HUNTER KISS

Marjorie M. Liu

One

My mother used to say that the tale of the world is drawn in blood,

blood in flesh, veins forking into destiny like the branches of the tree from which the apple hung and the serpent danced, trading whispers for the corruption of innocents. Good and evil, knowledge and choice. And there, at the root of history, the world tumbled down.

History is legend. Legend is blood. And I am totally fucked.

My mother was murdered on the day I turned twenty-one.

It was at night. She served me cake. When I blew out the candles, she died. Shotgun blast to the head, aimed right through the kitchen window. I walked away without a scratch. I suppose I killed her, just as much as the zombie who pulled the trigger did. I try not to think about it.

Since then, though, I've kept to the road. No home, no roots. Just me and the boys. I suppose they deserve some of the blame, too. All of it, really. But hating them is the same as hating myself, and my mother would not want that.

So, like I said, I try not to think about it.

It is a rainy evening in Seattle. Beyond the drizzle, sunset is com­ing. Best time of day, or the worst-depending on where I am. Right now, it is pretty bad. I know the sun is setting because my tattoos are ready to peel. Puts me in a bind because I've got no place to go and nowhere to hide. I am standing beneath the arcade on the crowded upper level of Pike Place Market, only a step away from the wet cob­blestones and idling traffic of First Street. There is an echo beneath my feet; the lower levels of the Market, sinking into the hill, resonat­ing with the footsteps of tourists and locals; voices chattering around the antique dealers, the comic book sellers, the head shops and farm­ers and crafts and kitsch. A combination meant to evoke nostalgia, perhaps. An emotion lost on me, at this particular moment.

I blame the zombies. I am surrounded by them. They are breath­ing down my neck. And they are not happy to see me.

The zombies are mixed plain as day within the tourist jungle, and they are as diverse as they are deceptive. I see an old woman, torso swallowed up in a loud embroidered jacket; men with beer bellies and fanny packs, a college-type with glasses sliding down her greasy nose. Others, ordinary and respectable-and some worse: a young boy, a skinny blond thing with a hollow gaze. He must be a terror. The circles under his mother's eyes seem to indicate as much. I hope she keeps all her sharp objects secured away.

In all, I count ten zombies. Could be more. Most of them study me sideways, quick glances beneath their eyelashes. A few have the balls to look me in the eyes. They do not hold my stare for long.

I call them zombies because I like the name, not because that is what they are. A game, from long ago, when my mother told me to name the myriad species of spirits and demons who invade this world from across the prison veil.

Name something, give it power. Name something, take it away.

Zombie rolls off the tongue. I was ten. It was Halloween. I had a book of scary stories and went down the list. And the zombies in front of me, as in the movies, are easy to see. Crowns of shadow pulse and flicker above their heads. Dark auras: the only way to tell if a human has been possessed. Zombies, after all, look normal. Reg­ular. Alive and human. No point to anything else. My zombies-no matter how much I love the art of George Romero-are not dead. They do not rise from graves, rotting and stinking and leaking guts. They do not groan and shamble, mindless as coma victims on remote control. Zombies hold jobs. They laugh, they cry. They look like the people you love. They are the people you love. That is why they are so dangerous. Zombies get under your skin, and you never know it. Not until they hurt you. Not until they kill you. Not until they use words to tear you apart, breaking you down, destroying your heart.

The dark spirits I call zombies are demons, parasites, and they are very patient. They lurk on the fringes of human minds, sniffing out who is weak and broken-choosing just the right fit, the perfect life and body-until finally, quietly, they steal inside to squeeze, slowly command, control, and seize. Altering, irrevocably, the per­sonality of the person who has been taken.

Possession never ends well. The demons who create zombies feed off strong emotions. Not flesh or brains-just heart. Anger is good. Pain is better. The pain and terror of others best of all.

I lean against a pillar in the arcade and watch the zombies. They watch me. I can feel the sun dipping low to the horizon. I need to run, fast, and hide. I do not move, though. I have never seen so many zombies gathered in one place. Not right, not right. Zombies do not cooperate. They do not swap tales of possession. They have terri­tory, and that is sacrosanct. Zombies do not poach pain.

And they do not show themselves to me. Not without running. Or fighting.

So, I have a problem. More than one if I am still here when the sun goes down. Bad luck. I did not come here looking for trouble.

