Badelt’s office was on the second floor of the narrow brick strip. Front door locked. I saw postal boxes through the glass pane and glanced down at Aaz. He flashed me a grin and faded into the shadows. A moment later, the front door opened from the inside. I walked in, Dek and Mal still humming “Is This Love” in my ears.
I did not encounter anyone on the stairs, and except for the sounds of the restaurant next door, heard faintly through the walls, the building seemed quiet, empty. I passed a small law office on the first floor, and on the second found two doors advertising a MR. CHEN, ACCOUNTANT and a MABEL LEE, HERBAL MEDICINE. At the end of the hall, farthest from the stairs, was a battered wooden door and a placard that read, BRIAN BADELT, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.
I hesitated, still listening, and checked the corners of the dimly lit hall and ceiling for cameras. Seemed safe enough. The largest shadow was the one my own body cast, and the boys used it as a conduit to pour free into the hall, gathering around me like wolves. Only Aaz was missing—until Badelt’s door opened, and Aaz peered out with a sharp grin.
The office was small. One room, one window. No space for a secretary. The air smelled like cigarettes. No plants, no pictures on the walls. Just one filing cabinet, a desk, three chairs—two in front of the desk, one behind—and a phone and fax machine. Simple. Man of action, not frivolity. Maybe no money for frills, though I remembered his picture—thought hard-ass—and decided this was just his personality.
“Coppers been here,” Zee said, sniffing the floor. “Been all over.”
I figured as much. Man dies from gunshot wounds, you check his work and home. That, and Badelt’s desk looked messy, paperwork scattered. He seemed like the neat type, too fussy to tolerate disorder. I walked around the desk and sat in his chair, listening to the boys prowl. Tried to imagine myself as Badelt, sitting here, gazing over my domain. Looking at my name.
“Zee,” I said. “Check out the filing cabinet.”
He snapped his claws at Raw, and the two of them started pulling drawers. I slid on my gloves, leaned forward, and checked the desk. In the first drawer, I found an unlocked metal box. I opened it and looked down at a box of bullets. No gun.
The drawer beneath held a framed picture of Badelt. He stood beside a small middle-aged Chinese woman who had her arm draped around his waist and a smile on her face that was so big and happy it could have melted stone. She was strikingly beautiful, unusually so. Most women who looked like her lived only in the movies, or on magazine pages. Badelt seemed just as happy. No big smile, but his eyes were crinkled with warmth. A good look on him. Better than death, that was for sure. I wondered if the woman had been his wife, but if she was, his keeping their picture in the drawer of his desk was probably not a good sign.
I heard the boys muttering at each other from the filing cabinet, and placed the couple’s picture back in the drawer. Nothing else was in there. I started pushing papers around the top of his desk. Toward the bottom, something caught my eye. A newspaper, date from yesterday. I hesitated, then unfolded the paper, scanning the pages. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling against the window at my back. Dek and Mal stopped singing.
I turned, looked out, but saw nothing unordinary. Zee and the others were still messing with the filing cabinet. I focused on the newspaper.
It was, as Suwanai had said, a local Chinatown rag. I saw them all the time, especially when Grant and I came to the area for lunch or dinner. There was an edition published exclusively in Chinese, but this was the English version, a slim paper that dealt with local news, politics, and announcements, most of it related to the Asian community.
Made sense that Badelt would have found it an interesting read. His office was in Chinatown. Stood to reason most of his work might be community-based, as well.
I almost missed it. I was flipping fast, a sense of wasted time creeping up on me, and my eyes skimmed over a photograph at the bottom of page four. I started to turn past, then froze.
The photograph was old, but clear. Based on the caption, it had been taken in 1957. Front and center stood a young white man who looked big and strong, ruggedly attractive, with a sunny, healthy virility not often seen in the modern male species. He was dressed in simple clothes, and looked cheerfully dirty. Behind his right shoulder I saw a giant stone Buddha set in a craggy hill, and at its base, white tents. His hip leaned against a table set amongst rocks and sand, its surface covered in small artifacts: pottery shards, small pieces of metal.
