The Iron Hunt (3 page)

Zee
twitched. I ignored it, but a moment later my stomach started churning, like my
bowels were going loose, and that was odd enough to make me stop in my tracks
and listen to my body. Except for nerves, I never got sick. Not a single day in
my life. Not a cough, not a fever, no vaccinations needed. I had an iron gut,
too. Give me a food stand in Mexico with local water, old meat, some
questionable cheese—and I would still walk away without a burp.

But
this felt like the beginning of something. I rubbed my arms, my stomach. Zee
shifted, tugging on my spine, then the others joined him—all over my body—and
every inch of me suddenly burned like I had been dipped in nettle oil.

I
swayed, leaning hard on the table. Mary flinched. I could not reassure her. I
could not think. I was too stunned. And then I could do nothing at all, because
pain exploded in my eyes, like a razor shaving tissue from my eye sockets. I bent
over, pressing my fingers hard against my face. Digging in. Breathing through
my mouth. My knees buckled.

Then,
nothing. Pain stopped. All over my body, just like that. No warning.

I
huddled, breathless, waiting for it to return. All I felt was an echo, burning
through my skull and skin like a ghost. My heart hammered so hard I wanted to
vomit. I was light-headed, dizzy. My upper lip tasted like blood. My nose was
bleeding.

I
sensed movement. Looked up, vision blurred with tears, and found Mary staring,
chopsticks pointed in my direction like chocolate hallucinogenic magic wands.
Her blue eyes were sharp. My knees trembled. Blood roared in my ears.

“Devil
always comes knocking like a bastard,” she whispered.

I
heard footsteps, the rough click of a cane. I snatched the jar of weed from
Mary’s hand, and ignored her squeak of protest as I hurried to the sink and
dumped its contents down the trash disposal.

I
turned on the faucet, flipped the switch—and while the disposal rattled, I
dashed water on my face. My gloves were still on. I grabbed a paper towel to
swipe the blood from my nose and crumpled it in my fist, turning to face the
swinging doors just as Rex pushed through.

His
aura sang with a dark crown so thick and black it pulsed like a cloud of crude
oil. Amazed me, again, that anyone in this world could be misled by his kind,
that demons could take hosts and move so freely amongst their human prey and
not one person blink an eye. I could not fathom such blindness. The danger of
it.

Or
why I let Grant continue his experiments with them.

He
was just behind Rex. His eyes were wild, fierce, edged in shadow. Something had
happened. When he walked in, his gaze slipped immediately to the crown of my
head, searching. I knew he could tell from my aura that I was hurting. Grant
started to speak, but I heard more footsteps, and he gave me a warning look
just as two men walked in after him.

The
detectives. I recognized them, even if I did not know their names. They were in
their thirties, with close-shaven hair and neat suits. I was familiar with
their faces because they stopped by the Coop every now and then to see Grant.
Checking up on people. Using him as a sounding board. Once a priest, always a
priest. Folks still trusted him to lend an ear.

The
men stood a moment in silence, studying Mary and Rex. Then me. I tried to stay
calm even though I felt like a deer caught in headlights. I disliked most
police. Not on principle. Most did good work. That was the problem. I had
broken too many laws over the years to be comfortable around anyone with a
badge.

I
hoped I looked appropriately docile. I had cleaned up that morning, and my hair
was pulled back. A bit of lipstick, some mascara. Nothing heavy. Not that I was
trying to impress. I thought they had come for Mary. I was almost certain of
it. I was scared for her. And Grant.

But I
got a surprise.

“Maxine
Kiss?” asked the detective on the left, a slender black man who kept his thumbs
hooked lightly over his belt. He looked too by-the-book for such a relaxed
posture, which made me think he wanted his hands near his gun and Mace. “My
name is Detective Suwanai, and this is my partner, McCowan. We have some
questions for you.”

