The Iron Hunt (17 page)

I
controlled myself, barely. “Rex. Get these people out of here.”

“No,”
Rex said. “Hunter.”

I
snapped my head around and stared into his eyes. “Do it, or you’re next.”

“I’d
listen to her,” said Grant. I looked over my shoulder and found him standing
behind us, quiet as a wolf. His knuckles were white around the head of his
cane. In his other hand, the flute.

The
zombie bucked beneath me. I dropped, slamming my fist into the floor by his
head, shattering the tile. “Do not even
think
about fucking with me. You
try anything, you even
think
about standing up, and I will have you
shitting out of your dick so fast you’ll
beg
me to rip it off.”

The
zombie froze. Everyone was quiet. Dark spots danced in my eyes. Rex said a few
low words, and I heard feet shuffling, a halting murmur. I looked sideways and
found Byron near me, eyes closed. Unconscious.

Everything
inside me stilled. The boy’s face was a wreck. Left eye swelling, bruised veins
streaking into his lower cheek. His nose was broken, blood flowing across his
upper lip, and his brow was covered in cuts and scrapes, like a bootheel had
rubbed off the skin. Did not seem real. I could still see him standing in that
damn apartment. He had been out of my sight for only ten minutes.

Rex
knelt. “Nine-one-one’s already been called.”

I
forced myself to look away. Grant leaned near, as far as his cane would allow,
gazing at the zombie sprawled beneath me.

Grant
said, “You beat that child.”

His
voice was impossibly soft, terrifyingly cold. The zombie sucked in his breath,
shuddering; his eyes bloodshot, chest heaving. “I forgot myself. Please.
Please
don’t let her kill me. I saw him and forgot.
I forgot
.”

I did
not care for coincidence. Byron was too specific a target. “Why the boy? Did
someone put you up to it? Edik?
Blood Mama?
”

The
zombie looked from Grant to me, and shook his head, desperate. Words spilled
from his mouth, demonic words. Rex drew near, and the zombie shifted to English.

“Tell
them,” hissed the possessed man. “Rex,
tell
them.”

Rex
looked away. “No, Scotty.”

The
zombie looked incredulous. “But… he’s a
skin
.”

“Skin,”
I echoed sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

Scotty
clamped his mouth shut. Rex turned away, walking to the corner of the reception
area, no purpose to his movement; simply, as though he needed the distance. I
glanced again at Byron. The boy seemed to be breathing, but he was still as
stone.

“Answer
her question,” Grant said. “Why did you use that word?”

Scotty
refused to speak. I said, “He crossed the line. You know that.”

“Maxine.”

“No.
He’s
mine
.”

Grant
closed his eyes. I stripped off my gloves. The zombie wept, no longer fighting;
only begging, begging so hard. I felt no mercy. I had found demons in grandmothers
and kindergarten teachers, in police officers and politicians. I had exorcised
children and the dying. The demons were all the same. Pain was the guarantee,
no matter what the package looked like.

I
placed my hand against the zombie’s brow. “Any last words?”

“Bargain,”
he gasped.

“No.
Give me free words, and I’ll make it fast. Promise me no one made you do this.”

Scotty
said nothing, which was all the answer I needed. His aura began to pull away
from his head; the demon inside, preparing itself for a quick escape.

Like
hell. I pressed my hand even harder against his brow and spat out the words my
mother taught me. Old words, ancient. The demon inside the man shook loose in
moments. I trapped it in my hand. Just a wisp, a smoke signal. The little demon
screamed, his voice like a high, piercing whistle.

And
the boys, in their sleep, sucked its body into my skin—and ate it.

Ten
seconds from start to finish. Grant still had his eyes closed. I was afraid to
touch him, but as I pulled away he grabbed my hand, raised it to his cheek, and
held it there. I started breathing again, and kissed his shoulder.

Beneath
me, Scotty groaned. I stepped off his body and crouched by Byron. I touched his
hair, but that was all. I did not want to hurt him. Fear made me sick. So did
rage.

Grant
said, “Rex. We’ll need help here.”

The
zombie said nothing. He left the reception area. Grant leaned down and sang a
soft melody under his breath. Power prickled. On the floor, the man’s breathing
calmed. Grant did not stop humming. I did not know what he observed in the
man’s aura, but his melody shifted, and I could almost imagine a jigsaw puzzle:
a rearrangement of fragments, slipping new cues into place.

Possession,
whispered a tiny voice in my head.
Grant is no
different
.

But
he was. I would never believe otherwise.

Grant
stopped humming. His silence was profound, as cutting as his song. He leaned
heavily on his cane, thoughtful, and glanced at some of the men who walked into
the reception area. All of them were regulars to the shelter, fellow homeless,
big strong guys who were studying for their GEDs. I knew, because every now and
then I tutored a class. They knelt by Scotty and helped him sit up.

I sat
down on the floor, feeling like a German shepherd, and guarded the boy until
the ambulance came.

THE
shit hit the fan at the same time. EMTs, police, sirens wailing so loud I heard
babies crying. Some of the guys who had been helping with Scotty scattered
fast. No one wanted to be around a badge and uniform. Including me.

I had
to talk to the officers. No sign of Suwanai or McCowan, but word would leak
back. I could only imagine what they would think, but all I hoped for was that
no one linked Byron to Badelt. A can of worms I did
not
want to deal
with. Not through official channels, anyway.

EMTs
carried Byron out on a stretcher. He wore a neck brace. Grant limped close,
haggard. “I’m going to have to call Social Services. If I don’t, the hospital
will.”

I
pressed my knuckles against my forehead. “I should have been more careful. I
promised that kid everything would be okay. Now he’s practically in a coma.”

Grant
sighed. “He’s faking unconsciousness, Maxine. He’s awake.”

