The Iron Hunt (16 page)

I had
to warn him. I needed answers.

I
tried to play it cool as I pulled on my gloves, but I felt like the mask had
been ripped off my face. All my secrets, naked and burning.

Byron
swallowed hard. “You got more of those?”

“Here
and there,” I said shortly.

“You
don’t look like the tattoo type.”

“Told
you I was scary.”

Some
of the tension leaked from his shoulders. “Scary’s not bad sometimes.”

A
smile tugged at my mouth. “Thanks, kid.”

He
seemed embarrassed and rubbed his nose, glancing past my shoulder. I looked,
just in case, but saw no sign of a demonic mini-me. Found him checking me out
again, though. I did not budge from the scrutiny, his searching gaze; emotions
flickering in his face: doubt, fear, unease. Maybe some appreciation, though God
only knew what that was for.

“You
eaten breakfast?” I asked him.

“I
was going to bail,” he said. “I can’t stay here.”

“Don’t
leave on an empty stomach.” I walked past him, trying to act more relaxed than
I felt. “Unless you’re a vegetarian. In which case, you’re screwed.”

I did
not wait to see if he followed though my ears strained for his footsteps. I
heard him, after a moment, and kept my mouth shut when he caught up, matching
my pace. He walked with a hunched shuffle—bad posture, trying not to be noticed.

“Why
do you live here?” Byron asked.

“Why
not?” I checked around us for more demons, or pieces of the sky falling; maybe
locusts and flying toads. “Why do you live on the street?”

“Because
it’s there,” he replied.

I
glanced sideways. “Still haven’t seen those rooms. Locks on the doors. Your own
key. Might be able to swing you a job here, or somewhere close by.”

“Whatever,”
he muttered, but I could tell he was interested. I did not have much practice
at dealing with kids his age—kids at all, period—but I thought I was doing
okay. He was not running yet. No matter what he might have seen.

We
reached the main doors of the Coop. Byron cleared his throat, his hand sliding
up to finger a bruise at the side of his neck. I had not noticed it the night
before. I wanted to ask where the injury had come from—if there were more—but I
thought I knew. Just one more thing to feel sick about.

Byron
caught me looking, and his hand froze. I pretended not to notice. Just kept
walking. Jack and Sarai floating at the back of my mind.

Old
friends.

Old
friends with a demon. Or whatever that creature might be.

I
patted my back pocket and felt the stone disc. My mother and her secrets. My
grandmother.

“Fuck,”
I muttered. Byron glanced at me, and I added, “Sorry.”

The
teen shrugged like it was nothing, but I still felt embarrassed. I was not a
brilliant example for good behavior. Not for a kid. Not that Byron cared, I
suspected.

The
main kitchen had a volunteer lounge where all the folks who kept the Coop
running could go and chill out. Eat, read, watch some television. Byron and I
grabbed trays and plates and squeezed in between the servers on the main line
to grab some breakfast. I did not feel hungry—I had to hit the road, like
now
—but
the boy was walking wounded. I could see it in his eyes. If I ran off, he might
not be here when I got back. And I wanted him to be. I needed him to be safe,
almost as much as I needed to see Jack and Sarai.

No
good reason for it. Something in Byron just hit me the hard way. Or maybe that
was guilt. He had gotten hurt because of me. Badelt and his questions.

I
forced myself to eat, and halfway between the second and third bite, my stomach
started growling happily. Byron tucked in more food than I, but not by much.
Both our plates, piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon, hash browns
smothered in ketchup; toast, butter, jam. Another doughnut.

“I’m
gonna puke,” Byron said, toward the end of his plate. He stuffed another piece
of bread in his mouth.

“You
could eat like this every day,” I muttered, dialing the information services
number on my cell phone. I asked for the Sarai Soars Art Gallery, but according
to the man clicking away on the other end of the line, such a place did not
exist. Or if it did, was unlisted.

I
slammed the phone into my jacket pocket. Byron stared at me, a piece of bacon
hanging limply in his fingers. “Brian was married to a woman named Sarai.”

I
suddenly felt sorry I had made that call in front of him. “He talked to you
about her?”

“Said
she was beautiful.” Byron shrugged, and dropped the bacon back on his plate.
“Also said she was a pain in the ass, but that most women were.”

Sounded
like the man in the picture. “Was she the one who hired Badelt to come looking
for me?”

“Don’t
know.” Byron rubbed his hands on his jeans. “You’re not going to tell the
police I saw anything, are you?”

“No,”
I said firmly. “Far as they know, you don’t exist.”

He
nodded, jaw tight. Like maybe he really was feeling queasy. I pushed back my
chair. “Let me show you that room.”

The
private wing was on the second floor of the middle warehouse, between the
dining hall and the common rest areas. Grant had set it up in order to
accommodate those special cases he occasionally encountered—families or
individuals who were particularly close to getting back on their feet, but
needed that extra push—or even folks who were not remotely near success, but
who would benefit from the confidence of having their own place.

It
was a closely guarded secret. A tricky balance. Grant was good at it.

My
key chain was full. I let us into the wing, and we walked down a long corridor
that had been painted a pale sand color with white accents. Track lighting and
a simple tile floor lent an upscale quality that helped residents forget they
were living in a homeless shelter. I stopped halfway down in front of a white
door. Opened it and let Byron in.

It
was the same size and shape as a hotel room, with a bathroom directly to the
right of the door, and just beyond, a bed and dresser. A telephone sat on the
narrow nightstand, along with a pad of paper and a pen. One window faced
southeast. Sunlight trickled through the sheer curtain. The walls were white,
the furniture simple, in some cottage style.

Byron
stopped in the middle of the room, staring. His back was to me. I wanted to see
his face, but I was afraid to move. “It’s yours, kid. No rent, though most
people volunteer downstairs to make up the difference. And like I said before,
no drugs, no parties. We’ll nag you to get your GED.”

