Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (10 page)

Grant takes the coffee from me, kicks away the jeans with his good leg, and takes me to the bed. We fool around for a while, aban
doning the mattress for the shower. There's a plastic seat in the stall to ease the pressure off his leg. I have a good time straddling his lap, though I do not take him inside me. No more condoms. I find other ways to make him call out my name, until Grant twists me so that I face away from him, spreading my legs wide with his hands. He pro

ceeds to return the favor, many times over.

I dress in my jeans and steal an old navy sweatshirt from the bottom
of Grant's closet. He is in the bathroom, shaving. My hair is wet, tangled, but I tie it into a bun and leave the bedroom, walking bare
foot into another world of sunlight and glass and hardwood floors. I notice little things that escaped me the night before; masks and

photographs on the brick walls, rocks and sticks and other knick
knacks scattered on the tiny tables placed like islands around the couches. Homey touches that remind me of the old farmhouse I shared with my mother, a place I have not returned to in the years since she died. The day after I buried her, I placed all our furniture into storage, locked the diaries and papers in the bank, threw a suit
case into the Mustang, and just took off. Like the old Bon Jovi song. On a steel horse I ride. Wanted dead or alive.

Tall bookcases take up most of the room. Grant's reading mate
rial is mainly religious in nature, but not just about Christianity. I see shelves devoted to Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, and Shamanic faiths; myths and legends, archaic texts with odd titles I cannot pronounce, some of which are not even in English.

I hear Grant's cane, but do not turn around until he is directly be
hind me. I smile. "Some library you have."

"I might have left the priesthood, but not my faith. Even if it has ... changed over the years."

I say nothing. I am no expert on matters of faith. Being with Grant is the closet I will ever come to such a thing.

We leave his apartment, walking slowly down the stairs and out the metal door. The sun is shining, and the air smells fresh, with only a hint of the sea and the docks. Up and down the street I see row af
ter row of ramshackle brick warehouses, some of which seem to still be in use. Others are under construction. I see billboards announc
ing the imminent arrival of upscale lofts.

The property I am standing on looks far bigger in the daytime. It also appears to have had its own revival. I glance at Grant. "You own this place? Seems as though it would be pretty pricey for a for
mer priest."

"We both inherited from our parents." Grant points at the squat brick buildings around us. "My mother died from cancer when I was in high school, and my father drank himself to death after she was gone. He had money, though, and the foresight to put a stipula

tion in his will stating that all his property would be held in trust foi

me until I left the Church."

"Wasn't he happy you became a priest?"

"Hated the idea. He thought there was too much hypocrisy. And

perverts."

"Nice image."

Grant shrugs. "It was a lot of money. Still is. When I was done traveling it didn't seem enough to just live somewhere like a fat cat. I wanted to do more. And this area, five years ago, was a wasteland. I bought this block cheap and converted the space into a shelter and social services office."

"And let me guess ...
you
give free concerts, nightly."

He looks at me sideways. "It's helping, Maxine. You wouldn't believe the number of people who have significantly turned their lives around."

"You're walking a fine line, Grant."

"I know," he says. "I know."

Outside, I do not see much in the way of people except for two el
derly men in battered overalls who emerge from a back door around the side of the main building off Grant's apartment block. They carry buckets full of gardening tools and greet Grant with big smiles. They look at me with equal, if only slightly less-trusting gazes-focusing briefly on my exposed throat, my hands and forearms, which are dark with those wild tattoos. The men nod once, like it means something, then putter off down the sidewalk with shuffles that are stooped and worn and bespeak old nagging aches in muscle and bone.

From behind the nearby door I hear pots banging, cheerful whistling. I smell grease. Grant, biting back a smile, opens the door for me.

There is a kitchen on the other side-industrial in size and de
sign, with a clean black-and-white tile floor and shining stainless steel appliances. A woman stands at the wide double sink. She is tiny, almost frail, with a nose that resembles a rock slide, full of old

breaks and scars. Everything else about her is delicate: her chin, her pale skin, her long hair that is a snowy shade of white. Bangles sing as she moves, and under her arm she holds a small potted plant that bears a suspicious resemblance to cannabis. When the old woman

sees us, she lets out a cry.

"Grant!" She dances to him on light feet, her little plant bobbing and weaving as she floats across the floor.

"Mary," he replies, in a voice just as dramatic and grandiose. "Mary, my lamb. It has been only a day, and yet I am nigh swooning for your company."

She giggles, a sound that is surprisingly girlish. "Fred was terri
bly concerned when you didn't show last night, Grant. I told him not to be, but he gets so caught up."

"Typical." Grant strokes the delicate leaf of the plant she holds out to him. "Fred, what have I told you? I need my own life. So does Mary. You have to let go."

Too
late,
I think, but the old woman turns her gaze on me, fol
lowed by a smile so bright I think it must be carved of sunshine, and she throws her free arm around my shoulders in a hug fierce enough to enter my bones.

"Greetings!" she cries. "So lovely. Who are you?"

"Maxine," I say, wondering when and if it might be polite to dis

entangle myself from the wiry arm crushing my body.

"Maxine," echoes Mary. "A very strong name. So manly. How

nice for you! Please, say hello to Fred."

"Um." I stare at the little plant, and glance at Grant, who is standing behind the old woman. He makes a shooing motion with his hand.

I touch one little leaf and shake it gingerly. "Greetings ... Fred."