All I wanted was an afternoon stroll in the rain, sipping Starbucks and window-shopping; a grim Pollyanna in cowboy boots, a little Miss Sunshine in jeans and old leather. Good times, minding my own business, playing the tourist game-taking in my last hour be­fore the boys wake up. We are leaving town tonight. I am all paid up at the Hyatt. My bags are in the car.

I should have stayed in my room. Clint Eastwood was on. I could have ordered steak.

I push off the pillar and wind through the crowd, taking the long way to the street. I force myself to go slow, memorizing faces, track­ing the zombies, as they do the same to me. A cool wet breeze from the street stirs my hair. I wish it could do more. My turtleneck and leather jacket feel too warm; sweat rolls down my back; my palms are sweaty beneath my black kid gloves.

The boys, after a moment, absorb the moisture. Little heartbeats skip a beat as they begin to wake. Early, even for them, but I blame the zombies. Zee and the others always know when wicked is near, even when asleep. Part of their natures: like calling to like. I do not want to think about what that makes me.

I bump hard into the mother of the young zombie boy, steadying her with an apology. I meet the gaze of the grim pale child at her side. I can­not imagine how-or why-he convinced his mother to bring him here, but he has a demon inside him now, and they are master manipulators.

The zombie child looks at me with death in his eyes, and I give him a smile. Compliment his mother on having a good boy. A good boy with an aura so dark I want to pin him down and crawl a spell inside his head.

Maybe later. I walk away. With his mother's wallet in my pocket.

I make it to the street. I have, if I am lucky, five minutes before the sun dips below the horizon. Not enough time to reach the hotel, even at a run, but this is the city-there must be a bathroom nearby. A parking garage. A hole in the ground or some slip of space behind a Dumpster. Someplace I can hide when the boys wake up.

The man across the street changes everything.

The only reason I notice him is because I turn to check one last time on the zombies and find them no longer watching me. All of them, even the child-who is being tugged away by his clueless mother-are staring at a point over my shoulder, their gazes so in­tense, so hungry, I take several steps into the road before turning my back to study the evening crowd behind me.

I see the man through the rain, which is coming down harder; the world dim, gray, full of shining headlights and slick concrete splashes of color dancing from clothes and nearby restaurant win­dows. The man is human. No dark aura.

But he stands out. I cannot explain how, just that looking at him feels like seeing a wolf in a pack of Chihuahuas. Wet brown hair tum­bles past the collar of his navy windbreaker, hanging unzipped over a large flannel shirt and thermal. His jeans are old, his work boots older. His face is too angular to be called pretty, but he is tall and his body full of hard planes and lines. Youngish, in his thirties. He leans on a carved wooden cane, a backpack hanging loose over his shoulder.

Near him sits an old homeless man huddled on a flat sheet of cardboard, a blue plastic tarp spread over his grizzled silver head and bound belongings. His face is lost in shadow, but my eyes are sharp: I see a mouth, set in a grim line-a mouth that relaxes when the man with the cane crouches beside him. Lips move, heads bob, arms gesture at the worsening weather. Familiar, easy. Those two know each other's names.

The cane is set aside, and the man digs into his backpack. A bot­tle of water and a white box emerge, quickly passed over. The old homeless fellow tucks them both into his lap. Smiles.

The young man picks up his cane and stands, swaying slightly. He looks across the street, his gaze roving over the Market crowd walking dry beneath the golden-lit arcade behind me. His scrutiny seems to falter when he sees the zombies. But when he looks at me, he stops entirely.

He stares. He stares as though startled, as though he knows me, as though there is a line of history between us-a lifeline-and I can­not look away. I cannot blink. I am falling, falling, but the ground is firm beneath my feet and my knees are strong and I know it is all in my head-only there-but I cannot help myself, because all that matters are his eyes. His eyes are so warm.

It does not last. I sense movement, all around; the zombies stir­ring in the thinning crowd, gathering together. Dark auras, rubbing. The boys roll more urgently against my skin, peeling with the sun that is grazing the horizon beyond the clouds.

I have to go now. I have to run like hell.

The zombies are still staring at the man. The little boy is gone. An elderly woman teeters close. She is dressed in black silk, with a gaze like fingernails on a chalkboard and lips so red she looks as though she has been sucking blood from the sea on the other side of the prison veil. I wonder how much of the real woman is left, whether her mind, any part not subjugated by her possessor, is screaming.

She opens her purse and tilts it toward me. I see a gun inside. I am not impressed. I am inclined to take that gun and ram it down her wrinkled throat. Every zombie-every demon-knows how my mother died. It is the same way her mother died, and her mother be­fore that. The same way I will die, unless someone becomes creative. And I doubt that. Seriously.

