—vestigial limbs
good for little more than grasping my ears. Heads shaped like hyenas, with
smiles to match. Best little bodyguards on earth.

Dek
and Mal found the teddy bears I had stashed for them—dopey little things the
length of my finger, attached to key chains. I heard crunching, wet smacks.
Tiny giggles. The boys liked to eat bears. I had to order in bulk. I never took
them to the zoo. Poor damn grizzlies.

Zee
hugged my arm, rubbing his cheek against my coat as the silver needles of his
hair shimmered and cut the leather like butter. “Bad dreams, Maxine. Bad as
bones.”

“Tell
me.” I watched Aaz and Raw slink away on their bellies, red eyes blinking
lazily. They could have been dragons, wolves; or both, caught in limbo. Perfect
twins, except for the faint patch of silver on the tip of Raw’s chin. They
disappeared beneath the SUV. I pulled several Snickers from my jacket. Tossed
them into the shadows and heard a faint cheer.

I
gave one to Zee. His claws dragged trenches in the concrete as he swallowed the
bar whole, wrapper and all.

“Your
dreams,” I reminded him. “They hurt me this afternoon.”

He
hesitated. “No choice. Something in the air. Something coming. Had to warn
you.”

“The
veil.”

“Cutters.
Hot slicers.”

Demons.
Something larger than zombie parasites. I had already guessed as much. I looked
him in the eye. “Give me more.”

“More,”
he echoed softly, tearing his gaze from mine. “More is coming. More is ending.
Maxine. Sweet Maxine. ”

He
stopped. His silence was final. I unclenched my hands. No good pushing. Zee had
a habit of riddles. Unfortunately, he was the only one of his brothers who
could hold a human conversation. Far as I knew.

I
glanced over my shoulder, shoving the gloves in my pocket. People were coming.
I heard laughter, the slap of shoes in puddles. Rain on umbrellas. Nice.
Normal.

“We’re
hunting,” I told Zee. “Big trouble.”

“In
Little China,”
he crooned. Such a
goof. He loved movies. Missed the eighties. And the Crusades, though I had yet
to figure out that one. Might have been the armor. He had a thing for crunchy
meals.

Zee
flashed white teeth, a tongue long and black, and melted into the shadows
beneath his feet. Gone in a wink. No idea what lay on the other side of a
shadow but had a feeling I was better off not knowing. I did not worry about
whether Raw and Aaz would follow. The boys had a system.

I
stood. Got some looks from passersby. Nothing serious. No one ran or screamed.
No one ever had. I gave a good face, dressed nice, stayed clean—kept the demons
and tattoos out of sight. It took so little to hide the big secrets. Not that
anyone would ever imagine an army of demons living on one woman’s skin. If they
even believed demons existed.

I
thought of Badelt. Got a bad feeling in my gut.

I
walked back to the alley. Dek and Mal remained sleek and heavy on my shoulders,
the turtleneck collar hiding their bodies while their sleek, tufted heads
stayed tucked out of sight within my hair. A sharp observer might see some
glint of a red eye, but only as a figment of light and fancy. Not demon. Not
animal.

I
looked for zombies. Checked auras for dark spots. This was a good part of town
for parasites. The human crush, seeping with heartache. All the pain a dark
spirit required to stay alive.

Emotions
made energy. Energy was food. That violence could beget violence was no joke.
It took a particular breed of demon to create zombies, but the cracks in the
veil had grown over the last century, making it easier for them to slip free
from their prison in the first ring of the veil. Once here, they infected
humans who were emotionally vulnerable. Turned them into puppets, living tools.
Mindless shells. Good for trouble, abuse—self-inflicted or dished out.
Charmers, all of them. Subtle.

A
zombie would kill you with a smile. Smiles made everything sweeter.

Dek
and Mal hissed in my ear. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man and woman
some distance behind me, strolling down the sidewalk. Despite the apparent
differences in gender, they both wore dark slacks and slick wind blazers that
strained against their broad shoulders. Intense eyes stared from thick faces
with ruddy cheeks. Identical bulges distorted the sides of their jackets.

Really
big cell phones, maybe. Urban missionaries, roving the night to aid the
helpless. Innocent. Utterly harmless. Wonder Twins.

I
reached the alley. Stopped, staring. I had been away less than five minutes.

The
children were gone. All of them. Bodies had huddled against the brick and
concrete, and now those same spaces were empty. Plastic bags fluttered like
ghosts; cardboard boxes stood battered and crushed like stormed castles. An
eerie absence, cutting. I wanted to hold my stomach.

A man
stood in front of me. He was young and blond, like the others, and smelled of
cigars. Built like a bull. Would have looked more at home in furs, with a club
in one hand. Modern times were not for everyone.

He
told me not to move. He had a Russian accent. I did not say a word. I could not
have cared less about conversation. I was thinking about those kids, especially
the boy. I had gotten him, maybe all of them, in trouble. I had brought shit
down on their heads.

The man
pulled out a cell phone. He spoke into it. I did not understand Russian, but I
got the drift. I felt movement behind me and found the Wonder Twins. They held
guns. Nearby, Zee and the others watched from the shadows, red eyes glinting
like rubies. Dek and Mal rumbled in my ears.

I
took a step. Trigger fingers tightened. If they tightened any more, the Wonder
Twins would be dead. I looked back at the fellow with the cell phone. “The
children. Where are they?”

He
ignored me. A car engine roared, and a pair of headlights pulled in to the end
of the alley. A limo. The door opened from inside. No one got out. I could not
see who sat within.

Everything,
my mother used to say,
is connected
.

And I
could, on occasion, be a very patient woman.

The
man gestured with his gun. Shadows filled the limo. The boys always liked going
for a ride.

I got
in.

AN
old man sat inside the limo. He wore a suit. Thick black glasses perched on the
end of his nose. He was bald. He was a zombie.

The
man with the cell phone began to get in after us, but the zombie held up his
hand and said a word in Russian. The blond hesitated, backed away, and shut the
door. The limo started moving. I opened the minibar and took out a ginger ale.
I needed something sweet.

The
zombie watched me, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. He was a small,
spindly man, swallowed by the immense seat across from me. His eyes were cold,
his aura black. Older and more deadly than most. Higher up the food chain. But
he should have been running. Engagement with me was a death sentence. Usually.

Which
meant he had something on me. I had a bad feeling what that was.

“Hunter
Kiss,” said the zombie. “So infamous. How very interesting finally to meet you
in the flesh.”

“Sure,”
I replied, sipping my drink. “I’m popular tonight. ”

His
smile widened. “You look like your mother.”

My
fingers tightened around the can. The zombie took off his glasses and rubbed
the edge of his suit jacket against the lens. “Your mother never cared for
pleasantries, either. Beautiful woman. But then, your family has always been
striking.” He slipped his glasses back on and blinked, owlishly. “I assume your
wards are nearby?”

I
snapped my fingers. Zee, Aaz, and Raw coalesced from the shadows. They sat
beside me, all in a row, legs too short for the leather seat. In unison, they
swung their clawed feet, hands clasped in their laps. Deceptively prim. Little
smart-asses. I opened the minibar, and Zee pointed to the whiskey and vodka. I
passed out the bottles.

The
zombie raised his brow. “How endearing.”

“You
have no idea.” I felt my heart sink into a dark, hard place. “Are you
responsible for the disappearance of those children in the alley?”

“I am
responsible for many things. But not that.” He tilted his head, watching Zee
and the others with a curious—and rather unnatural—lack of fear. “I did,
however, retrieve
one
of them. A boy. That boy you took such interest
in.”