Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (5 page)

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You have a ride?"

His smile is slow, warm. "I am a humble man. My legs have al
ways sufficed."

I jingle my car keys inside my pocket, nestled against the stolen

wallet. "I've got wheels. If you don't mind making a pit stop first." Grant checks his watch. "I need to be home by ten." "Curfew?"

"Not for me," he says, and I have to ask. I have to.

"Children?" I say to him.

His mouth curves. "Now who's fishing?"

Heat spreads over my face. I spin on my heel and walk fast up the

hill. Grant catches up with me after a moment, his hand sliding over

my shoulder. I feel the heat of each individual finger through the lay

ers of my clothing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." "You didn't," I lie.

"Good." He hesitates, glancing at me. "And no, I don't have

children. I'm not married, either. No girlfriend. I've been single since

before I joined the Church, more than eight years ago."

This time I let myself smile. "Are you sure you're not still a

priest?"

His hand gently squeezes my shoulder. "I wonder about that my

self, sometimes."

Th ree

Fifteen minutes later, Grant and I find ourselves seated in my little
red Mustang. It is very strange being with another person inside my car. The windows are tinted, and the boys are in the backseat, hav
ing slipped from the shadows of the Mustang's interior to join us in the flesh. They have their things out, along with soft old blankets and pillows. Dek and Mal untangle themselves from my hair to join their brothers.

"Nice wheels," Grant says, sliding his hand along the smooth leather interior. He fiddles with the CD player I installed several years back, and Bon Jovi roars to life. The boys let out a cheer from the backseat.

Grant laughs. "Fans?"

"Groupies. They made me follow his last tour." "Best seat in the house?"

"Rafters directly above their heads."

"And you?"

"The other rafters." I bite back a smile. "After a while, I just waited for them in the parking lot."

He hums a few strains of "Wanted Dead or Alive," and twists in his seat to look at the boys. Aaz and Raw have rope and scissors; they are mangling their teddy bears, the ones with the cowboy hats sewn on. Zee lays over their laps flipping through a row of maga
zines. He pats Dek and Mal on their heads as they slither past him.

Grant peers down.
"National Geographic? Vogue? Playboy?"

My cheeks get hot. "They like the pictures. I don't know why."

"I do," he mutters.

I dig into my pocket for the wallet I lifted. My gloves are still on. I do not touch the cash or credit cards, but instead pull out the li
cense to peer at it under the dome light.

Katherine Campbell. Born August 2, 1967. Still very photogenic. Organ donor. Mother of a demonically possessed child. A zombie.

I peer at the address, memorizing it, and then hand the license to Grant. "I don't suppose you know where that is, do you?"

He frowns. "This isn't yours."

"Yes, I know. I confess my sins. Now, address?"

His frown deepens. "Capitol Hill. It's close. Just head up Pine Street." He stops, hesitating, and I can almost hear the wheels spin
ning in his head.

"I don't steal for a living, if that's what you're wondering." I put the car in gear and slide out of the parking space. "I inherited money from my mother. That's how I live."

"Ah," Grant says slowly. "How long has it been?"

"Five years." I glance into the rearview mirror. Zee is watching me. "I never knew my father."

"And ... them?"

"The boys?" I smile. "Like I said, they're family. Everything I've got left."

"No home?"

"You're looking at it."

He blinks. "What about friends?"

"Are you asking me if I have any?"

"Do you?"

"I have friends. I just don't talk to them. Much."

The corner of Grant's mouth curves ever so slightly, but that is no consolation, because his eyes will not stop looking at me, not even to blink.

"What?" I say. My palms are sweaty, and there is a low warm ache in my stomach that has been growing ever since we got into this car together. His stare makes it worse, makes me scared and hungry for something I know I should not have-or contemplate.

"It's nothing," he finally replies, quiet. "Except that I believe I would prefer being your enemy to your friend, if it meant getting to talk with you more."

My cheeks warm. I look away, but when I steal another glance he is still watching me, and it is too much. His eyes are too gentle.

"Stop."
My voice breaks on that word. "Please."

He finally does, but I do not feel any better, and except for him giving me minimal directions, we do not talk. I glance at him once, find him staring out the window, mouth covered by his hand, the other holding the cane. He looks thoughtful.

I am afraid to check the backseat. The boys are too quiet. They take men very seriously. Their survival depends on it, just as surely as mine does not.

Twenty minutes later we pull down a residential street filled with fine expensive homes. There are no streetlights, but it is only seven
thirty. I drive past the house listed on the driver's license. It is very bright inside. I see people moving behind the curtains.

I park one street over and roll down the window. I need air. "Zee, check the place out. Aaz and Raw, go with him."

They slide into the shadows of the backseat, while Dek and Mal slither along the floor until they reach my foot. They climb my leg

into my lap, curling and twisting as I stroke their backs. Their purrs are loud.

Grant reaches out and very carefully touches them. No one bites. He hesitates again, and then scratches the furred ruffs of their slen
der necks. Their purrs roughen, turning into low chortles.

"You are the first man to ever do that," I tell him. "I'm surprised you still have your finger."

"You weren't going to warn me?"

"Consider it a trial by fire."

Grant smiles, and stops petting Dek and Mal. "Maybe you can explain why we're here."

I tap the driver's license and slide it back into the wallet. "This woman has a son who was at the Market today. He's a zombie."

"A zombie."

"Sorry. That's my term. I mean he's been possessed. By a demon. The same kind that wants you dead."