"What do you want?" I ask the zombies, though I look only at the old woman. She, like the others, stare at me as though they can taste the future bullet marked for my brain. Not that anyone else notices. The tourist crowd, thinning as it is, flows around us. Some of the zom­bies receive odd looks, but that is all; not a single passerby seems to see beyond the surface, to question, to wonder if there is a problem.

But the gun that old woman finally hauls from her purse cer­tainly spins some heads. Her hand shakes. Violent tremors. I see some fear in her eyes, confusion. Fighting the compulsion, struggling against the demon inside her. Maybe. I like to give people credit.

"Hey," rasps the zombie. She has a low hard voice-a chain­smoker. "Hey, Hunter. Hunter Kiss. Bang, bang."

She points the weapon, but not at me. I spin and there-just be­hind, limping his way across the cobblestone street, is the man with the cane. He still stands out-a wolf among dogs-and is taller than I realized, even broader, stronger.

All it takes is two steps. I throw myself at the man, and somehow he is ready for me, arms coming up to hold me as I take him down, my hands cushioning the back of his skull.

The gun fires. I feel the bullet bounce off my body as we crash into the road. I hear a rough grunt beneath me, a harsh intake of breath-and then around us, screams, cars honking, the patter of rain against stone. I try to roll free, but the man is strong; he holds me so tight I cannot breathe.

And then he does let go, a shout gurgling up from his throat, and I feel something hard press against the back of my skull. Same gun, same old zombie. This time she does not shift her aim to the man. She pulls the trigger on me.

The world erupts. I stop breathing. I go deaf, blind-all I see for a moment is a sheet of shining light-and I cannot move. I cannot think. Not until I feel my body shift-the man, rolling-pressing on top of me, shouting, his hands cradling my head. His eyes are wild and dark, his body hot and long and hard. I take a breath, another after that-gasping-and I force myself to push against the man. This is not safe. He is not safe.

But oh-oh-that old zombie woman falls down beside us, gasp­ing and shrieking, writhing like a pale wrinkled eel. Blood pours from the side of her neck, blood that is nothing compared to the fountain gushing from the remains of her mangled hand. The gun is gone. Blown to shrapnel when the bullet backblasted into the barrel. So stupid. Stupid to shoot me. Stupid to place the gun so close against my body.

Bullets ricochet. Bullets boomerang. Bullets and other projectiles

do not like my tattoos. The boys are good bodyguards. The demon inside the old woman should have known that. I have a reputation.

Her blood soaks my coat, spatters my face. I can see the demon in her dying gaze, but loose now, distant. The creature is going to make a run for it. Find another host. Leave this old woman to die alone, wondering what she just did, her name blackened forever, destined to live on as an Evening News Special Report: Random vi­olence in America on the rise. The elderly, snapping.

And me-if I am caught here-I will be in that report, as well.

The man rolls off me, and I roll with him, grabbing his hand and pulling him with me as I force myself to stand. I smell like blood. I touch the back of my head, pushing through thick hair to find un­broken skin, hot to the touch. I remember my mother, and I want to vomit. My legs shake. The man reaches around me and places his big warm hand on the back of my neck. He stares into my eyes.

I have to look away. The zombies are gone, scattered, lost in the trampling mob of frightened people racing from the violence. I see faces behind windshields staring, gape-mouthed.

The man still touches me. "You okay?"

"Are you?" I sound as shaken as I feel. Shot in the head, shot in the head. I shrug off his hand, and he takes a step, following. His knee buckles. He brings up his cane in time, but I also grab his arm, tugging him close, holding him. His body feels hard, strong. He smells good, too. Like cinnamon and sunlight. Home scents, warm.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but I say nothing. I have no time, and I cannot leave him. I pull on his hand, but he pulls back, looking at the old woman-that zombie-dying on the ground.

"We have to go," I tell him. We. Not a word I have used in a long time. Not about anyone other than the boys.

"She's hurt," he says.

"She tried to kill you."

"Doesn't matter." He looks at me, and his face hardens. "Go on, then. Leave."

But I do not. I get in his face and grab his collar, pressing so close I can almost taste his lips. His face is wet with rain, the shadow of his jaw sharp and dark. I should leave. I should run and abandon him. I should dump this city and every other like it, give up the mystery of demons and zombies-prisons and veils and guns and murder-and go hide on a mountain at the top of the world. Hide and pretend that I was not born to kill.

