Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (7 page)

"That hnv tonight.
What choice did you give him?"

His expression darkens. "The child was sick, just like you and Zee said. His aura did not change when you took the demon from him. It simply became more ... transparent. All I did was infuse that dark
ness with color, as much of it as I could in the time I had. It might last, if the boy is willing to let it, but auras and personalities are like mus
cles, Maxine. The more you commit yourself to a certain way of be
ing, the harder it is to turn away from it. You keep wanting to flex."

"And you're sure this works?"

"Better with some than others. And not just humans." Grant gives me a rueful smile that does nothing to smooth the stress lines in his forehead. "Those things want me dead. What just happened in the car confirmed the reason. It's because I can change them, Max
ine. Give them a choice to be something different."

I almost laugh, but only to cover the sickness in my throat. "No such thing as a choice like that. Not for demons. Not for
those
demons. Born evil, bred evil. You can't change what they are, no matter how hard you try. And if you do, the reason they change will not be through free will. Not through choice. Not anything close."

"And Zee and the others? Are you going to condemn them, too?"

"They're different."

"But were they always different?" Grant leans forward, narrow
ing his eyes. "How do you know, Maxine? How can you be so sure?"

"Because there's no alternative." My voice is hard, cold. "Not for what I do."

"Which is?"

I do not answer him. I had a purpose, once, and I suppose I still do-but there is no destiny screaming in my ear. I am just a girl. A girl with a horde of demons living on her body. A killer.

"Maxine," he says.

"Every prison needs a guard," I tell him.

"I thought this wasn't a prison."

"It might as well be. That, or a feeding ground. Humans aren't equipped to protect themselves against demons."

"But you are," he says, thoughtful. "Do you have help?" I think of my mother. "The boys."

"No. More than them."

I remember cake and candles, white frosting sprayed with blood. "I'm the only one. There are no other Hunters." No others at all, not for centuries. I am the very last of the human hybrids created to act as wardens, guards, and protectors of this soft sweet spot inside the prison rings. And while I do not know much about
how I
exist, I do know this: I am not enough.

"You've seen some of what I do." I force myself to hold his gaze. "I hunt demons. I kill as many of them as I can find." "Just like that? So easy?"

"Yes."

"Liar." Grant traces the air above my head. "You're no murderer."

Murderer.
The word hurts. No good pretending otherwise. It is a word wrapped in guilt and fear, a lingering unease that has followed me no matter how hard I try to shoot it down. My mother never questioned herself-not to me-but
murder is
a word I dream of of
ten. Murder is an old nightmare.

I dig my nails into my thigh. "Demons are parasites. Predators. In simplest terms, they are hardwired to cause humans pain, because that is what keeps them alive. So I kill them. I kill them because
they
kill. I hunt them because
they
hunt. If I find a demon looking for a host, I cut it dead. If I find a demon inside a host, I force it out and do the same. The boys are my weapons, but I am the assassin. And after seeing the damage those demons leave behind-the broken homes, the strings of murders and rape victims, children molested and neglected-I consider it
a public
service."

Grant's gaze remains steady, unwavering. "So you're helping others. But are you helping yourself? What price do you pay, Max
ine? Only psychopaths take lives without conscience, and you're no psycho. I can tell that much. So it must be costing you something, even if you're just ... killing demons."

"What's the alternative? Your way?" "Maybe."

"Maybe," I murmur bitterly. "You wouldn't say that if you had experienced what I have. You wouldn't dream of it."

"Then tell me," he says, searching my face. "Please, Maxine. Help me understand."

"Help you understand what?" I whisper. "How long have you even known these things exist?"

Grant pushes away his sundae. "I wasn't sure they did. Not until today. All I knew for certain was that people who had dark auras
no matter how kind or gentle they acted-had an equal darkness in their hearts. So I tried to fix them. First with words, my counsel, and then with music."

"You were with the Church at the time? How did you find out you could change people?"

"An accident. I was playing my flute, and someone wandered into my vicinity. A particularly disturbed man, an older fellow who hung around the Church. Not possessed, just crazy. He stopped to listen to me, and I remember thinking,
I wish I
could help him.
Not long after, I saw the colors of my music inside his aura. And he changed, Maxine. For a little while." Grant stares at his hands. "I experimented. Maybe it was wrong of me. I prayed, asked for guidance-forgiveness, even-but I couldn't help myself."

"Power will do that."

"Maybe." Grant gives me a bitter smile. "I might have been se
duced by my hold over people. I like to think that I wasn't. I did, af
ter all, try to help."

"I'm not casting blame. Just saying." I rub my face, weary. "And the possessed? How did you encounter them?"

"Also by accident. Sometimes, not always, I would find two dis
tinct auras in the same individual, layered on top of the other. And by fixing one, I could fix the other."

"Tell me what you mean by fix."

U

"For all intents and purposes, every `possessed' man and woman I played for, the ones who had the double auras, who demonstrated the most destructive tendencies, suddenly ... stopped. Not over
night, and not without a persistent dose of my music, but I saw acts of compassion where I couldn't have found any before, shifts in lifestyle and interaction that were so radically different, and so ... beneficial ... that it was like a whole new personality took over."

"And then?" I lean close. "What made you leave the Church?"

