I Hunt Killers Blood Boy (4 page)
Read I Hunt Killers Blood Boy Online
Authors: Barry Lyga
Eventually, he made his way back to Jazz and Connie. Jazz, from all appearances, hadn’t moved an inch all night. Connie arched an eyebrow at Howie as he approached.
“We were just talking about you.”
“I believe it. I’m an endlessly fascinating subject.” Howie craned his neck, peering into the darkest corners of the living room for Sexy Kid.
“We were just saying that if you didn’t show up soon, Jazz would have to leave without you. And then I’d get stuck taking you home.”
A quick scroll of his cell blew Howie’s mind. It was much, much later than he’d thought. “Yeah…” he mumbled. “I guess we should get going.” He bent to look behind the sofa. Just in case.
“Missing something?” Jazz asked.
Howie sighed heavily. “Guess not.”
*****
O
UTSIDE
, H
OWIE
LOITERED
NEAR
the Jeep while Connie and Jazz muttered to each other, ending with a peck on the lips that lingered just long enough for Howie to think of Sexy Kid’s lips on his own. Connie got into the car she’d borrowed from her dad and pulled away; Jazz walked over to the Jeep.
“Ready?”
“Yep.”
They were silent the whole way home. Jazz’s reticence was as per usual; Howie’s was not. The Jeep had probably never been so silent since Billy had used it, watching and waiting patiently for some poor future victim to cluelessly cross his path.
“Why so morose?” Jazz asked as he pulled into his driveway, parking next to Howie’s car.
“Is that an SAT word?”
“Tell me.”
“Could you use it in a sentence?”
“I did.”
“This is true.”
“Why. So. Morose?”
Howie shrugged. “Can we just say I saw the face of God tonight and didn’t get to touch it and leave it at that?”
“I suppose.”
They climbed out of the Jeep together. As Howie unlocked his car, Jazz called over the hood of the Jeep: “Hey. Why did I have to drive all the way out to Tynan Ridge again? And don’t give me this ‘I wanted a new crowd’ crap.”
Howie opened the door and leaned against it, thoughtful. “Okay, the truth? The truth is, I wanted to get you somewhere where not everyone knew you. Where you could loosen up a bit. Nice job on that, by the way.”
Shaking his head, Jazz said, “I don’t believe you. I think you wanted somewhere where no one knew
you
. Where no one would treat you differently because of your disease. Where no one would treat you like you could break, like you’re made of spun sugar.”
Howie clucked his tongue. “Spun sugar? You have a way with words, Jazz. Truly. Quite the fecund imagination.”
“Is
that
an SAT word?”
Howie shrugged. “Imagination? Nah.” He flashed a quick grin and — before Jazz could say anything — slid into the car, slammed the door, and gunned the engine.
*****
D
AD
WAS
ASLEEP
WHEN
he got home, but Mom — of course — lay on the sofa in her robe and slippers, watching something on Lifetime, some movie about a woman done wrong by a man. That was the sum total of Lifetime, as best Howie could tell: Women done wrong by men.
“How was the party?” she asked as casually as the constraints of Mom-dom allowed.
“Great,” he said. And for once, he wasn’t sure if he was lying or not.
“Did you drink? Because your liver—”
“Mom. No. I’m not an idiot.” He’d never gotten a chance to sample Howie’s Reward, he realized. Either of them.
She clicked off the TV and stood, yawning. “Wash all of that stuff off before you go to bed. I’m not buying new sheets just because you got makeup on them.”
He watched her toddle sleepily off to bed, then ducked into the bathroom. Blood Boy stared back at him from the mirror.
“First base isn’t bad,” he whispered to the mirror. “There’s always next year.”
He climbed into the shower — careful not to bang his head against the curtain rod — and cranked up the hot water. In a cloud of steam, he luxuriated for a few minutes, just enjoying the sensation. Then he washed off the fake blood, watching it spiral as pink as Bobby’s kid sister’s bedroom down the drain.
With the blood off, he scrubbed at the mottled bruise makeup, lifting it off his skin, revealing further, deeper mottling beneath, as though he’d never removed the makeup.
Out of the shower, he gazed down at his ridiculously long body, then looked up in the mirror, twisting.
An almost perfect circle of black-and-blue at the small of his back, where he’d jammed against the doorknob.
A bruise under his ribs, where he’d been jabbed by some random guy.
Another bruise, higher up on his back, where he’d been slapped with bonhomie by the human garbage bag.
Another one along his ribs and one on his arm, from his flirting with Sexy Kid in the hallway.
A big one on his foot, when someone had stepped on it. And along the side of his knee, from that damn samurai sword.
His neck, a massive contusion bloom from the pressure of Sexy Kid’s insistent and glorious lips.