"Please," I whisper.

His jaw tightens. His fingers skim my back, and then he reaches up and covers my hand with his own. I let go of his collar. He does not let go of me.

I pull him beneath the arcade. He limps, but I simply drag him with me-fast, without hesitation-and I do not look back. I leave the old woman to bleed out. I leave the demon free to find a new host. I hate that. My mother would hate that. In a perfect world I would do neither, nothing but the right thing. But this is not a perfect world. This is a prison, and the inmates do not even know it.

I have no time. I do not know where I am going, but I see stairs and take them. The man lets go of my hand, but I grab his sleeve. I cannot let him get away from me.

He says something-a protest, maybe-but I do not hear. Some­where above us the sun is clipping below the horizon, and I can count the seconds, feel them ticking in my heart as a burn flashes over my entire body, from scalp to fingertips to toes: a quicksilver fire, the ritual trial.

The boys wake up. All at once, with a shudder that is worse than the impact of the bullets. I see a sign for a restroom and dive inside, dragging the man after me. The place reeks of piss and mildew. The floor is covered in soiled black and white tile, and the doors on the stalls only come up to my waist. Inside one of them is a gray wiry fel­low all sinew and bone with a needle in his arm, shaking and moan­ing. He is the only other person in the bathroom. Nothing I can do

about him. No lock on the main door, either. I brace my shoulder against it and tear off my gloves.

The man with the cane makes a low guttural sound, but I do not look at him. All I see are my hands. Smoke writhes against my skin, pulsing with flickers of red lightning that only seconds ago were nothing more than the lines of an intricate tattoo.

The front of my sweater bulges. I yank it up. Silver smoke winds around my torso, peeling away from my ribs and back, stealing the dark mist covering my hands-and lower, the smoke that I know covers my thighs and legs and feet. Tattoos, dissolving into demon flesh, coalescing into three small dark bodies: Zee, Aaz, and Raw, all of whom slide down my legs to the floor. They peer into my eyes, long claws rattling. Beneath my hair, two more tiny demons wriggle free. Dek and Mal, slender black snakes with the heads of baby hye­nas. They curl around my neck, purring, whispering nonsense I do not understand and never will; only, that it is soothing, warm, famil­iar as a lullaby. I slump against the bathroom door, exhausted, heart thundering. I reach out and small hands touch my hands.

My boys. The only friends I have in this world.

Zee's angular face is the color of smeared soot. The spikes of his hair resemble thousands of tiny bobbing silver needles, while his spindly arms are edged in razor scales and claws bright and metallic. He opens his mouth, and his white teeth are jagged, tongue black and long.

"Maxine?" Zee rasps quietly, but the others tug on his sharp hair, and we all look across the bathroom at the man I brought here, the man I could not abandon. I left a zombie to die, but not him. Not him.

I stop breathing. The man stares, and the world contracts around me as I look into his eyes, his straight gaze. He does not look at the boys, but only me. Just me.

Zee and the others make a humming sound, like tiny chain saws revving their engines.

"Hot damn," whispers the little demon. "Trouble."

Two

Trouble. Yes. I am in a lot of it.

It takes me a long time to move. I do not want to. But the man draws in a sharp breath and leans so far upon his cane I am afraid he will fall. So I go to him. I take my own deep breath and cross the bathroom, stopping with some distance between us. I do not know if the man can handle standing close to me. I do not know if I can handle being close to him. If there have ever been witnesses to the daily ritual of the boys' awakening, I have run before being forced to deal with the terrified aftermath.

But all I do now is stand, unable to speak. His eyes are so keen. I feel as though he can see right through me, though his attention is momentarily drawn to Aaz, who sticks his face in a urinal to eat the cake. Farther down I hear a lapping sound from one of the stalls. Raw shambles out, wiping his mouth. The man's lips twitch.

"Maxine," Zee says again. He hops from foot to foot, pointing to the bathroom door. I hear loud footsteps and click my fingers. Aaz

and Raw dart across the tile floor and lean their heavy bodies against the old wood door, bracing themselves as someone pushes from the other side. The boys do not budge. They are heavy, dense, lean, and twisted, ribbed with muscles and sinew and sharp objects; gray and silver spikes run down their spines, organic metal that has no equal on this side of the prison veil. Perhaps no equal anywhere, though only the boys understand what they are. All I know for cer­tain is that they are as immortal as their host-born to be weapons, little deaths.