JACK MEDDLE, read the caption. ARCHAEOLOGIST.
But it was the woman on his left I could not stop staring at. She was slender, dressed in a simple blouse, long pants, and tall boots. She wore gloves, and a kerchief knotted loosely around her neck. Fine, delicate features, high cheekbones, full mouth, flawless skin. Hair pulled back. She had striking eyes, filled with a defiant raw strength that seemed to reach out of the photograph—daring, haunting. The eyes of a fighter. A Hunter.
My grandmother.
My lungs ached. I forced myself to breathe. Felt little bodies crowding close and leaned back as Zee and the others took a look.
“Oh,” Zee said, very quietly.
Took me a moment to speak. “What is this?”
“Silk Road,” he said, as the others all shared a long look. “After the big boom.”
Big boom. The bomb. My grandmother had been in Hiroshima during World War II. Never learned why, only that she was lucky: The bomb fell at 9:15 in the morning. Sun in the sky. Tattoos secure. The boys kept her alive. Covered her face and breathed for her until she could travel to safety. Anything, everything, to survive.
I looked at the caption again. Her name was listed only as Miss Chambers, an alias I was unfamiliar with. Miss Chambers. Adventurer. That was her title. Appropriate, I supposed.
I scanned the article, which discussed how Dr. Jack Meddle had, while on a Silk Road expedition, stumbled upon an ancient temple buried in the sands almost one hundred miles north of Xi’an. A place of diverse worship, for Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists.
Now some of the artifacts unearthed from that temple were being displayed at the Seattle Art Museum, as part of a traveling exhibition of ancient Asian antiquities. The grand opening, according to the newspaper, was tonight. Part of a gala celebration timed to coincide with the Chinese New Year, fast approaching.
Jack Meddle was going to be there.
I sat back in Badelt’s chair and closed my eyes. I did not believe in coincidence. Meddle had known my grandmother, and here I was, looking at a photo of them together, found in the office of a private investigator who had written down my real name.
I looked at my grandmother. Studied her gaze, so much like my own, and felt, too, that I was staring at my mother. An eerie sensation.
I also saw something else that was curious.
My grandmother was standing very close to Meddle. So close, in fact, she might have been holding his hand. Or his waist. Maybe his ass. Hard to say. I could not see their hands, which were hidden behind their backs. Shoulders pressed together like glue, bodies turned in, just slightly. The two of them looked comfortable, like they were used to being close. Working together.
I checked the date again—1957. No specific month.
A chill swept through me. My mother had been born in 1958.
“No,” I said out loud, and looked at the boys, who stared back like choirboys: far too innocent, little devils. Zee shuffled his feet. Dek and Mal lay curled, very still, on my shoulders.
No. It was impossible.
But it also made sense. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. The women in my family never talked about fathers. Or grandfathers. No record of them in the journals. One would imagine storks got involved for all my mother had ever spoken about sex and men and babies. It was a sore subject.
I checked my watch. A little after eight, and the gala ended at eleven. I still had time. I took another long look at the photo, then carefully folded the newspaper and stuck it into the back of my jeans. Helped the boy
s return the files. They were quiet, subdued. So was I.
I knew my grandmother only through photographs and her journal: just one, her writing and language spare, to the point. I thought of all the other women who had come before, countless women who had fought the demons, a chain unbroken from mother to daughter for more millennia than I cared to contemplate. I knew even less about them.
I wondered if Zee and the others would miss me when I was gone.
When Badelt’s office was back in order, I looked at the boys, reached up to pat Dek and Mal, and said, “Is that man in the picture my grandfather?”
Zee said nothing. Raw and Aaz stared at the floor, little claws digging into the wood, spikes flat against their scaled skin. No way to tell if that was a yes or a no, but it was obviously another subject not meant for discussion. Too many of those tonight.
I gave them a hard look. Walked to the door. Opened it.
And found a demon waiting on the other side.
CHAPTER 5
EXPECT the unexpected, my mother once said. Because the unexpected most certainly will be expecting you.
