The Iron Hunt (13 page)

Grant’s
lips touched my skin. His mouth was hot and gentle.

“I
get left behind,” he murmured, alongside my ear. “And I hate it. I pretend I
don’t. I pretend nothing ever goes wrong, but then you come home and tell these
stories, and it terrifies me.”

“You
hide it well.”

“You
know me better than that.” Grant pulled away, holding my face between his
hands. “I’m going with you tomorrow. I’m not letting you out of my sight until
this is resolved.”

“I
can’t let you do that, Grant.”

“You
can’t stop me.” His large, strong hands curled around the back of my neck,
threading into my hair. “We take care of each other, right? Isn’t that what we
promised? ”

“Yes,”
I said quietly.

“Okay,”
he replied.

“Some
priest,” I told him. “You’re so bossy.”

“Former.”
His mouth softened. “And look who’s talking.”

I
smiled, and heard a distant scuffing sound above us. Like gravel. Took me off
guard. “He’s on the roof?”

“He
said he needed air.”

“Any
advice?”

“You
don’t need it.” His fingers danced a string of notes across the piano keys.
“You always know what you need to do, Maxine.”

He
was wrong, of course. Not that being downright clueless had ever stopped me
before. There was an art to living, and sometimes it required the inexorable,
relentless resolve just to keep plowing forward, one step at a time, no matter
what the hell it was you were doing.

The
rest usually took care of itself.

GRANT’S
rooftop garden was accessible only through the apartment, and was, therefore,
the one place we could relax together, outside, without worrying about covering
my tattoos, or someone seeing the boys. It felt like an island on top of the world,
and even though Grant did not have a green thumb like some of the other people
in his shelter, he had managed to haul up some troughs of ferns and ivy.
Anything with a sweet scent or dash of color had withered with winter.

The
boy sat in one of two plastic lawn chairs, arranged near the fire pit, which
was currently cold and dead. He did not seem bothered by the damp. He smoked a
cigarette.

He
saw me coming but did not stand. Just shifted his feet and looked down, tugging
at his sweatshirt. I sat beside him in the other chair. Downtown towered before
us, glittering like a string of steel and jewels. I heard cars and distant
voices, the rumble of an airplane. I felt the boys nearby, in the shadows.

“Hard
night,” I said.

“Had
worse,” he replied.

“Good
place to think.”

“I
don’t know anything,” he told me. “About the murder. ”

I
studied his profile. “That’s not what you told me in the alley.”

He
licked his lips and took a long drag on his cigarette. Blew smoke into the air,
which I inhaled, enjoying the scent. The boy’s silence stretched. I dug into
the inner pocket of my jacket, swiped before coming up here, and found a packet
of M&Ms. I tore open the paper and popped several in my mouth. Held out the
rest to the boy. He hesitated, then took them.

Chocolate
soothed. “I’m Maxine.”

My
real name. It slipped out before I could stop myself, and I felt frightened for
a moment. Had to calm myself down. Not easy. I was losing my edge. I thought,
maybe, I had never had one.

“My
name is Byron,” said the boy. Real name or fake, but it suited him. His eyes
were old. Like a poet’s.

“I
met his ex-wife tonight,” I said. “Brian’s ex. Her name is Sarai. She paints
unicorns.”

“I
didn’t see anything,” he replied.

“You
knew Brian Badelt. I could see it in your eyes.”

The
boy stayed quiet. I held my own silence. We sat for a long time, and my stomach
growled. No supper. Those lonely M&Ms made me thirsty. I could hardly hear
the boy breathe. He was just a pale, skinny face surrounded by shadow.

“I’m
sorry you got in the middle,” I finally said. “I didn’t know that would
happen.”

“Maybe
you didn’t care.”

“I
cared. I got you back.” Which was a little bit of truth, a little bit of lie. I
wanted the boy to feel safe, though, and not because I thought it would make
him talk. I just wanted him to relax. I wanted him to know that no one would
hurt him. No pain, no price, no nothing that was not his own free will.

Byron’s
gaze flicked sideways at me. “How did you do it?”

“The
man responsible found me. We talked. He gave you back.”

“Couldn’t
have been that easy.”

“Does
it matter?”

His
eyes narrowed. “You’re not one of them.”

“No,”
I said, unsure what
one of them
included; whether it was Mafia, or guys
with guns, or just the miasma of society, bearing down on his head. “I’m a lot
scarier.”

His
mouth twitched. I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. “Badelt had my
name in his pocket when he died. That’s why I wanted to know more about him. I
wanted to know why he was in that alley.” I studied the teen’s profile,
illuminated by the city lights. “Was it to talk to you?”

Byron
said nothing. I added, “You probably won’t believe me if I make you promises.
Words are cheap. But what I will say is this—I won’t force you. You want to
leave, you can leave. You want to stay quiet, stay quiet. But I could use your
help.”

“Where
are we?” he asked.

“The
Coop. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s a homeless shelter near Chinatown. The man
downstairs is the owner. He’s a good guy. You can stay as long as you want.
Your own room. No strings, not unless you plan on doing drugs or having wild
parties.”

He
gave me a sharp look. “That’s a bullshit offer. I’ve heard of the Coop. No one
gets their own room.”

“Some
do. Special cases. You, if you want it.”

Byron
put out his cigarette. “Nothing is free. Besides, someone will report me to
Social Services. They’ll have to.”

“You
have a good reason not to be at home?”

He
shrugged and carefully tucked the butt of his cigarette into his jacket pocket.
“I’d be there, otherwise.”

