Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (2 page)

The world erupts. I stop breathing. I go deaf, blind-all I see for a moment is a sheet of shining light-and I cannot move. I cannot think. Not until I feel my body shift-the man, rolling-pressing on top of me, shouting, his hands cradling my head. His eyes are wild and dark, his body hot and long and hard. I take a breath, another after that-gasping-and I force myself to push against the man. This is not safe. He is not safe.

But oh-oh-that old zombie woman falls down beside us, gasp
ing and shrieking, writhing like a pale wrinkled eel. Blood pours from the side of her neck, blood that is nothing compared to the fountain gushing from the remains of her mangled hand. The gun is gone. Blown to shrapnel when the bullet backblasted into the barrel. So stupid. Stupid to shoot me. Stupid to place the gun so close against my body.

Bullets ricochet. Bullets boomerang. Bullets and other projectiles

do not like my tattoos. The boys are good bodyguards. The demon inside the old woman should have known that. I have a reputation.

Her blood soaks my coat, spatters my face. I can see the demon in her dying gaze, but loose now, distant. The creature is going to make a run for it. Find another host. Leave this old woman to die alone, wondering what she just did, her name blackened forever, destined to live on as an Evening News Special Report:
Random vi
olence in America on the rise.
The elderly, snapping.

And me-if I am caught here-I will be in that report, as well.

The man rolls off me, and I roll with him, grabbing his hand and pulling him with me as I force myself to stand. I smell like blood. I touch the back of my head, pushing through thick hair to find un
broken skin, hot to the touch. I remember my mother, and I want to vomit. My legs shake. The man reaches around me and places his big warm hand on the back of my neck. He stares into my eyes.

I have to look away. The zombies are gone, scattered, lost in the trampling mob of frightened people racing from the violence. I see faces behind windshields staring, gape-mouthed.

The man still touches me. "You okay?"

"Are you?" I sound as shaken as I feel.
Shot in the head, shot in the head. I
shrug off his hand, and he takes a step, following. His knee buckles. He brings up his cane in time, but I also grab his arm, tugging him close, holding him. His body feels hard, strong. He smells good, too. Like cinnamon and sunlight. Home scents, warm.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but I say nothing. I have no time, and I cannot leave him. I pull on his hand, but he pulls back, looking at the old woman-that zombie-dying on the ground.

"We have to go," I tell him.
We.
Not a word I have used in a long time. Not about anyone other than the boys.

"She's hurt," he says.

"She tried to kill you."

"Doesn't matter." He looks at me, and his face hardens. "Go on, then. Leave."

But I do not. I get in his face and grab his collar, pressing so close I can almost taste his lips. His face is wet with rain, the shadow of his jaw sharp and dark. I should leave. I should run and abandon him. I should dump this city and every other like it, give up the mystery of demons and zombies-prisons and veils and guns and murder-and go hide on a mountain at the top of the world. Hide and pretend that I was not born to kill.

"Please," I whisper.

His jaw tightens. His fingers skim my back, and then he reaches up and covers my hand with his own. I let go of his collar. He does not let go of me.

I pull him beneath the arcade. He limps, but I simply drag him with me-fast, without hesitation-and I do not look back. I leave the old woman to bleed out. I leave the demon free to find a new host. I hate that. My mother would hate that. In a perfect world I would do neither, nothing but the right thing. But this is not a perfect world. This is a prison, and the inmates do not even know it.

I have no time. I do not know where I am going, but I see stairs and take them. The man lets go of my hand, but I grab his sleeve. I cannot let him get away from me.

He says something-a protest, maybe-but I do not hear. Some
where above us the sun is clipping below the horizon, and I can count the seconds, feel them ticking in my heart as a burn flashes over my entire body, from scalp to fingertips to toes: a quicksilver fire, the ritual trial.

The boys wake up. All at once, with a shudder that is worse than the impact of the bullets. I see a sign for a restroom and dive inside, dragging the man after me. The place reeks of piss and mildew. The floor is covered in soiled black and white tile, and the doors on the stalls only come up to my waist. Inside one of them is a gray wiry fel
low all sinew and bone with a needle in his arm, shaking and moan
ing. He is the only other person in the bathroom. Nothing I can do

about him. No lock on the main door, either. I brace my shoulder against it and tear off my gloves.

The man with the cane makes a low guttural sound, but I do not look at him. All I see are my hands. Smoke writhes against my skin, pulsing with flickers of red lightning that only seconds ago were nothing more than the lines of an intricate tattoo.

The front of my sweater bulges. I yank it up. Silver smoke winds around my torso, peeling away from my ribs and back, stealing the dark mist covering my hands-and lower, the smoke that I know covers my thighs and legs and feet. Tattoos, dissolving into demon flesh, coalescing into three small dark bodies: Zee, Aaz, and Raw, all of whom slide down my legs to the floor. They peer into my eyes, long claws rattling. Beneath my hair, two more tiny demons wriggle free. Dek and Mal, slender black snakes with the heads of baby hye
nas. They curl around my neck, purring, whispering nonsense I do not understand and never will; only, that it is soothing, warm, famil
iar as a lullaby. I slump against the bathroom door, exhausted, heart thundering. I reach out and small hands touch my hands.

My boys. The only friends I have in this world.

Zee's angular face is the color of smeared soot. The spikes of his hair resemble thousands of tiny bobbing silver needles, while his spindly arms are edged in razor scales and claws bright and metallic. He opens his mouth, and his white teeth are jagged, tongue black and long.

"Maxine?" Zee rasps quietly, but the others tug on his sharp hair, and we all look across the bathroom at the man I brought here, the man I could not abandon. I left a zombie to die, but not him. Not him.

