Hunt: An Urban Faery Tale (The Faery Chronicles Book 1)

by Leslie Claire Walker

  “Wasn’t that kind of thing. No fists or knives or guns,” Rude said. “More like soul-sucking.”

  Even thinking about that was like the scree of fingernails on a chalkboard. Kevin cringed. “They can do that?”

  Rude nodded. “Some of them.”

  That was so beyond his ability to compute. “And you took this one down.”

  “Nope. I got him to run away.”

  “Will he come back?” Kevin asked.

  “Oscar will know.”

  Oscar. “Was this the price he wanted you to pay? Risking getting your soul sucked out?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rude said. “Usually we’re talking about helping him reinforce magical protections or some other kind of scut work. Not glamorous. Kinda scary sometimes. But not like this.”

  Kevin didn’t like the direction this was headed. “Why didn’t he warn you?”

  “You mean, do I think he’s cut and bleeding all over the place—or worse?” Rude asked. “Yeah, I do. The blood was his. There wasn’t a lot of it, but that doesn’t mean much. Like I said, soul-sucking: the weapon of choice.”

  What would’ve happened if Rude had lost a fight like that? “This another life-and-death thing?”

  “Like everything else lately,” Rude said. He tried on a grin. “I’m about over it.”

  Kevin didn’t want to think about losing his friend. Or his father. Or his life. It was too much. “So what about Oscar?”

  “I’ve tried getting a hold of him nearly every way I know how, no joy. I had to quit. Oscar said that if anything happened to him, I should find you ASAP.”

  That didn’t seem right. Seemed like Oscar would want someone to help him first. “Why, Rude?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Kev.”

  Kevin shrugged. He didn’t have it left in him to get his back up.

  “You’re too new. You don’t know what you’re doing yet,” Rude said.

  Yet seemed to imply he’d know eventually. He hated to break the news, but he didn’t think he’d ever get his feet under him. “You’re right. I’m so on overload, man.”

  “Something happened,” Rude said.

  “Make that some things, plural. It was out of hand.”

  “What else is new?” Rude put the car in drive. Slowly.

  Kevin let go of the wheel. “I got the information from our girl on the bus, the answer we were looking for. You’re not gonna like it.”

  He started at the beginning, with their girl away from home and heavily edited how he found her at the club, leaving out the way she sang and the overwhelming and embarrassing detail of how he responded. He told Rude about the bike accident and the potion. What Simone said about his mom and dad. About the Faery King’s tears.

  Kevin was right—Rude didn’t like it. But he didn’t have a cow about it, either.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Rude said. “It’s a big break, that information. Even if it’s impossible, at least we know which direction to go.”

  Sunny optimism in the face of the dire. Not what Kevin expected. “How?”

  “Not how,” Rude said. “When. As in, after we get some sleep.”

  Kevin laughed. “What is this mysterious thing called sleep?”

  “That thing you’ll get if your dad isn’t sitting up in the kitchen over a hot toddy waiting to bust your ass.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “We won’t know ‘til we get there.” Rude mulled that for a minute. “How about I come in with you, in case there’s an issue with your father—in case I can smooth it out?”

  Kevin could go for smooth. He needed a break. “Your famous luck, right?”

  “Don’t leave home without it.”

  They parked a few houses down so as not to tip off Kevin’s dad that they’d arrived. And they went in the same way Kevin had gone out, through the window. Big as he was, Rude fit through the opening. A minor miracle, that. Plus, no barking from Doberman Butch.

  Nothing had been disturbed since he’d left.

  The sheets lay in the exact same crumpled mess as this morning. Dirty laundry spilled over the basket by the closet, yesterday’s reeking clothes trailing along the floor. His Chemistry book and notebook, still open to the page where he’d felt frustrated enough to give up. No way to tell whether the lamp had turned off its timer or if someone else had done the deed.

  “What do you think?” Rude whispered.

  “It seems okay. Can’t be sure.”

  “Then we have to check the rest of the house.”