And I am their Mistress. I am their Huntress, and they are my Hounds. For now.

The door is pushed again, this time with more force. I hear a shout, followed by pounding fists. The commotion is short lived, but Aaz and Raw do not move from the door.

The man touches my arm. I jump. I did not hear him move. Dek and Mal rise up from their resting place on my shoulder, hissing; the narrow furred ruffs of their scaled necks tremble. The man flinches, but does not let go. I cannot imagine what his nerves are made of.

"What is this?" His eyes are brown, his brow strong, furrowed. I feel lightheaded. This is my worst nightmare. I glance away from him and catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror above the sinks. Snow White, my mother used to call me. White skin, red lips, hair as black as a raven's wing. My eyes are hollow, though. Tired. Face spattered with blood. No crystal coffins or kisses for me.

I shake the man's hand loose, keenly aware of the boys; Dek and Mal are still poised to strike. I reach up and stroke their backs, try­ing to calm them. The man watches me, and I watch back, taking his measure, finding no fear. No fear in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. Just his hand, still trembling. A bead of sweat on his brow, in the hollow of his throat. I see some blood on his cheek.

I walk backward to the sink and turn on the faucet. Rip off a pa­per towel and soak it. I hold it out to the man and point at the mir­

ror. He stares at it, then me, and then his reflection. I look, too. We are strangers, watching each other, and I cannot read his eyes.

"Someone tried to kill you," I tell him.

"Yes. You saved my life." He hesitates. "Two bullets. You should have died."

I try not to think about that bullet bouncing off my skull. I hate being shot in the head. For obvious reasons. Nor is there a good ex­planation for my survival, nothing that would make sense. All I can do is look at the man. I have never wanted anyone to be afraid of me-until now-and I cannot explain it except that this man's odd edgy calm, his rigid control, is not right. Not right at all.

His eyes narrow. "You're not human."

"Human enough." I push away thoughts of my mother. "Who are you? Your name."

"You first."

I hesitate. "Maxine. Maxine Kiss."

"Maxine," he says slowly. "My name is Grant. Grant Cooperon."

"Grant." I draw out his name, tasting it. "Grant, this must be very strange to you."

"Yes."

"Yes. So, if you need to ... to . 11

"Freak out?" he says, voice strained. "Run screaming? No. No, ma'am. I don't think that would be a good idea at all. But try not to look so disappointed."

"Disappointed," I mutter. "You're too calm."

"Calm." He spits out the word. "This is not calm.

"Fine." My cheeks are hot. I toss him the wet paper towel and then fix my own. I scrub my face in the mirror, washing away the old zombie woman's blood, watching his reflection as he stares at me and then Zee, who is prowling close to his feet, sniffing the air around his body. Grant stands very still, but except for one brief gri­mace, shows no fear.

"We have to leave," I tell him, drying my hands on my jeans. "It's not safe here."

"For you or me?" Grant's knuckles are white around the knobby head of his cane. "What is this? What is going on?"

I turn to go to him, but falter at the last moment and lean against the sink, studying his face, mustering all my strength to match his piercing stare. He does not look away. Neither do I.

"You tell me," I say quietly. "Why would someone want to kill you?"

"And why would someone like you save me?" Grant tilts his head. "Peculiar, isn't it?"

"Everything about this is strange." I push myself off the sink and take a step toward him. "No doubt stranger to you than it is to me."

"No doubt." He glances down at Zee and raises his eyebrow. "Hello."

"Boo," Zee replies, regarding him thoughtfully, sticking the tip of a silver claw into his mouth, sucking lightly. "You got odd eyes, hu-maan. Deep sea seeing eyes. Bet they taste good."

"Bet you'll never get a chance to try," Grant replies, surprising the hell out of me. He glances my way. "I think you might have a word or two to say about eyeball snatching."

"Depends," I tell him. "You don't know me."

He shrugs. "I take faith in small gestures. Like saving my life." "Even if that savior is me? Covered in demons?"

"Demons." He tastes the word, something hard and resolute set­

tling in his gaze. "Demons don't frighten me."

I have to catch my breath. "The old woman who tried to kill you was possessed by one. A creature controlling her actions. There were others, too. All of them there for you. Waiting."

I listen for his response-some kind of denial, fury. Anything. But all I receive is that same steady stare, so thoughtful I find myself wondering if I am not the one insane.

Something hard slams against the bathroom door. It has been

quiet for the past minute, but no longer. There are new voices now. I think of the zombies upstairs; there could be more of them outside this room, also with weapons. Nothing is safe.