The demon was taller than the doorframe, so tall my neck hurt to look at him. He was wrapped in a cloak that billowed and heaved in the still air of the hall, the cloth—if it was cloth—whipping about his body with such violence he could have been standing in a hurricane. I saw shadows in the winks of those folds, bottomless, endless—like oubliettes for souls.
Little of the demon’s face was visible; a wide-brimmed black hat swept low over his eyes, revealing only white flesh, a pointed chin, the long masculine line of a hard mouth. Black hair curled past his jaw, the very tips twining and writhing like snakes.
I saw no hands. And though his eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat, I felt him looking at me. His stare, like a brand upon my face, the heat of his gaze pushing through me with unfathomable strength.
I lost my mind. It had been a long time. Most demons I encountered tended to be of the spirit variety, wearing human bodies. Substantial as a breath of bad air. The ones made of flesh and bone were rare. Harder for them to pass through the veil. Took an opening. But more than that, it required another level of escape, through the rings, the ascending prison dimensions. Power was needed to achieve freedom. Determination. Which meant the ones who did break free, as my mother would say, were bad motherfuckers.
The boys and I had fought our share. Some had been on earth for centuries, merely hiding until our paths crossed. I had no way of knowing just how many escapees there were. It was a big world. Only one Hunter.
I stepped back and slammed the door. As if that would save me. I stood, staring, expecting the demon to burst through. I also expected the boys to close ranks, but they watched the door, as well. Unmoving. Eyes huge.
“Zee,” I hissed.
“Maxine,” he said, expression inscrutable, ears flattened against his bristled skull. Raw and Aaz dug their claws into the floor, the spikes in their spines fanning out with a clacking sound, violently trembling. Dek and Mal also quivered, their breath rattling hot in my ears.
None of them looked ready to fight. And that was wrong, had never happened. It could not. My blood was their blood. My death, the same as their suicide. The boys lived only because I did. It was supposed to be an incentive. Beyond friendship. Or loyalty.
“Zee,” I said again.
“Open the door,” he whispered.
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“Never, Maxine.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Never,” he snapped, and there was heat in his voice, anger. Not directed at me. I could feel that much. I could taste the truth. The boys had never steered me wrong.
My heart hammered. I opened the door.
The demon was gone.
I did not waste time. I ran down the hall and jumped the stairs, three at a time, feet pounding. The boys followed, loping through the shadows, disappearing entirely as I burst onto the sidewalk and skidded into a crowd just leaving the noodle restaurant. I ignored their yells. My skin prickled. My stomach hurt. Bile in my throat. Big fat target.
GoMaxineGoGoGo.
I ran, fled, tripped over my own feet racing down the street to the Jeep. I had a vague plan. Lead the demon away. Find some high ground. Isolated. Away from people. Hope like hell the boys helped.
Just before I reached the Jeep, Dek and Mal hissed in my ears. I faltered. Felt air move against my hair, and turned just in time to see a dark blur slam into the sidewalk behind me. Concrete cracked. Like a thousand spines breaking, and I looked down and saw feet shaped like knives; literally, blades; or claws that might have been blades, long and straight, shining quicksilver. The demon stood on those feet like a dancer, en pointe, and took a step. His toes clicked as they cut the sidewalk. His head remained bowed, cloak shimmering like dark water.
“Hunter,” whispered the demon. “Such a long time, Hunter.”
His voice was smooth and warm as some lava kiss, a slow bath in liquid fire. I could not look away from his small, perfect mouth, which barely moved as he spoke. Terrifying. Eerie. My heart pounded so hard I felt light-headed.
I staggered backward into the same crowd that had left the restaurant. Nothing happened. The men and women did not notice my presence. They scattered around my body. Gazes slid past my face. Still talking to each other, having a good time. They walked past the demon without batting an eye, parting on both sides of him like a river accommodating an island.
The demon’s mouth tilted into a sharp smile, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his black hat. Zee and the others poured from the shadows. Watching me, not the demon. Watching me closely. Like they expected me to do something. As though I needed no protection. I tried to summon them, but my voice caught. I choked on words.
And then, I just choked.