I
stared, still feeling ill, head hurting. This did not help. The detectives should
not have known me—or that I lived here. They might have spent some time at the
shelter, but only a handful of people in Seattle, not including zombies, knew
my real name. I had a fondness for aliases. I thought I made a good Annie.
Reminded me of Sandra Bullock in
Speed
. Cheerful and competent. I was
working on the cheerful part.

“I’m
listening,” I said, fighting for composure. Very worried. Thinking, maybe, I
should have denied being Maxine Kiss. No proof, no reality. But it was too
late. My big mouth.

McCowan
was several inches taller than his partner and about ten pounds heavier. Pale,
cute like a frat boy, with a soft jaw that was going to drop into his neck
within the next several years. His gaze flickered from Grant to me. “What’s
your relationship with Brian Badelt?”

“I
don’t know who that is,” I replied.

“You’ve
never heard of him?”

“Never.”

Detective
Suwanai made a big show of pulling a photograph from his pocket. He flicked it
toward me, and I leaned in. I was not surprised to see a corpse, but I was not
happy about it, either. A headshot, taken on a stainless-steel examining table.
Badelt was an older man, with a lean face and white hair. Straight nose, strong
chin. He looked like a hard-ass even in death, but I might have liked him.
Nothing wrong with being straightforward.

“I
don’t recognize him,” I said.

“What’s
this about?” Grant asked, and there was a melodic quality to his voice that I
recognized. Power. Zee told me once that his voice tickled, but that was a
gentle way of putting it. Anyone who could control a demon, who could change
the very
nature
of a demon, did more than just… tickle.

It
concerned me. I always worried when Grant used his power. There were too few
lines before a push became possession. Such small lines between dark and light.
Grant was still learning that. I suppose we both were.

Suwanai
and McCowan stiffened slightly, an odd light shifting through their eyes: a
trace of emptiness, a deep hollow. It lasted only a moment, but when they
started blinking again, Suwanai said, “Badelt’s body was found in an alley off
University Avenue. He was shot to death.”

Grant
looked down, jaw flexing. I briefly closed my eyes. “Why come to me?”

McCowan
hesitated, but Grant made a low noise in his throat, a soft humming tone, and
the detective shook his head, frowning. He touched his brow. “There was a
newspaper in his pocket. One of the daily Chinatown rags. Your name was written
on it. We’re following up.”

Suwanai
also rubbed his forehead. “Where were you last night, Ms. Kiss? From midnight
on?”

“I
was here,” I said.

“With
me,” Grant added.

“You’re
sure?” Suwanai pressed.

“We
were naked,” I told him. “I remember.”

McCowan
grunted, glancing at Grant with some surprise. Then his gaze returned to me,
flickering up and down my body. Assessing.

I
kept my mouth shut. A man was dead. A man I did not know, but who had written
down my name. And now I was a suspect. None of that made me feel good. Or
particularly sexy.

Grant
gave McCowan a hard look. “Who was Mr. Badelt?”

“You
don’t need to know that,” Suwanai replied.

“You’re
aware I have contacts. I could help.” Grant’s voice was calm, persuasive. I
folded my arms across my chest, hiding the tension in my hands. Mary stood very
still, doing an excellent job of looking like a sane, innocent, elderly woman,
while Rex hung back by the refrigerator, blending with the shadows. Watching.
No doubt hoping I got stuck in the slammer.

McCowan
said, “Badelt was a private investigator.”

Pressure
gathered behind my eyes. I wanted to ask who he had been looking for, but the
name on the newspaper was bad enough. The fact that he was dead, worse.

McCowan
stepped toward the kitchen doors. He looked confused, a bit uneasy. I did not
blame him. Suwanai seemed more together, but maybe he was just a better pretender.
He smoothed down his suit jacket with his dark, elegant hands. “Ms. Kiss, do
you have any idea why a murdered private investigator might have your name in
his pocket?”

“No,”
I said firmly. “I do not.”