"Hey!" yells a man. "This is security! Open the fuck up!"

Zee's nostrils flare. He cracks his knuckles. "Three, Maxine. Just three. All hu-maan."

"Wait," Grant says, but I take his arm and push him into the empty stall next to the heroin addict. The floor is slick, the toilet seat slimy. I almost gag on the smell as I crowd in with the man. Dek and Mal slither deeper into my hair.

Grant yanks his arm free. "Stop. I need answers."

"Why?" I shoot back. "You already seem to have a grasp on things."

"Don't confuse calm with comprehension."

"Why not?" I stare up into his face. He is big, all man. Breath­taking. "You aren't phased by this, are you? Not one bit."

"The bullet was a surprise," he says, eyes narrowing. "And you. Definitely you."

I push away from him, but there is nowhere left to go-and all I can think of are the odds. One man in a city of millions. One mar­ket, full of zombies-who never gather, never gang. And me, there, on the cusp of sunset. Of course. Just my luck.

I swallow hard. "You're not human either. Or if you are, you're not like any human I've ever met."

"Human enough." He steals my words, presenting a bitter smile. "Though having humanity and being human are two different things."

"And what are you?"

"A man of both, I hope." Grant sways close. "And you?"

"This is ridiculous," I mutter.

"No," he says. "Tell me. Please."

"I don't know," I whisper, anger stirring-at him, at myself for being so weak with words, so easily cornered when I have never been cornered before. "I don't know what I am. But right now I

don't give a damn. I want some answers, too. So you tell me, Mr. Cooperon ... how did you know? How did you know what those people were?"

Grant sways close. For a moment I forget he is a stranger, a mys­tery, because the regret and uncertainty in his dark gaze suddenly feels like a mirror, a hard reflection of my own emotions. I do not feel sorry for him.

"I see things," he tells me, with a deep breath that sounds like an anchor dropping into his chest. "Color. Or the lack of it. Up there, darkness. Darkness in most of that crowd. And then you." He leans even closer, his gaze flickering over my face, my mouth, until, soft, "You."

He says the word like it means something, like it means every­thing. It scares me. Everything about this is wrong.

"My presence was an accident," I tell him, barely able to drag my voice above a whisper. "But that darkness you saw ... that was a sign of possession. Demons, a certain kind of parasite. And they were there for you. They wanted you dead, no questions asked. I cannot understand why. No one draws that kind of attention, Mr. Cooperon. No one."

"Not even you?" Grant says gravely.

The bathroom door slams open. I hear three muffled screams, followed by silence and hard successive thumps. Grant and I tumble out of the stall. Two men in uniforms are sprawled face-first on the filthy floor, and a third, in street clothes, rests on his back. They are breathing. No dark auras, either, just as Zee promised. Aaz and Raw sniff their faces. Zee pokes a thick round belly with his sil­ver claw.

"Juicy," he says, sly. "Very juicy, Maxine."

"No," I warn him. "I'll get you dinner later."

"A better dinner," Grant says, surprising me again, "if that fel­low there tastes like he looks."

Zee grins, rubbing his little shards of hair. "Not picky, hu-maan. You want to give your finger for a pinch and a taste?"

"Give me yours, and we'll call it even," Grant replies, and this time he is rewarded by tiny chimes of laughter. He does not smile, but merely looks at me-challenging-as though daring me to say something.

All I can do is stare. Zee tugs on my sleeve, and I scoop him into my arms. He hugs me, pressing his sharp mouth to my ear.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs. "Like blood battle. We dream, and we remember as dream, but Aaz says something bad cut you down. A big bad zombie cutter."

I move away from Grant, toward the bathroom door. "Can you tell me what this is about?" Zee shakes his head. I breathe, "And the man?"

Again Zee says nothing, but the purr rumbling through his chest stops. I hold my breath. It would not be the first time I have mis­judged character, human or otherwise, though the boys are good au­thorities on trust, ready to pass verdict whether or not it is required. The last time I met a man the boys did not like, I had to pack a body part on ice for paramedics to find.

And now? They are laughing at jokes.

Grant, leaning on his cane, stoops to check the pulses of the un­conscious men. "Fierce. Care to explain the best way to stay off their bad sides?"

"Do not fuck with me." I give him a long hard look. "Do not fuck with anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"Fighting on the side of light, huh? Wonder Woman, be still my heart." Grant's smile is grim. "Of course, that doesn't explain how to stay off your bad side."