I was dense. Took me a moment to realize what was going on, and it felt like a lifetime, my skin hot, tears springing to my eyes. I tried to suck in air, but it met a wall in my lungs, and I could not breathe. I could not breathe.
“We are your breath,” whispered the demon, and I felt it. I felt his smile in my lungs. And still, the boys did not save me. They stared as though held on the end of some terrible tether, and I wanted to scream at them, but I could not make a sound, and the boys, Zee—my family—
“Do not fight,” whispered the demon. “Hunter.”
I fought. I fought hard, and felt a flutter behind my ribs, familiar and haunting. A cold sensation. Cold as snow. Cold as a backwoods bar on some Wisconsin country road. Cold as my mother’s knives. Darkness, stirring.
The demon smiled. “Yes. You remember.”
Zee barked a sharp word, and the demon inclined his head. I went down hard on my knees, stars pulsing in my eyes. I thought of my mother, the boys. Grant. Everything went dark.
Then it ended. Ten hours, ten seconds, no idea. I found myself on the ground, almost blind. Alive and breathing. Boys were on top of me, little traitors, Dek and Mal twined around my neck while Raw and Aaz clutched my hands, cushioning my skull. Zee licked my forehead, rough tongue rasping my skin. I wished he would catch the tears racing from my eyes. So many tears. I could not stop crying. There was something inside me. Something burning my heart. I was burning.
My head lolled. I saw the demon facing me. Eyes still hidden behind the brim of his hat, cloak and hair snarling through the shadows. I grabbed the back of Zee’s neck.
“Kill him,” I ordered breathlessly, daring him to defy me.
He did. He remained unmoving, and there was a story in his eyes, in all of them. I could not stand to see it. I could not. I pushed myself up, breathing hard, and faced the demon. That demon with his smile. My knees quavered, but I had my fists. I was breathing. That was something. Maybe.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
Zee grabbed my wrist. “No, Maxine.”
I resisted. He pulled hard, tugging me behind him, then barked an order. Raw and Aaz tore spikes from their spines, wielding them like
spears. I looked down the street and saw people coming, laughing and talking. No one seemed to see us.
“Oturu,” Zee snarled. “Enough.”
The demon tilted his head, just so, and his body twisted, flowing like the skim of a shark through water. He danced when he moved; on the city street, wrapped in shadows: a kiss on the eyes, a devil’s ballet, and only his feet moved, only his cloak had arms; and his hair, rising and flowing as though lost in a storm. I heard thunder, and when his toes sliced spirals in the concrete, I listened to the wind bury winter; and when I tasted his grace, his grace had no name; only, night became something else in his presence, as though darkness had a soul, here, swaying to heartbeats roaring.
I could not look away. The demon swayed to a stop before me, so close we could have touched. Zee, Raw, and Aaz gathered near, spikes clutched in their fists.
“Hunter,” he said. “We have missed your face.”
“I don’t know you,” I whispered, every instinct in my body singing and raw.
The demon’s smile grew a deeper edge. “Blood holds no dominion, Hunter. You know us well.”
I knew nothing. Less than nothing. I thought of my mother. She would have been kicking ass right now. She would have taken one look at this joker and ripped a new hole in his face. Whether Zee helped or not.
Tendrils of hair drifted near. Mal snapped, hissing. I reached into my own hair, and Dek curled around my wrist and fingers. The demon leaned close enough to kiss.
I slammed my fist into his face. My fist, wrapped tight in the body of another demon. I did not need brass knuckles. Dek left spikes in the demon’s jaw and took a chunk from his cheek, leaving a hole that gaped and smoked and burned. The demon danced from me, hissing, cloak billowing sharp.
“Stay away from me,” I snarled. The demon turned just enough to show his profile, and the nimble ends of his hair plucked Dek’s spikes from his face, dropping them one by one into his cloak, which absorbed the bone fragments like some ravenous abyss. His cheek began to knit closed. Raw trembled against my leg, but I did not think it was with fear. His gaze, like Zee’s and Aaz’s, was hard and cold and hungry.
The Iron Hunt Page 6
