Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (4 page)

"Damn," I mutter.

Grant frowns. "What does that mean?"

I study him, wondering how much I can say-wondering, too, if a have passed the point of no return, where hesitation is nothing more than stupid pride, keeping up with illusion. My secrets, the things l know, have always been mine and mine alone. At least since my mother died. Sharing that with someone else-a stranger, no less-feels wrong. Then again,
wrong
is suddenly becoming my new normal.

I glance up the stairs, but do not hear anyone coming toward us. I pull Grant to the side, next to the railing. "You already know a lit
tle, right? You've seen things. I don't want to know how much, not yet, but the bottom line is that there are demons in this world, and they are not supposed to be here. There's a barrier, a prison-several prisons-keeping them locked away, but sometimes they still man
age to get through. Push enough, and a crack will form. Push enough, and that crack will become a temporary door."

"A ... hot spot."

"Yes. Some locales make more than others. Cities are always bad. Too many humans, too much emotion, too juicy of a lure for all those dark spirits. Problem is, the numbers of hot spots are growing. The veil is getting weak."

"And if all those demons come through?"

I just look at him. "Humans do bad things all on their own, Mr. Cooperon. Some are worse than others. Some need help becoming monsters. There are more of those than you might think. Watch the news at night."

"I do watch," he says grimly. "And I see."

"Then you know what would happen, on a worldwide scale, if the barrier I told you about goes down. And those are just the demons who possess humans. There are others kinds, too, but they all feed off strong emotions. Anger, hate, fear."

And some that are worse than that, demons I cannot speak of. My mother's voice echoes inside my head, with her stories of the

outer ring beyond the prison veils. The First Ward, home of the worst, the most dangerous. World Reapers.

I chew the inside of my cheek, still studying him. "I want to know why those demons up there wanted you dead. It could be the fact that you can see them. But that doesn't seem like a threat worth risking their hosts over."

"If you say so." Grant rubs his forehead. "This is too much in
formation."

"Too much to believe?"

His hand stills. "No. Just ... more than I wanted to know. Though I wouldn't complain if you planned on being my bodyguard."

He manages to say it without sounding sleazy. A feat. And the only reason I do not steal his cane and push him down the stairs. I take a step up, listening to the crackle of radios. Zee has already dis
appeared. "Why were you coming here today?"

"I make flutes," he says.

"Flutes." I turn to stare at him.

"Wooden ones," he clarifies. "I don't sell them myself. There's a man who does it for me. I come down here to play on the weekends. I have a corner."

"Huh." I peer around the wall. Most of the arcade has been cleared of shoppers; at the very end, I see yellow tape, cops and news crews everywhere. None near us, though. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I've played the flute since I was young, but I learned to make them in Nepal. China, after that. The mountain people produce in
credible sounds."

"Really." I try to imagine leaving the continent, and get stuck on the mystery of setting suns and horizons.
National Geographic
and the Discovery channel are the closest I will ever come to exploration.

"Did you always want to do that? Travel? Be a ... flute maker?"

"No," Grant replies. "Before I did that, I was a priest."

Expectations are a liability at this point. I lean against the wall, staring. Grant smiles. "I don't fit the profile, huh?"

I take in his long lean lines, his damp hair, the angles of his face, and those dark warm eyes that carry the edge of something sharp. A big strong handsome man-a good man, the longer I look at him
but impossible to reconcile with the idea of contemplation and devo
tion to a higher power.

"No," I say weakly. "Why did you change?"

His smile turns brittle. "Complicated. I counsel now. Without the collar."

I do not say a word. My ears are ringing. Demons hunting a for
mer priest? A flute maker? A man who walks in the rain and feeds the homeless? It makes no sense. I slowly push out my breath and meet Grant's eyes. The edge has faded from his smile, though not the humor.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I scared you, didn't I?"

"No, not scared. You're just ... confusing."

"And you're not?" He shakes his head. "Never mind."

All is clear around us. Without thinking, I take his hand and pull him toward the street in front of us. When I try to let go, his fingers tighten-but only for a moment. One squeeze, as though to say,
I
am here.
He lets go, but the sensation lingers.

It is still drizzling. We weave around the stopped traffic on First Street, headlights illuminating the light mist soothing the flushed skin of my face and throat. It feels so good. I want to just stand be
neath the rain and close my eyes-breathe slow and deep. I want to forget violence, mystery, responsibility. I am so tired.

"Maxine," Grant says quietly, and oh, it is strange hearing him say my name. Hearing it breathe off his tongue. I do not answer him, but instead curl deeper inside my jacket. I forgot to check if the old zombie woman's blood is visible on the black leather, but the street is dim, growing darker by the minute. I do not think anyone will notice.

I try to stay alert, but I trust the boys to keep an eye on things.

They are good at that. They have to be, to keep me safe at night when my body is vulnerable. Their sleep is my armor, their freedom my weakness. Day and night. It is a pattern my mother warned me about, but I never understood until I had to live it myself.

I glance at Grant and find him watching me. He sways close, and I do not move away. "I see the darkness, too," I tell him. "It's how I knew that old woman, and all the others around her, had been pos
sessed. But you say you see other things, too. Colors. Has it always been that way for you?"