Suwanai
hesitated, studying my eyes. I let him. I had not killed anyone in Seattle. Not
yet. Not anyone human, at least.

After
a moment, he inclined his head. “If we have any more questions…”

“Of
course,” Grant said gently, ever the upstanding citizen. The detective nodded,
still frowning, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though the gesture
comforted—or pained— him. He did not look back as he pushed open the kitchen
doors, but McCowan did. Just once, at me. A furrow edged between his eyebrows.
I met his gaze, unblinking, and after a moment he ducked his head and let the
doors swing shut behind him.

I
remained very still, afraid they would come back—but when they did not, I
slowly, carefully, released my breath. Grant limped near, wrapping his arm
around my waist. He drew me back against his chest. I stayed there, grateful.

“This
is all wrong,” I said quietly. “Not just the murder, but the fact a dead man
had my name.”

“And
that the police found you here,” Grant replied.

We
both looked at Rex. He stared back, holding up his tanned, scarred hands. “I
had nothing to do with it.”

“You
must know something.”

“No
way. I’m not in the loop anymore.”

“You’re
all in the loop,” I muttered. “I don’t care how dried up your umbilical cord
is.”

Rex
stared at me like I was viler than a splat of diarrhea. “You just don’t care,
period. You’re still looking for an excuse to kill me, Hunter.”

“I
don’t need an excuse.” I tugged sharply on my gloves. Mary stared, but I no
longer cared if she saw my tattoos.

Rex,
despite his bravado, stepped back. Grant grabbed my arm. “No time, Maxine.”

I did
not relax. “I need to find out what Badelt wanted, why he had my name.” I
hesitated, thinking hard. “He was in that alley for a reason.”

A man
who worked for himself would not waste his time in a part of town that had no
good bars, entertainment, or restaurants only a poor university student could
love. It had rained last night, too—a hard, cold rain that had pounded most of
the garden into a limp green shag of grass and leaves. Not good weather for
walking the street just for the fun of it.

Grant
seemed to read my mind. “A lot of homeless live on University Ave. Someone
might have seen Badelt. Or we could track down his office first, look for
answers there.”

That
was the smart thing to do, but I needed air, some time alone. My skin still
crawled, and not just because of the boys. “I’ll head down to the university.
You make the call. No one’s going to tell you much, though. Confidentiality
issues.” Not unless Grant went in person. His special brand of persuasion did
not work over the phone.

“It
wouldn’t have been one of us,” Rex chimed in, and I knew what he was really
saying. No demon, no zombie, would hire a private investigator to hunt me. It
would be like paying money to find Mount Everest. If Mount Everest had teeth
and claws and could eat people.

Which
meant someone human wanted to find me.

Or
maybe I had already been found.

I
thought about my mother. Her lessons. She had taught me not to keep friends, to
avoid roots. Born a loner, trained to be one. Safer that way, for everyone. No
home but the boys.

But
here I was. Hunter and hunted. With friends. A home and roots. My taste of the
forbidden fruit. And I could never return to what was, what had always been—
what should have been. I knew the difference now. I was too weak to give it up.

I
stood on my toes, kissed Grant hard on the mouth—and glanced over his shoulder
from Rex to Mary, who still watched us, eyes narrowed. Withered mouth creased
into a frown.

“I’m
sorry about your jar,” I said to her, and she hitched up her shoulders, the
crease between her eyes deepening.

“Go
with Gabriel,” she whispered. “Gabriel’s hounds will guide you.”

I had
no idea what that meant, but Grant gave her a sharp look. A chill swept through
me. My stomach felt odd. I had the terrible feeling I had just been thrust upon
the proverbial crossroad, and had stumbled blindly onto a path that fairy tales
warned about, the hard kind that showed the way to an enchanted castle, a
forest of brambles, quicksand, and pits full of hungry dragons. A path that led
to either death or glory. Neither of which interested me.

I had
seen enough death. I had suffered glory.

Now I
just wanted to be left alone.