I stop breathing. The man stares, and the world contracts around me as I look into his eyes, his straight gaze. He does not look at the boys, but only me. Just me.

Zee and the others make a humming sound, like tiny chain saws revving their engines.

"Hot damn," whispers the little demon. "Trouble."

Two

Trouble. Yes. I am in a lot of it.

It takes me a long time to move. I do not want to. But the man draws in a sharp breath and leans so far upon his cane I am afraid he will fall. So I go to him. I take my own deep breath and cross the bathroom, stopping with some distance between us. I do not know if the man can handle standing close to me. I do not know if I can handle being close to him. If there have ever been witnesses to the daily ritual of the boys' awakening, I have run before being forced to deal with the terrified aftermath.

But all I do now is stand, unable to speak. His eyes are so keen. I feel as though he can see right through me, though his attention is momentarily drawn to Aaz, who sticks his face in a urinal to eat the cake. Farther down I hear a lapping sound from one of the stalls. Raw shambles out, wiping his mouth. The man's lips twitch.

"Maxine," Zee says again. He hops from foot to foot, pointing to the bathroom door. I hear loud footsteps and click my fingers. Aaz

and Raw dart across the tile floor and lean their heavy bodies against the old wood door, bracing themselves as someone pushes from the other side. The boys do not budge. They are heavy, dense, lean, and twisted, ribbed with muscles and sinew and sharp objects; gray and silver spikes run down their spines, organic metal that has no equal on this side of the prison veil. Perhaps no equal anywhere, though only the boys understand what they are. All I know for cer
tain is that they are as immortal as their host-born to be weapons, little deaths.

And I am their Mistress. I am their Huntress, and they are my Hounds. For now.

The door is pushed again, this time with more force. I hear a shout, followed by pounding fists. The commotion is short lived, but Aaz and Raw do not move from the door.

The man touches my arm. I jump. I did not hear him move. Dek and Mal rise up from their resting place on my shoulder, hissing; the narrow furred ruffs of their scaled necks tremble. The man flinches, but does not let go. I cannot imagine what his nerves are made of.

"What is this?" His eyes are brown, his brow strong, furrowed. I feel lightheaded. This is my worst nightmare. I glance away from him and catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror above the sinks.
Snow White,
my mother used to call me. White skin, red lips, hair as black as a raven's wing. My eyes are hollow, though. Tired. Face spattered with blood. No crystal coffins or kisses for me.

I shake the man's hand loose, keenly aware of the boys; Dek and Mal are still poised to strike. I reach up and stroke their backs, try
ing to calm them. The man watches me, and I watch back, taking his measure, finding no fear. No fear in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. Just his hand, still trembling. A bead of sweat on his brow, in the hollow of his throat. I see some blood on his cheek.

I walk backward to the sink and turn on the faucet. Rip off a pa
per towel and soak it. I hold it out to the man and point at the mir

ror. He stares at it, then me, and then his reflection. I look, too. We are strangers, watching each other, and I cannot read his eyes.

"Someone tried to kill you," I tell him.

"Yes. You saved my life." He hesitates. "Two bullets. You should have died."

I try not to think about that bullet bouncing off my skull. I hate being shot in the head. For obvious reasons. Nor is there a good ex
planation for my survival, nothing that would make sense. All I can do is look at the man. I have never wanted anyone to be afraid of me-until now-and I cannot explain it except that this man's odd edgy calm, his rigid control, is not right. Not right at all.

His eyes narrow. "You're not human."

"Human enough." I push away thoughts of my mother. "Who are you? Your name."

"You first."

I hesitate. "Maxine. Maxine Kiss."

"Maxine," he says slowly. "My name is Grant. Grant Cooperon."

"Grant." I draw out his name, tasting it. "Grant, this must be very strange to you."

"Yes."

"Yes. So, if you need to ... to .
11

"Freak out?" he says, voice strained. "Run screaming? No. No,
ma'am.
I don't think that would be a good idea at all. But try not to look so disappointed."

"Disappointed," I mutter. "You're too calm."

"Calm."
He spits out the word.
"This
is not calm.

"Fine." My cheeks are hot. I toss him the wet paper towel and then fix my own. I scrub my face in the mirror, washing away the old zombie woman's blood, watching his reflection as he stares at me and then Zee, who is prowling close to his feet, sniffing the air around his body. Grant stands very still, but except for one brief gri
mace, shows no fear.

"We have to leave," I tell him, drying my hands on my jeans. "It's not safe here."

"For you or me?" Grant's knuckles are white around the knobby head of his cane. "What is this? What is going on?"

I turn to go to him, but falter at the last moment and lean against the sink, studying his face, mustering all my strength to match his piercing stare. He does not look away. Neither do I.

"You tell me," I say quietly. "Why would someone want to kill you?"

"And why would someone like you save me?" Grant tilts his head. "Peculiar, isn't it?"

"Everything about this is strange." I push myself off the sink and take a step toward him. "No doubt stranger to you than it is to me."

"No doubt." He glances down at Zee and raises his eyebrow. "Hello."

"Boo," Zee replies, regarding him thoughtfully, sticking the tip of a silver claw into his mouth, sucking lightly. "You got odd eyes, hu-maan. Deep sea seeing eyes. Bet they taste
good."

"Bet you'll never get a chance to try," Grant replies, surprising the hell out of me. He glances my way. "I think you might have a word or two to say about eyeball snatching."

"Depends," I tell him. "You don't know me."

He shrugs. "I take faith in small gestures. Like saving my life." "Even if that savior is me? Covered in demons?"

"Demons."
He tastes the word, something hard and resolute set

tling in his gaze. "Demons don't frighten me."

I have to catch my breath. "The old woman who tried to kill you was possessed by one. A creature controlling her actions. There were others, too. All of them there for you. Waiting."