Mary beams. "Would you like something to eat? I'm preparing lunch for all our lost souls. Grant says no one does it better." She leans close, voice dropping to a whisper. "It's because I cook with the love of the Holy Spirit, my dear."

"And, occasionally, some other illegal substances that I hope,

sweet Mary, do
not
inadvertently enter today's dessert. Yes?"

Grant's smile has an edge. All I can do is stare.

"Oh, of course, Grant." Mary smiles sweetly. "None of Fred's

brethren have been sacrificed for today's meal. I take sin seriously."

"That's good," Grant says. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I have

more to show Maxine."

"Ah!" Mary releases me. "Good-bye!"

"Bye," I say weakly, and let Grant steer me from the kitchen into

another large room filled with tables and empty chairs and oversize

windows. I glance over my shoulder at the metal door swinging shut

behind us.

"Wow," I breathe. "Was that a cannabis plant she made me pet?"

"Yup," Grant mutters. "She keeps getting the seeds, and I keep

making her get rid of the plants. She's stubborn that way."

"And the prospect of arrest doesn't phase her? At all?" Grant

just looks at me, and I shrug. "Fine. Is she another one of your ex

periments?"

He grunts. "How old do you think Mary is?"

"Pushing seventy."

"Not even close. She's only forty-two, Maxine."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head. "You're seeing her good side. Mary was in

terrible shape when she got here. Lost cause, was the general consen

sus. But I could see she had a good core, so I did my best. Not that

it means she'll ever make a full recovery. I think what you just saw is

as good as it's going to get."

"She lives here full time?"

Grant smiles. "She livens the place up." "Apparently so. And last night? Gilda?" "Former prostitute and drug addict."

"Huh." I smile. "You're a knight in shining armor, Grant

Cooperon."

He hugs me against his side. "And you are my lady, Maxine Kiss."

"Yeah," I murmur, all warm. "What a pair."

Grant laughs, leaning down to kiss me, but just as our lips touch, I hear a loud echoing bang, followed by angry shouts.

"That's coming from the men's ward," Grant says, and I do not wait for him; I run, moving swiftly out of the mess hall down a long winding corridor decorated with framed movie posters and bulletin boards organized by want ads and announcements. I glance over my shoulder; Grant is behind me, limping heavily-forehead wrinkled, mouth twisted. He does not tell me to stop.

I hear more shouts, hard language, the crash and shatter of some
thing large, and I slam open a set of metal double doors, rushing into a space full of cots and tables, sofas, yet more windows-and a group of men beating the living shit out of someone. I take a step, prepared to yell, but my voice catches like thorns in my throat.

All the men have auras. All the men are zombies.

I do not know who sees me first, but the fighting suddenly stops
frozen-and every head snaps around to look at me. I see bodies on the ground, bleeding out, needing help, and I do not think-I do not question. I run toward those possessed men. I run fast.

I have never used a weapon against a zombie. No guns, no knives-I have no quarrel with human hosts-but as I near the men I see a flash of steel. Behind me Grant shouts, and I brace myself as a knife arcs down into my gut.

The blade breaks. I stagger. The zombie in front of me takes a step back, all of them staring, confusion and recognition flickering in their eyes. Seven, all shrouded in crowns of darkness that flicker and pulse. Hard gazes. Makes me wonder, again, what it is to be pos
sessed and not realize it. To have a creature inside your head, whis
pering, compelling urges, and not be able to turn it off. To have it with you and with you until your body becomes nothing but a tool, a living and breathing illusion of free will-a game of manipulation.

Prisoners, puppets, pawns. I suppose I am not much different.

Though maybe that can change. Faith is contagious.

I hold up my hands, palms out, staring down the men, all of

whom have history etched into their bodies; tattoos, hungry hol

lows, sinew and leather for skin. They look strong, but it is their

minds that are the weapons. The will and intent of the demons in

side of them.

"Hunter Fucking Kiss," mutters one of the zombies, a man with

a red wool cap pulled down hard over his grizzled head. He makes a move, but I do not give him the benefit of a good feint. I grab his wrist and twist, driving him to his knees as I slam my free palm against his forehead and hold it there, chanting, watching the man's eyes roll white, fluttering like a hard current is sizzling through his lashes. He tries to break free, but the boys are strong in my body, and it is nothing to hold him. I hook the demon and get ready to pull. The other zombies stand watching, none willing to lift a hand to help their brother.

I want to know why they are not running. Not running, like those zombies at Pike Place Market.

Cold fear slams my gut. I am so stupid. I hear Grant hobbling close, and I scream at him to stop. He does not. He stands in the doorway, staring, eyes hard, unforgiving, the slant of his mouth so cold I feel a chill when I look at him. No demon has ever frightened me, but Grant-right at that moment-comes close.

"What is this?" His voice is low, commanding. My skin tingles when I hear him, a prickly rush that reminds me of that first note from

his flute. Like something is opening, shifting.
Magic, I
think.
Power.

"Grant," I say, trying to stay calm. "Grant, turn around and

walk out of here. Go to a secure room and lock the door.
Please. Do

it now."

He ignores me, limping forward, and I shove away the zombie in front of me and run, expecting at any moment to hear a gun go off,

to see Grant's skull explode in my face like a melon. To go down holding his body, again and again and again.

But no gun is fired, and when I reach Grant he is still alive-alive and impossibly grim. I try to push him out of the room, but he holds