His left hand, where Sexy Kid had squeezed it tight while following him up the stairs.
His lips, from her own.
His nose, as they banged together.
Bobby’s kick to his ankle.
He stared at the image in the mirror, at the horror show of burst blood vessels and subcutaneous bleeds all over his body.
And then he grinned at his reflection and whispered, as though a secret, “Worth it.”
This story, like the other
I Hunt Killers
prequels, grew out of a very natural process. When I started writing the books, I knew that the “present” of the story took place four years after the notorious Billy Dent had been arrested, tried, and convicted. Furthermore, I knew that Billy’s “career” stretched back twenty years, longer than his son had been alive.
This meant that I had a lot of backstory in my head and in my notes as I wrote. Some of it leaked out in dribs and drabs over the course of the trilogy.
Now, one thing authors have to drum into their heads early on is this:
Backstory is not story!
We have a tendency to fall in love with our backstories, which oftentimes leads to terminally dull prologues or extended, boring flashback sequences. It’s easy to forget that the audience cares about the
story
, not the backstory.
But when it came to
I Hunt Killers
, there were bits and pieces of the backstory that I thought would be of interest to readers…as long as they didn’t interfere with the action in the story itself. How did Jazz get his nickname? How did Jazz and Connie fall in love, given the circumstances? These were the sorts of character-driven backstory elements that I thought readers might enjoy.
My solution? This story you’ve downloaded, as well as some others. I hope you agree that they were worth the time!
Called a “YA rebel-author” by
Kirkus Reviews
, Barry Lyga has published novels in various genres in his career, including the
New York Times
bestselling
I Hunt Killers
. His books have been or are slated to be published in a dozen different languages in North America, Australia, Europe, and Asia.
After graduating from Yale with a degree in English, Lyga worked in the comic book industry before quitting to pursue his lifelong love of writing. In 2006, his first young adult novel,
The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl
, was published to rave reviews, including starred reviews from
Booklist
and
School Library Journal
.
Publishers Weekly
named Lyga a “Flying Start” in December 2006 on the strength of the debut.
His second young adult novel, Boy Toy, received starred reviews in
SLJ
,
Publishers Weekly
, and
Kirkus
.
VOYA
gave it its highest critical rating, and the
Chicago Tribune
called it “…an astounding portrayal of what it is like to be the young male victim.” His third novel,
Hero-Type
, according to
VOYA
“proves that there are still fresh ideas and new, interesting story lines to be explored in young adult literature.”
Since then, he has also written
Goth Girl Rising
(the sequel to his first novel), as well as the
Archvillain
series for middle-grade readers, the graphic novel
Mangaman
(with art by Colleen Doran), the
I Hunt Killers
series, and the (very) adult novel,
Unsoul’d.
Lyga lives and writes in New York City. His comic book collection is a lot smaller than it used to be, but is still way too big.
For more information, visit
barrylyga.com
. And/or sign up for the
very
low-volume
Barry Lyga Newsletter
.
If you enjoyed “Blood Boy,” you might also enjoy these other books by Barry Lyga:
The
I Hunt Killers
Series
Jazz is the son of the world's most infamous serial killer, and for Dear Old Dad, "Take Your Son to Work Day" was year-round. Jazz has witnessed crime scenes the way cops wish they could--from the criminals' point of view.
In an effort to prove murder doesn't run in the family, Jazz joins the police in the hunt for a new serial killer. But Jazz has a secret — could he be more like his father than anyone knows?
A riveting series about a teenager trying to control his own destiny in the face of overwhelming odds.
- Lucky Day
(prequel novella) - “Career Day”
(prequel novella) - “Neutral Mask”
(prequel short story)
The Brookdale Books
Controversial. Award-winning. Critically acclaimed. From a comic book geek meeting the girl of his nightmares to a baseball star with a shameful secret to small-town politics to a girl figuring out how to be a woman, the Brookdale Books form an “unseries” of loosely linked stories that “proves that there are still fresh ideas and new, interesting story lines to be explored in young adult literature” (
VOYA
).
“That day, I had a bagel for breakfast and sold my soul to the devil. In retrospect, the bagel was probably a mistake.”
Randall Banner is thirty-five years old, a middling mid-list author who yearns for more of everything: More attention. More fame. More money. More fans.
Then, one quiet morning, he meets the devil while pounding away at his laptop at his usual coffee shop. Soon, a deal is made, a contract is signed, and Randall is on his way to fame and fortune unlike any he ever imagined.
What follows is a bawdy, hilarious, yet harrowing tale of one man, one devil, and a deal that could change the world.
"Like Nick Hornby writing an episode of
Californication
!" — Sarah Maclean, New York Times bestselling author.
Copyright © 2014 Barry Lyga LLC
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