"That might be impossible for you."

"So harsh."

"Compared to demons wanting you dead?"

"That last bullet was for you." Grant's gaze flickers over the boys, all of whom watch him with red eyes, coiled bodies hunched light over their gray and silver haunches. "Care to explain that? Or how you survived?"

Aaz and Raw drag their claws over the tiles, hissing softly. Zee puffs out his little chest. "In your daylight, hu-maan, our skin is her skin. Cutters got no glory over us old boys. Cutters got nothing but pain."

" By cutter ... you mean demon?" Grant's jaw tightens. "And what are you, little man? Aren't you the same?"

"No," I cut in. "They are not the same. The boys are family, the only family I've got. I take care of them, and they take care of me. They protect me."

For now. The boys, after all, did not protect my mother on her last night. Or her mother. Or her mother before that, or any of the women in our line. Survival always wins out in the end. Always, for them.

Grant studies my face. This is the longest conversation I have had with anyone in almost five years. It is also, without a doubt, the worst mistake of my life.

He looks at the boys, his gaze lingering on their upturned faces. I try to see them as he must, but I have grown up with them, and there is nothing left about their bodies or personalities that can star­tle me.

"Are you ready?" I ask him, wanting to run, to scream. "Do you have some place I can take you?"

"Let's get out of here first," Grant says.

I reach for the door. He stops me. His hand is warm.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I don't know why you saved me, but thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," I tell him, just as softly. "You could still be dead by morning."

"Such an optimist."

"Yes," I reply, without humor. "I wouldn't still be standing here if I wasn't."

Behind us, the stall door rattles. The gray wiry fellow slouches out, a trail of blood running down his coarse arm. He glances at us and then takes in the men on the floor, the boys.

"Fuck me," he whispers, rubbing his eyes.

"Get out of here," Grant says to him. "Right after us, get out. You don't want to be here when someone finds those men."

The man nods. I hope he listens.

I crack open the door. Raw peers out and clicks his claws.

We leave fast.

Traveling with demons is not so difficult as one might think. It all

depends on the particular demons, but in my case the boys are ex­perts at shadow-jumping. Fortunately, the dim lighting of Pike Place Market's lower level offers many opportunities to use their skills.

Zee, Aaz, and Raw leap into the first dark spot they find-a dirty corner filled with the lazy remains of some janitor's work: soda cans, a syringe, candy wrappers. One minute here, and in the next, gone. Swallowed by shadows. Dek and Mal, hidden as they are in my hair, stay with me. They press against my skin with warm purrs, tangled and nesting like very small, very serpentine, cats.

Grant, leaning on his carved wooden cane, watches the boys dis­appear. "Interesting."

"You are a master of understatement," I tell him. "Unless your life is more strange than what you've already told me."

"Strange enough. Where did they go?"

"I'm not sure. They jump short distances, from one shadow to another. When we hit the street, as long as it's dark out, they'll be able to travel beside us without anyone seeing them."

"Interesting," he says again, and pins me with a brief heavy stare. "Still doesn't explain you."

"Not much does." I start climbing the stairs. Grant, after a mo­ment, follows. For a man with a limp, he moves surprisingly fast. He looks too strong to need a walking device, but the weakness in his right leg is no act. I point at the cane. "Accident?"

"No," Grant says. "Not in the slightest."

Before I can ask-before I can wonder at myself for wanting to ask-I hear the static of a walkie-talkie. We are still on the stairs, not quite at the upper Market level. The radio is tuned to a police fre­quency. I hear other voices, muted tones, very serious. Somewhere close, the wail of sirens.

Grant throws me a look. "I might be the victim here, but why is it I feel like a criminal?"

"A guilt complex is an ugly thing, Mr. Cooperon." "Call me Grant."

I ignore him. "It's your choice. If you want to go to the police and introduce yourself, go right ahead. Tell them you were there." "Really. Just like that."

"You're not my prisoner."

"No," he agrees slowly. "I don't quite know what we are."

I look away. "You should know that I don't usually do this." "Save lives? Kidnap men?"

"Hang around afterward."

"Ah." Grant studies me for a moment, then peers down at his hands, his feet. "So, cops. You talk about choice, but why do I get the feeling that introducing myself to those uniforms would be a bad idea?"

"The same reason Zee and the others knocked out those security guards. There's nothing they could pin on us, but it would eat time."