I
froze. “You’re kidding.”

“I
was distracted. Didn’t notice the mark in his aura until ten minutes ago, but
there were too many people around to call him out. The EMTs will figure it out
soon, if they haven’t already.”

“You
think he heard me kill that demon?”

“Don’t
know. But no matter how badly he’s been hurt, I doubt he’ll stick around that
hospital long enough for the police to question him. Or for Social Services to
take custody. ”

I
felt sick, like a monster, for not being able to protect the boy—or keep the
rug firmly under his feet. “Someone needs to be with him.”

“Why
do I get the feeling I’ve been assigned the job?”

“Because
you’re the only one I trust. Scotty called Byron a piece of skin. Nothing but
a
skin. Zee used that word last night to describe Jack Meddle, and here it is
again, out of the mouth of a zombie. A zombie who just so happened to attack a
boy who knew Badelt.” I closed my eyes, hands tapping against my thighs. “Byron
said that Badelt was murdered by the same people running drugs through the
university district. That would be Edik’s group.”

“And
he answers to Blood Mama,” Grant said grimly, then looked on as the police led
Scotty out of the lobby.

It
was terrible. The big man seemed so lost. Human again… and now this. I wondered
how long he had been possessed, how much had been stolen from his life.
Certainly, his freedom. If I had exorcised the man as I should have the first
time I met him, all this could have been avoided.

Made
me angry. At myself—and Grant. Though it was hard to hold that anger when I
looked into Grant’s face and saw something cracking, breaking. He watched the
police take Scotty like he was the one in handcuffs. He listened with awful
tension as the big man protested he did not remember committing a crime.

I
grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t,”
he echoed bleakly. “Don’t soften it. You and I both know how this happened.”

“Sure,”
I replied. “But the boy’s a target. If not Scotty, then someone else. No good
looking back.”

Grant
rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand. “I hadn’t planned on letting you out
of my sight quite so soon. I seem to remember making an impassioned speech last
night.”

“It
was a good speech,” I told him; and then, gently: “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re
talking to me, Maxine.”

“I
will be fine,” I said again, more firmly. “Really. I’m more worried about the
boy. And you.”

Grant
shook his head. “I would say,
I’ll be fine
, but then we’ll just start
all over again. And we’d both be lying.”

“Go,”
I said, feeling miserable. “Be careful. I’d do it myself, but there’s other
trouble.”

He
gave me a sharp look. Rex approached. His aura was dull, his expression
guarded. Grant leaned in and whispered something in the zombie’s ear. Rex
looked at me and shook his head, but Grant grabbed his arm and the dark spittle
of Rex’s demon aura fluttered, gasping under the power of Grant’s touch, the
barely audible melody of his voice. That was all it took. It helped that Rex
was willing.

Convert.
Goody Two-Shoes. Demonic son of a bitch declaring himself free for the light.
Weaning himself from pain. And Blood Mama. There might have been twenty other
zombies, male and female, who felt the same. All of them rotated through the
shelter, coming in for regular musical
treatments
, personal sessions
with Grant that allowed him to modify the energy patterns in their demon
spirits. Mornings in the chapel were icing on the cake.

Not
that Scotty could be called a success story.

Some
of the people in the reception area still watched us. I disliked the scrutiny,
but Grant caught my hand and pulled me close. “
You
be careful,” he
whispered. I nodded dumbly, swallowed up by the intensity of his gaze. There
were promises in Grant’s eyes. Always, promises.

He
backed off, slowly—gave Rex another hard look— then limped down the hall.

I
watched until he was gone, then turned to the zombie. He stood with his hands
shoved in his pockets, a demon staring from those human eyes. He was a man of
all trades in this place. He helped people, was well liked. But he still fed on
pain—even if he did not cause any.

Rex
did not move. Neither did I. Behind us, people began talking again, laughing
uneasily. I heard a broom, the tinkle of glass. Somewhere, the dulcet croon of
Smokey Robinson. I smelled blood, but Rex seemed unconcerned by his injury.

“Let’s
go somewhere else,” I told him.

We
found a bench down the hall and sat. Rex stared at the wall across from us,
painted butter yellow and covered with fat butterflies, painted by the children
who used the day-care services the shelter provided. I saw tulips, fairies
hiding in red petals—a blue bird caught in a shaft of thick goopy sunlight,
winging above the jagged waves of a green sea. A mermaid looked back at me.

“Feel
better?” Rex asked. “A little murder make your morning?”

“You
didn’t protect the boy.”

“I
didn’t get there in time. Scotty was out of control. Not like I did the rest.”

But
maybe it tasted good. Maybe it was sweet. I studied his eyes, the flicker of
his aura, which was a shallower shade of darkness than others of his kind. The
only evidence Grant had affected him.

“Scotty
tried to kill Byron for a reason,” I said. “And you know what it is.”

“Not
true,” he replied, but something small squirmed in his gaze, and I felt it
click inside me like a key, turning.

We
were alone in the hall. I took off my gloves. “Nothing gets past you, Rex. I
bet you knew Edik had a message for me, just waiting to be delivered. Maybe you
knew about Badelt, too. One human man, looking for the Hunter. Seems like that
would cause some gossip. Gosh, I suppose you might even know who ordered his
death. Like… Edik? Blood Mama?”

Rex
stared at my hands, the tattoos. “You’re
wrong.
”

“Grant
won’t care if I get rid of you. Not now. Not if you betrayed me.”

“Grant
doesn’t know what you are.”

“So
you admit to holding out on me.”

“Fuck
you,” he snapped. “I’ve done
nothing
.”

“That’s
the point.” I placed my hand on his wound. His blood soaked into my skin, and
he shuddered, fists digging into his upper thighs. He made no move to fight me.
He knew better.