He
said nothing. I thought of Jack, the demon, and crept close, behind him.
“Byron. I need to go take care of something. Will you be all right if I leave
you here?”

He
nodded. I held out the door key, over his shoulder. “This lock is the same as
the main wing door. We’ll change it if you decide to stay.”

Byron
looked down at the key, then took it, almost gingerly. Raw tugged on my hand,
rearing up toward the boy. He wanted me to remove my glove. I ignored him. I
backed away from Byron, shoving my protesting hand into my jacket pocket.

As I
began to leave the room, the boy turned, just slightly. “Maxine.”

Maxine.
It felt strange hearing him say my name. He spoke so
softly I could hardly hear him. I still could not see his face.

His
hand hung down at his side, clenched around the key. “The man who killed Brian…
he was one of them. You know. Part of the group selling drugs and taking
girls.” Byron paused. “You asked yesterday. I never answered your question.”

“Thank
you,” I said heavily. “You just helped me.”

The
back of the boy’s head moved in a jerky nod. He looked very small and slender
inside his ratty clothes. I had the overwhelming urge to take him shopping,
which meant it was time to get out, fast. Holy crap. My mother had been right.
Stay in one place too long, and you just might lose your mind.

I
shut the door and left. All I had to deal with now was Grant.

I
found him at the chapel. He was playing his flute, perched on the edge of a
chair beside the pulpit, his cane leaning against his thigh. More than half the
seats in front of him were filled. Already deep into his morning inspirational,
something the regulars liked to call a “quirk of the man.”

It
was an informal thing. Grant might have left the priesthood, but the priest had
not left the man, and he liked saying a few words in the morning to anyone who
showed up to pray. Nothing sugary, or full of fire and brimstone. Just a gentle
sentiment or two, mostly about being optimistic, finding joy in life. Followed
by a bit of music. Always, music.

He
was performing “Danny Boy” this morning, pouring out its sweet mournful tones.
Power tickled over my skin. The man at work. Grant was the only other person I
had ever met who straddled the lines of the mundane and the supernatural. He
did it easily, with grace. Playing his music, masking it as brief
entertainment—right now, shifting the auras of the congregated in subtle, quiet
ways. Leaving folks with a lightness of the spirit, a sense of possibility,
hope. An easing of despair.

Grant,
able to create joy within anyone. Except me. The only person he could not
affect. Which was for the best. I had my own way of being happy—a reliance on
smaller moments. Flashes etched together in my memories like a quilt, or scenes
from a movie—a Western, some lone gun-fighter standing against an entire army.
Bad attitude, terrible odds. Hard to kill.

I saw
some zombies in the audience, rapt.

You
are playing with fire,
I thought at
Grant, unable to shake the old uneasiness, my fear for him—that he could change
souls and demons with nothing but a song.

I was
afraid one day he would change himself.

I
heard feet pounding down the hall, and stepped outside in time to see Mary
racing helter-skelter toward the chapel. She had giant sunflowers on her dress,
and cats the size of soccer balls adorning a giant shapeless sweater that came
down to her knees. A streak of red lipstick had been applied haphazardly across
her withered mouth. She almost ran past me into the chapel, then stopped,
fixing me with a fierce look. “Someone is committing sin.”

“Sin,”
I said.

“Sin,”
Mary hissed impatiently, and pointed behind her. “Murder.”

I
blinked once, brain on the fritz. Then ran.

I had
no idea where to go, but I strained to hear, and caught a shout somewhere in
front of me, at the end of the winding halls. Glass shattered, floating on
startled gasps. Sounded like it was coming from the lobby. I raced around a
corner in the hall, brushing past ragged women who looked over their shoulders,
dragging children.

At the
end of the corridor, by the front volunteer desk, I saw a big man dressed in
loose gray pants, his body dwarfed by an immense brown coat that made him look
like a bear. His beard was dirty, tangled and damp, his hairy hands shaped like
baseball mitts.

He
was also a zombie. One of the regulars, a convert to Grant.

Byron
was on the ground in front of him.

My
focus narrowed to a knifepoint. Painful. The boy was conscious, but badly hurt.
Unable to stand. I watched in horror as the man slammed a heavy boot into his
back. I was too far away to stop it.

Others
tried to intervene, but the zombie was too big, crazed. Rex was in the middle,
grappling to get between him and the boy. His leg was torn, bleeding. Glass all
over the floor. Anger in his eyes. Anger and hunger. Feeding, soaking in pain
and fear—slips of raw energy. I could almost see the straw.

He
saw me coming, and his expression shifted. He shouted again at the other
zombie, but this time it was a warning.

Too
late. Rex threw himself to the side as I barreled into the zombie. I hit him so
hard he flew off his feet, slamming into the wall. I heard a crack, a rumble,
felt plaster rain down on my head—but the zombie kept fighting, his eyes
bulging, crazed. I had never seen one of them so blind with rage.

He
stood, and I followed, gritting my teeth as he grabbed my arm, shaking me hard.
He did not stop. He started screaming, and the boys stirred, restless, dreaming
violence. Dreaming the zombie’s scent.

I
grabbed his crotch and twisted with all my strength. Demonic parasites felt
pain while inhabiting their human hosts, and the man beneath me screamed. I
squeezed harder. His loose pants made it easy. He let go of my arm and tried to
hit me, but I sidestepped, still pulling, and that only hurt him more.

He
dropped. I yanked so hard he fell backward, like a tank. The floor shook. I
stepped on his neck before he could curl up on himself, and when he did not
look at me, I slapped his cheek and grabbed his beard. He trembled, red-faced,
breath rattling.

Sober
now, cut sharp as a nun. Staring at me as though he realized he was about to
die.