His mouth curves down, the furrow between his eyes deepen
ing. "And you think this boy-or the creature inside him-will know why?"

"It's worth a try. Even if the demon won't talk, I need to remove it from the child."

Grant studies his hands. His jaw tightens. "You're an exorcist?"

"When I have to be." I study his hands, too. They look strong, accustomed to hard work. I see history in those long elegant lines, in the turn of his wrist, the sensitivity of his fingers as they begin to tap, tap, tap against the hard wood of his carved cane.

But there is an uneasy energy coming off him; I sense a crack in his calm, and that bothers me almost as much as his unruffled reac
tion to our first meeting.

I touch the smooth knob of the cane, caressing the outline of a leaf. Grant's fingers freeze in mid-tap. "How much do you know about demons?"

"Not a lot," Grant's fingers start moving again, only this time they skim a trail over my wrist. The ache inside my stomach be
comes a tremor; worse, as his exploration moves to the skin between my fingers; light, so light. "I've ... been motivated to study the sub
ject from a variety of cultural viewpoints."

"Before today, you believed they existed."

"I learned to believe. So I studied. It was impossible to know if anything I read was accurate. Now ... I think not so much."

"If you think about what you learned as a whole, some of it

might make sense."

"Searching for connections?"

"Lowest common denominator. The perpetuation of hate. The

war against compassion. That's what it all comes down to."

"Not always." His fingers slide up my wrist. "Not you." His touch feels too good. "You don't know me."

"I don't have to." He looks into my eyes. "Someone else tried to

kill me. A hit and run. It happened a month ago. I was headed to the

Market that time, too."

I have to take a moment. "And you don't know why?"

He shakes his head, but only after a brief and significant hesita
tion. It reminds me of the silent treatment Zee gave me when I asked him about Grant. It reminds me of someone who is thinking about telling a lie.

The boys return, flowing from the shadows into the backseat, breathless, chests heaving with subvocal chatter and clicking claws. I snatch back my hand from Grant as Zee says, "We found him. Bad runner, Maxine. Cutter got a good one when he found that boy. Rot
ten, rotten."

"What does that mean?" Grant reaches down into the backpack stashed between his feet and the cane. He removes a slender black case.

"It means that the boy was already damaged when the demon possessed him. More than damaged. A psychopath, maybe." I look at Zee. "Best way to him?"

"Now. Right now. Outside, Maxine. Playing."

"In the dark?" Grant mutters. I can taste his uneasiness. For a moment I think of telling him to stay behind, but he gives me a look so stubborn I know anything I say will carry little weight. He wants to go. He has to go. End of story, even though I could force him, Leave one of the boys behind to watch him, with that bad leg as my excuse. With anyone else I would. But this man ...

I do not know what it is about him. About us. I do not want tc shake him, even for a moment. First time in my life I have ever felt that way. Even with my mother there were times I wanted to run. I tried, too. The boys always brought me home.

We get out of the car and walk. Dek and Mal tuck away inside my hair, still purring, while Zee, Aaz, and Raw hop between shad
ows. The rain is coming down harder; the sidewalk is empty. Win
dows are bright and golden.

A nice neighborhood. Comfortable and rich. People who live in areas like this feel safe inside their homes. Safe outside their homes, as well. They are confident in their safety. So confident, that if a man and woman are seen strolling down the street before eight in the evening, at ease, one of them crippled, they cannot be a threat. No danger. No need to be afraid.

Unless you are a demon.

The Campbell home has a narrow walkway leading from their driveway to the backyard. For a fraction of an instant, Grant hesi
tates, but I take his hand and pull him along as though we live there. Confidence is the key, even if it just an act. There is so much that could go wrong right now.

"Don't turn around," I murmur. "Just keep your eyes forward. You live here, you're a guest here-"

"You are far too practiced at this," Grant says. "Have you ever been in jail?"

"Not yet," I mutter. "But if I get there because of you, we are go
ing to have words."

We follow the line of the driveway toward the back of the house. No one stops us. Zee disappears into its shadows first, and after a mo
ment is followed by Aaz. Raw waits, nose tilted to the sky, red eyes whirling. He takes the path. But not before clicking his claws at us.

The path is narrow and wet. On our left, the house-on our right, rosebushes drooping and heavy with rain. The air smells sweet. Ahead of us, I hear the muffled scrape of a body across grass. I walk faster.

Raw appears in front of me and grabs my hand. He pulls, I follow-dragging Grant behind me-and suddenly we are in a back
yard filled with bushes and trees, thick roses, and a large playhouse with a full-sized camping tent staked in front of it.

That is where we go. I can hear pots clanging in the house behind us; a woman's voice, calling something to her husband. The back door hangs open; she must feel very safe to let her son play outside at night, in such weather. That, or she is relieved to have him away from her.

Grant and I crawl into the plastic tent. It smells like dirty socks, and the ground is wet beneath us. The boy is stretched out flat on his back, held down by Zee and Raw. His mouth is covered. Dark aura aside, he looks frightened and angry, and so very young.

I hate this. I hate this part so much.

Aaz carefully peels back a layer of cut sod and reaches beneath to dig one-handed in the dirt. There is no light, but my eyes are good. I see him pull something furry from the ground. A squirrel wrapped in duct tape, with only its head and tail still free. The little thing is dead now, but I have a very bad feeling it was still breathing when placed in all that dirt. I also have a feeling there might be more little bodies buried around us. I see tools inside the tent.