Pain flashes through his face, so sharp I reach out and touch his hand, but before I can say anything to him, two girls wearing Mc
Donald's uniforms arrive with our bags of food. I tell them to leave it all on the table nearby, which they do, watching us warily. Grant does not seem to notice. When the girls are gone, I move around the table and sit beside him. I stay quiet, waiting.

"I thought I had a gift," he finally says. "A true gift from God, something that could allow me to help people in a very real way. So I told a friend. A very trusted friend, a fellow priest."

"He betrayed you."

"In a way. He refused to believe me. At first. But I was so naive, so stupid, and I kept at him until he finally did believe. Only, instead of seeing it as a gift, he became convinced that it was the work of the Devil, that I had become possessed by ... dark and arcane powers. It was crazy, Maxine. I felt like I was in the middle of the Inquisition, and it made no sense. I hadn't done anything wrong. I had only

helped people."

"They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Grant's jaw tightens. "They wanted to exorcise me. They wanted to drive the music out of me. They said I was stealing free will. And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But they called it the work of the Devil. Even sent someone from the Vatican to cleanse me."

My mouth curves into a faint smile. "Did he?"

Grant leans against me. "Guess not. I ran away before he ar
rived. Hardest choice of my life, but I had to go."

"Did you have family to turn to?"

Grant shakes his head and takes a bite of his sundae. He gives me his spoon. I go for the fudge. "I don't have much family, Maxine. Af
ter I left the Church, I went to Europe and followed a line around the world. Italy, Israel, India, Nepal, China. I even lived with a Navajo Shaman for a time. Everywhere I went, I tried to learn more about life, about all the different ways to believe in a higher power. And when I finally made my home-here, in Seattle-I had enough confidence in myself to believe that whatever I was, it was my choice to be good or evil. My choice to uplift or destroy. And I chose the light."

"And part of that light is converting demons."

"Like I said, I didn't know that's what they were. Despite my for
mer calling, I always questioned the dark side of my religion. I did not want to believe in true evil. I thought it was just ... an excuse, a way to cast blame away from bad deeds. The Devil made me do it. Blah."

"But you suspected something before tonight. You must have.

You were too calm. Even after seeing the boys come off my body,

you were too calm."

Grant hesitates. "Before I left the Church, I encountered one of

the people I had helped. I could see that something had changed.

One of the auras was darker than the other. Like it was reverting.

When I tried to fix it, that second shadow ... ran."

"Ran."

"Left the body and disappeared. And when it did, there was only

one aura left."

I lean back in my chair. Grant's sundae is gone, but he keeps scraping the plastic cup with his spoon. I reach across the table for my unfinished ice cream and slide it over to him. He takes it with a raised brow, but I wave him on, and that is that. No more soft serve. Grant stabs his spoon into the cup. I wait for a moment, just watch

ing him.

"You really think you can change those demons?" I ask him quietly. "I'd like to believe so."

"And you still call it free will? Their choice?"

"I don't know." He looks at me, and his eyes are tired. "But if they are as bad as you make them out to be, does it matter?"

Yes, I say to myself, and not because I fear for the rights of demons. I am only afraid for myself. Because if demons can change, if they can-through choice or force-be altered in a way that takes away their ability to harm humans, then what am I? What am I, ex
cept a true murderer?

I close my eyes. Grant says my name. When I do not answer him, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the curve of his side. It feels natural to lay my hand on his chest. It feels good and safe, and when his lips touch the crown of my head, the heat that travels through my body makes me sigh.

"Maxine," Grant says again. "Tell me."

"What do I tell you?" I murmur, suddenly achingly weary. "There's too much, Grant."

His mouth travels to my temple, pressing light and sweet against my skin. "You said my name again. I like it when you do that." "You're too easy to please."

"No," he says, kissing me again. "Not at all."

F ive

When we go back to the car, dragging our bags of food, there is a
police officer waiting for us. He has no aura that I can see, but that does not make me feel better. He is a tall lean man with an olive complexion and a buzz cut. Serious mouth. Suspicious eyes. His cruiser is parked on the other side of the lot, and he is standing so that the Mustang is between him and the McDonald's. I did not see him from inside.

"Are you the owner of this vehicle?" he asks Grant.

"The car is mine." I cannot see through the tinted windows. I wonder if the boys are still in there.

The officer looks at the bags in our hands. "Party?"

"Big eaters," Grant says. "Is there a problem?"

"I have some questions about this Mustang," says the man. "One just like it was seen driving away near the scene of an assault tonight. A place not far from here, in fact."

"That's terrible," Grant says, and damn if he does not sound like he means it, from the bottom of his heart. "Where did it happen?" "Capitol Hill. Fifth and Tunney."

Grant blinks, frowning. "We were in Capitol Hill not long ago." "Got a reason why?"

"My friend here is from out of town. She's thinking of moving to the area. We were out for a drive, and I thought I would show her the local neighborhoods." Grant's aura must be flashing fire
works; the man is a master liar. Some priest he must have been.

The officer frowns, his gaze flickering between Grant and me. "Can't see much at night."

"Places have a different feel after dark," I tell him. "You know. Sometimes scary, sometimes not."

He gives me a hard look. "Driver's license?"

I set down my bags and pull a slim leather card case from thf back pocket of my jeans. My hand bumps against the hard lump it my jacket; Katherine Campbell's wallet. Shit.

The police officer slides a Mag-lite from his belt and shines it or my license. "You're a long way from home, Ms.... Kiss."