Sure.
Stupid question. I leaned back. The plastic chair was damp, though not nearly
as much as I. I could have wrung a river from my clothes.

The
boy fingered his sweatshirt, the edge of his coat zipper. His nails were
painted black, and bitten down to the quick. I watched him, and the sky. Thinking
about demons and the veil. Old men and women. Secrets.

I
felt the boys all around us, watching from the shadows. I resisted the urge to
finger the brand beneath my ear. My only scar.

Byron
said, “I can leave, anytime I want?”

“Anytime.
We’ll probably start nagging you about a GED after a while, or some other
programs, but no one will force you. No one will kick you out.”

He
did not believe me. I could see it in his eyes, but that was no surprise.
Fourteen, fifteen, and living on the street with a gaze as old as dirt? There
was a story there. Not a happy one.

He
looked down at his hands. “Brian brought sandwiches every now and then. He
handed them out. Couple times he had coats and blankets, or even just comic
books. Never wanted anything in return. It was nice.”

More
than nice, given the sudden, stricken misery on his face. He did not look at
me, but his eyes were red, and so were his cheeks. His right hand balled into a
fist.

Grant
had said Byron was scared of men. If he had trusted Badelt, that was a big
deal. It would be a big deal for me. His grief was going to run deep.

“Did
you see who hurt him?” I asked softly. “Byron, what happened?”

He
shook his head, rubbing his sleeve over his nose. “Things have been getting
rough. Some other people moving in. Guns. More drugs. There’s money involved.
The pretty girls have been disappearing. Brian gave me a number to call if I
ever needed help. So I called. He was going to meet me. He said he had other
questions. About something different.”

“Something
different? Did he tell you what that was?”

Byron
hesitated. “He was interested in you. Someone named Maxine, anyway.”

“Interested.”

“Not
like sex. Just… interested. Curious. If I had ever heard of you.”

Curious.
About me.
That made no sense, other
than the fact that Sarai knew my name and face, and had been married to Badelt.
And even that was no answer—just another question. This night, full of
questions.

I set
it aside. “Tell me about the guns and drugs. The missing girls. Are the same
men who took you responsible? Did they kill Badelt?”

Byron
ate an M&M, his hand shaking. “I was just leaving. The man who killed Brian
had blond hair. He wore a long coat. Blue or black. Expensive. One of
them
.”

Again,
that wording. “Was he Russian?”

Byron
shrugged, which could have meant anything. I sat back, thinking hard. The
Wonder Twins and their cohort with the cell phone were certainly blond, but
they had been dressed in cheap slacks and Windbreakers, not an expensive long
coat.

And
Edik, though unspecific about Badelt’s death, had implied someone else was
responsible. Someone watching me. Or maybe that was just another word game,
meant to take the focus off him.

I
hated this. My head still hurt, a low-grade headache centered behind my eyes. I
took a deep breath. “Just one more question, Byron. Had you ever seen me before
tonight? When we first met, I thought maybe you had.”

“No,”
he said, looking me in the eyes. “But you were familiar. I don’t know why.”

Sicily,
I remembered Zee saying. Sorrow in Raw’s gaze.

I
nodded. “Thank you, Byron.”

He
looked at me, uncertain. “Now what?”

“That’s
up to you.”

Byron
hesitated. “Maybe I could stay tonight.”

“Okay,”
I said. “Try it out. You can keep the room downstairs, then in the morning
we’ll move you to one of the studios. Like a miniapartment, just for you.”

He
looked at me like I had snakes coming out of my head, which might have been the
case had Dek and Mal still been on my shoulders. The little demons, however,
were behind the boy, draped around Raw’s neck; the three of them peering around
a barrel full of ferns.

“It’s
the truth,” I said. “I can show you now.”

“No,”
he replied. “But I still think you’re full of it.”

The
clouds were clearing. I caught gasps of starlight and thought about the demon
with his cloak, dancing on knives.

We
have missed your face.

You
woke us. Your soul reached for us. Inside the abyss, we felt your call.

Blood
holds no dominion.

You
have need of us.

I
stood, savoring the cold breeze that swept over my face. I smelled the ocean
and the docks, remnants of grease from Chinatown.

Byron
stood, too. He was taller than I, but almost as slender; a hungry look on his
face, starved for more than just food.

“How
long?” I asked him softly. “How long have you lived like this?”

I
thought he was going to bristle, but then he took a breath, and his shoulders
relaxed. “About six months.”

“And
there’s no one?”

“There
was,” he said, looking down. “But he died last night.”

I
nodded, silent. Started to walk away. Byron cleared his throat, and I stopped,
looking back. He fidgeted, fingers worrying at his sweatshirt zipper. My
stomach turned, uneasy. “Yes?”

Byron
looked like he was going to be sick. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

I
took a step toward him. “What?”

The
boy pressed the heel of his palm against his brow, as though in pain. His voice
dropped to a hoarse whisper. “The man who shot Brian… caught me watching.”

I
stopped breathing. “Did he hurt you?”

Byron
nodded, face crumpling. My mind went to places I did not want to imagine, and shied
away, wild. “He let you go. You survived.”

Tears
leaked down his cheeks. “He said a woman would come asking questions. He said
he would kill me if I talked. When I got taken tonight…”

I
thought I was going to die,
I
imagined him finishing.

His
entire body shuddered. I felt
myself
die, just a little. I wrapped my
arms around the teen. Gingerly. I was not used to hugging, but he clung to me,
crying, wracked with such violent grief I could not imagine all his emotion was
from Brian’s death alone.

He
still thought he was going to die. I could feel it. I had given him a reprieve,
that was all. Byron was terrified.