  Right. Because they couldn’t assume his dad was asleep. He might be out there waiting for Kevin to waltz into the kitchen for a snack in his street clothes.

  “I’ll go first,” Rude said.

  That made Kevin nervous—more than he wanted to admit. In the clear light of day, he could talk a good game about not wanting to leave his father alone, and that emotion outweighed the terror that bowled him over when he saw his dad staking out Oscar’s place, gun on the seat beside him. But in the middle of the night with the whole world asleep and him having deliberately disobeyed the man, the terror seemed a lot bigger.

  He tried to swallow it, but choked on it instead. “After everything you said about him this afternoon, do you think that’s smart?”

  Rude winked. “I’m the lucky one, remember?”

  Kevin remembered. He hoped luck would be enough. “Shoes.”

  Rude looked down at his cross-trainers. “Sneakers squeak on hardwood.” Which covered all the floors in the house, save the rugs in the living room and Franklin Landon’s office.

  They stripped down to their stocking feet. Kevin felt like a doofus doing that—even acknowledging the need for it—but better safe than stupid.

  “Watch out for creaky boards, Rude.”

  “I know.”

  “Then walk on, fearless leader.”

  “You’re such a dork,” Rude said.

  Kevin bit back his reply, because Rude opened the door to the hall, into pitch black and near silence. A steady stream of soft sound bled from under his father’s door at the other end of the corridor. It took them a second to recognize what they heard, both of them at the same time.

  Jimmy Buffett, Rude mouthed.

  Of course. Who else?

  They made a circuit of the house, including the garage and the giant walk-in closet in the den. It hardly qualified as a room, but then again you could store the Titanic in there. Finally, only Franklin Landon’s room remained.

  The last, high notes of The Star Spangled Banner had long since faded. Now they were in infomercial territory. Psychic friends and all that. Once upon a time, he figured psychic anything for bullshit. Who knew?

  Kevin thought about the gun again and insisted on going in first. If his dad shot an intruder, he didn’t want it to be Rude.

  But his father lay in bed on his side, curled into the fetal position with the white comforter pulled tight around him, a tuft of his dark hair sticking up from his cowlick. He breathed steady and deep.

  The glow of the TV and the changing pictures depicting the benefits of using the right shampoo turned the foot of the bed into a kaleidoscope of color. On the nightstand, a bedtime glass of water, half-full. Also, his dad’s wallet, a handful of folded debit card receipts, and pocket change.

  Behind all that, the white plastic blinds had been pulled down but not closed, rendering everything they did visible to anyone standing in the back yard. Not that anyone would be there, watching. Kevin shuddered and pushed the thought away.

  They’d found everything in its place, in a way that made sense. They could go now. Rude could head home. In a couple of hours, the sun would rise and pretty soon the first bell would ring at school.

  Kevin signaled Rude: Okay to jam.

  But Rude crept toward the bed and knelt on the side Franklin Landon lay nearest to.

  No amount of waving caught Rude’s attention. Kevin couldn’t say a word. He had no choice but to go where Rude had. He close
d in—and nearly pissed himself when his shadow interfered with the television’s glow and his father stirred.

  He froze. Didn’t dare even back up for fear another change in the light would be all it took to make his dad bolt upright.

  Rude didn’t go still. He reached out and pressed his palm to Franklin Landon’s forehead. His lips moved. Kevin couldn’t make out the words. But he saw something pass between them—a flash of light so quick that if he’d blinked, he’d have missed it.

  Rude drew his hand away and stood up. He spoke softly, but out loud. “It’ll be all right.”

  Kevin stared at Rude. At his father.

  “Time to go, Kev.”

  Back to his room to gather Rude’s shoes and send him on his way. Kevin closed the door behind them, even though Rude said he didn’t need to. He felt safer that way.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “Futzed with his memory a little—just enough so he thinks he had a nice meal and the best beer ever, watched the game, and went to sleep. Somewhere in there, he checked on you once and found you asleep in your bed, just like you promised. He felt good about that.”