"I suppose so. I've seen colors-auras-since I was young. At first it started with music. I would play the piano or flute, and each note would have a hue. There's a neurological condition that causes that. Synesthesia. Stimulation in one sense creates a response in another."

"Except yours goes a step further."

"My ability to see colors in people started later, but because of the other, I thought it was natural. Until I started talking about it. Then ... it caused problems." He shrugs. "Like I said, there was a darkness around that old woman. A lot of those people."

"You've seen it before."

"Like a crown of night," he says quietly. "A crown on the head of a creature who does not belong."

"No." I think of that old woman dying on the street. "They do not belong at all."

"Neither do you." His gaze travels over my face and shoulders. "No offense."

I could ask him what my aura looks like-he clearly expects me to-but I do not want to know. "And are you going to judge
me,
for
mer Father Cooperon? Are you going to judge me for my demons
or worse, for not
belonging?"

"If not belonging was a sin, Maxine, we would all be in Hell."

"And what makes you think we aren't?" I remember my mother's stories, her tales of our beginnings, of the world, this sweet prison. "What makes you think that the very thing that makes us

human, that
sets us apart,
isn't what also makes us prey? What makes you think that we haven't already been judged?"

Grant stops walking, his eyes turning so grave I almost wonder if I have made a mistake, if I have found the one thing that will make him angry. He leans close, rain dripping off his lashes, glittering like diamonds in the headlights of passing cars. "If we have been judged, Maxine, then there is no hope. There is no hope of anything, regard
less of whether or not one believes in God or Heaven. And if we have been judged, then why,
why,
are we capable of change? Why are we capable of becoming more?"

"And if that capability is its own judgment?" I close the distance between us. "If that capability to hope and dream, to be tempted for good or bad, makes us so vulnerable that without protection we would be nothing more than victims? Hunted into self-destruction? That our weak natures are what imprison us? Demand, even, isola
tion from all kinds of creatures, and for nothing more than survival?"

Grant says nothing for a long time. He stares at me, but I do not think he sees my face; only something else: memory, dream. And then his gaze clears, and he looks at me-looks hard-and says, "And you, Maxine? You speak of yourself as human, but you can't be. Not entirely. Am I supposed to believe that your ability to hope and change is set apart from mine? Or that the demons you live with are any different? That
any
sentient creature, demonic or not, is in
capable of becoming something more than what it was born to be?"

I start walking again. "You're not bringing up any questions I haven't already asked myself."

"And?"

"And nothing." Which is a lie, but better than facing the alterna
tive. I glance sideways at Grant, watching him watch me. "You sure you don't want to tell me why you stopped being a priest? Seeing as how you're still so opinionated on matters of religion."

"I don't think we're discussing any religion approved of by the

Church," Grant says wryly, "and as for my history, maybe I'll tell you later. After you explain why there are demons living on your body."

"Or why I saved your life?"

"I choose to think it's because you're a good person."

"And if you're wrong?"

He smiles. "I have faith."

I bite back another laugh. A police cruiser appears at the crest of the hill, lights flashing, sirens off, and speeds down the street past us. An ambulance follows. I hope it is the second, and not the first to ar
rive on the scene. I do not want to think of that old woman lying in the road. A zombie, yes; but a human woman first. Bleeding to death, without anyone to help her. Help I could have given if I were willing to expose myself and the boys. Which I was not-until Grant. And that, I still cannot explain to myself.

"You think she died." Grant's voice is heavy. He looks back over his shoulder at the disappearing vehicle.

"I hope she didn't. She deserved better."

"Everyone does. You don't blame her for being possessed?"

I shoot him a dirty look. "Do I blame women who wear short skirts for being raped? Give me a break."

Grant shrugs. "You might be surprised at how unforgiving some people are. Stray just a hair from the path that has been declared, and
pow.
You deserve what you get."

"Let me guess. You strayed."

"I was
told I
strayed. There's a difference."

I sway close-an accident, I tell myself-and brush his elbow. "Still bitter?"

"Bitter is
such an ugly word, Maxine."

"How about pissed off?"

"Better." He smiles. "But not anymore. I find this life to be less ... stifling. I enjoy my intellectual freedom."

"Is that all you enjoy?"

Grant laughs. "What's your life like?"

"Fine. Ordinary." The first two words out of my mouth, and they

are utterly ridiculous. I shrug, searching for something better, but in

the end, all I can say is, "I don't know. No one's ever asked me." "You're kidding." Grant shakes his head. "Wow." Wow, indeed. "Can we talk about something else?" "Do we have to?"

"Grant."

"My, I believe that's the first time you've used my name." I roll my eyes, and he adds, "I think I've got a right to be persistently nosy when it comes to you."

"You should be more worried about yourself."

"And you seem to have a lot of expectations about how people should react to things, Maxine." Grant stops walking and leans close. Heat radiates from his body. I try to imagine him in black, with the collar, and I cannot. Or rather, I can-but I do not think I should.

I expect him to keep pushing-again-but instead he surprises me by reaching out and gently pulling up the collar of my leather jacket. He brushes aside a strand of wet hair from my cheek, and the heat that trails from his fingers reaches down into my gut.

I am not used to being touched. I like it. Which is dangerous, stu
pid. Men are a death sentence for me. Literally. And I am too young to start that clock ticking on the Grim Reaper's time.

Grant clears his throat. "Without this sounding like a line, do you want to go back to my place?"