  Stellar job. But he wondered one thing. “Did it do anything bad to him, what you did?”

  “It’s harmless unless you overuse it,” Rude said. “And he should sleep pretty soundly from here on out, but don’t push it. Don’t make a lot of noise.”

  Kevin sighed his relief. He could handle that.

  “Think you can catch some Zs now?” Rude asked. “There’s not much time, but a couple of hours is better than no hours.”

  Kevin really agreed. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Rude started out the window.

  “You’re not going home, are you?” Kevin asked.

  Rude shook his head. “I need to keep looking for him.”

  “You shouldn’t go by yourself.”

  “You can’t come with me, Kevin. Not tonight, any rate. You need to be here when your dad wakes up, no joke.”

  Rude was right. That didn’t make it okay. “What if you run into that soul-sucking thing again?”

  “I’ll make like Monty Python and run away.”

  Kevin wanted to believe that. Rude looked like he felt—running on fumes. “Promise me that if you get jammed up you’ll call.”

  “Sure,” Rude said. He seemed like he even half-meant it.

  Kevin didn’t want to let him go, but short of physically taking Rude down he couldn’t keep the guy here. So he locked the window after Rude went through, and listened for the sound of the Explorer’s door, the engine turning over, the telltale fade-out as Rude turned off his street.

  After that, the whir of the reversed ceiling fan motor was the only sound. Bringing down the heat, oh yeah.

  He dug in his closet for his old Louisville Slugger, the one his father ordered engraved for him in his Little League days. His name, burned in script, above the logo. His best weapon. He stood it up between his bed and the wall. And he lay down on the bed in his clothes with the light on, with the phone on vibrate two inches from his pillow. Just in case.

  He tried hard not to think about what might happen to Rude. Or to wonder where Oscar was. He couldn’t help it, though. He missed his mom worse than he ever had in all the time since she’d been gone.

  He fell asleep like that, his heart hurting. And dreamed about Simone and what she’d said. He dreamed Amy was on the bus with them, and that she had some choice things to say to Simone.

  He woke with a start to see a familiar shadow in his doorway.

  Adrenaline shot through him. He froze where he lay. Hardly dared to breathe.

  The shadow dissolved as if it had never been. There was no one there. No strange sounds—no footfalls in the hall, no danger-revealing thoughts that didn’t belong to him.

  It took forever for his heart and his breathing to steady. He didn’t think he’d sleep again, but exhaustion won out. This time, he dozed as peacefully as his on-edge nerves would allow. For the first time in days, nothing dogged him. Not even his dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN THE MORNING (which came way too soon) Kevin checked for texts from Rude (not a single one) and padded barefoot into the kitchen to find his father finishing up his tea. His fourth or fifth cup, from the number of bags in the sink. Kevin tried to be inconspicuous about giving him the once-over.

  Hands? Steady. Eyes? A little less wild around the edges. And he already had on his work clothes.

  “How’d your Chemistry problems go?” his dad asked.

  Not that he’d said one word about it yesterday. His father had no way to know what he’d had for homework. Kevin would have sworn his dad had snooped while he’d been gone, except according to Rude he should only recall what the charm planted in his memory.

  Kevin was grateful. And kind of creeped out. Also, he suddenly hoped he wasn’t expected to supply particular answers, because he had no idea what they should be.

  “Dismal,” he said.

  “You know, I stunk at Chemistry when I was your age.”

  “I didn’t.” Weird for dad to volunteer that kind of information. In fact, he’d never talked about his time in school. “Think it’s hereditary?”

  “Maybe so, Kev. Maybe so.” Franklin folded his newspaper crisp and neat. “Funny thing in the news this morning. This place I used to eat at, it went up in flames overnight.”

  Kevin laid a hand on the counter and prayed his dad wouldn’t notice he was using it for support. “Which place?”

  “Mexican restaurant out west. Damned shame. They had the best enchiladas.”

  Kevin had only had the one, with Rude and Oscar. He couldn’t remember right now how it tasted. “Did the paper say if anybody got hurt?”

  “Lucky there,” his dad said. “It was closed. Everyone had already gone home for the night.”

  Kevin hoped to God that was true. Because if Rude had gone back there—

  “Oh, well. The article’s here if you want to read it,” his dad said. “You know what I said yesterday about picking you up from school all week?”

  Kevin forced himself to follow his father’s train of conversation. He had to run to catch up. “How could I forget?”

  “You were responsible yesterday. Right where you were supposed to be, right on time. You think you could do that on your own today? Can I trust you to do that?”

  Kevin could hardly believe his ears. “Sure.”

  “I expect you to be here when I get home from work. I expect dinner on the table and your homework at least on the way to done, like usual,” his dad said. “You don’t let me down me, I won’t let you down. Deal?”

  “Yeah. Deal.”

  His father stuck out his hand for Kevin to shake. He gripped hard enough to rub Kevin’s knuckles together painfully, but without hostility in his eyes. Kevin studied his face. No, his dad had no sadistic intent. He was just continuing to crack up.

  What Rude did last night had either retarded the crazy or disguised it. Either way, it felt like slapping a Band-Aid over a leak in a dam.

  “You going to eat breakfast?” his father asked.

  “I hadn’t thought much about it.” Exhaustion didn’t leave much room for hunger—and worry on top of that? Not so much. On the other hand, if he ate something now it might keep him awake in class. It might make him less worthless, in case it turned out he could help Rude or Oscar.

  “A bowl of cereal,” his dad said. “And some OJ. Start the day off right.”

  Not what he had in mind, but Kevin didn’t want to argue, not on a point so small. He didn’t want to tip the balance in his dad’s unraveling mind. Best if things kept along like this until his dad headed off to work. And Franklin watched him eat every bite and drink every swallow before he left.

  As soon as Kevin heard the Suburban’s engine roar in the drive, he snatched the paper and read the article about Oscar’s restaurant. The report consisted of ten lines of text. No interview quotes. Just the facts, Jack
, which his dad had already told him. The photo that accompanied the article showed what remained of the place. It’d been gutted.

  That image stayed in Kevin’s mind as he packed up and walked out the door. He worried about Rude and Oscar. He worried about his dad, and himself.

  They had Simone’s lead, but still no hard information on how to help his father. And it was Wednesday already. Hump day. Used to be a day of rejoicing. The week, half over. The weekend, that much closer. He’d never wanted to keep Friday at bay before.

  The clouds that had been hanging around blew by on a dry north wind. The trees had dropped a load of leaves seemingly overnight, littering the yards and street with mounds of orange, yellow, and brown. With every other step his sneakers crushed them or kicked up flurries of color.

  Some of the neighbors had put out decorations, a couple of the porches dressed with freshly-carved jack-o’-lanterns and strings of lights that would glow orange after dark. Mr. Morrison, the widower who lived eight houses down, had hung white plastic ghosts and inflatable flying witches from the lowest branches of his live oak.

  He stopped cold at the corner where the block split and backpedaled into Morrison’s yard. Took cover among the ghosts and witches. He had to squint to see it, and maybe he wouldn’t have peeped it at all if he hadn’t looked at the south side of the street at that exact moment.

  There was an unmarked cop car parallel-parked with the student cars—the same one as he’d seen in his driveway the night of Rude’s party. Definitely occupied. By the Faery King’s agents.

  It was always possible they weren’t there for him. About the same odds as him being the Queen of Sheba or Queen Latifah.

  Funny, the only time he’d thought about cops since his mom died was in the middle of the night if he happened to be out and about, riding the shoe-leather express from some party, and got one of those someone-just-walked-over-his-grave chills. The jury would always be out even then. One, he hoped no cops came by because he was out too late and obviously wasted. Two, he hoped the cops came by because he felt unsafe.