"And they would ask uncomfortable questions." I feel him finger my back, and jump as he makes contact with skin. I reach around. There is a sizeable hole in my jacket, right down to my spine.

"Your hair covers it," Grant says quietly. "But I knew where to look."

I swallow hard. "I still say you're handling this remarkably well."

"I'm too much a man for hysterics."

I shoot him a quick glance and catch the dry tilt of his mouth. It takes me so off-guard I almost smile-almost-and Grant's mouth curves a fraction more.

"Got you," he says softly.

"You got nothing." I search his face, trying hard not to be af­fected. Tables are turning, turning fast. I feel like prey when I look at this man. Wolf among dogs. And here I thought I was the Hunter.

"I don't know why you haven't tried to run yet," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I thought you wanted me here."

"You don't know what I want."

Grant's smile softens. "If I tried to get away from you, I think you would come after me. I'm no fish to be thrown back to the water. Not after all the trouble you've gone to in order to keep me safe."

No argument there. "I have questions about why you're a target. Unless, of course, you already know. You, who can see demons peel off a woman's body and somehow treat it as sane. You, who can see other kinds of demons when everyone else in this world doesn't have a clue."

"Sane is a relative term." Grant sways close. "As for the other, I suppose that could have something to do with why those things, whatever you say they are, want me dead. I've ... seen them before. The darkness."

"And you knew they were possessed?"

Grant hesitates. Before he can answer, Zee pokes his head from the shadows of an alcove above us-like a demonic otter cutting the surface of dark water-and tests the surface of the ceiling with the tip of his tongue. Hisses instantly, spitting out the taste. Specks of red saliva spatter my face. I wipe it off.

"Maxine," he rasps. "Hot spot. Whole place is burning. Fucking red hot."

"Damn," I mutter.

Grant frowns. "What does that mean?"

I study him, wondering how much I can say-wondering, too, if a have passed the point of no return, where hesitation is nothing more than stupid pride, keeping up with illusion. My secrets, the things l know, have always been mine and mine alone. At least since my mother died. Sharing that with someone else-a stranger, no less-feels wrong. Then again, wrong is suddenly becoming my new normal.

I glance up the stairs, but do not hear anyone coming toward us. I pull Grant to the side, next to the railing. "You already know a lit­tle, right? You've seen things. I don't want to know how much, not yet, but the bottom line is that there are demons in this world, and they are not supposed to be here. There's a barrier, a prison-several prisons-keeping them locked away, but sometimes they still man­age to get through. Push enough, and a crack will form. Push enough, and that crack will become a temporary door."

"A ... hot spot."

"Yes. Some locales make more than others. Cities are always bad. Too many humans, too much emotion, too juicy of a lure for all those dark spirits. Problem is, the numbers of hot spots are growing. The veil is getting weak."

"And if all those demons come through?"

I just look at him. "Humans do bad things all on their own, Mr. Cooperon. Some are worse than others. Some need help becoming monsters. There are more of those than you might think. Watch the news at night."

"I do watch," he says grimly. "And I see."

"Then you know what would happen, on a worldwide scale, if the barrier I told you about goes down. And those are just the demons who possess humans. There are others kinds, too, but they all feed off strong emotions. Anger, hate, fear."

And some that are worse than that, demons I cannot speak of. My mother's voice echoes inside my head, with her stories of the

outer ring beyond the prison veils. The First Ward, home of the worst, the most dangerous. World Reapers.

I chew the inside of my cheek, still studying him. "I want to know why those demons up there wanted you dead. It could be the fact that you can see them. But that doesn't seem like a threat worth risking their hosts over."

"If you say so." Grant rubs his forehead. "This is too much in­formation."

"Too much to believe?"

His hand stills. "No. Just ... more than I wanted to know. Though I wouldn't complain if you planned on being my bodyguard."

He manages to say it without sounding sleazy. A feat. And the only reason I do not steal his cane and push him down the stairs. I take a step up, listening to the crackle of radios. Zee has already dis­appeared. "Why were you coming here today?"

"I make flutes," he says.

"Flutes." I turn to stare at him.

"Wooden ones," he clarifies. "I don't sell them myself. There's a man who does it for me. I come down here to play on the weekends. I have a corner."

"Huh." I peer around the wall. Most of the arcade has been cleared of shoppers; at the very end, I see yellow tape, cops and news crews everywhere. None near us, though. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I've played the flute since I was young, but I learned to make them in Nepal. China, after that. The mountain people produce in­credible sounds."

"Really." I try to imagine leaving the continent, and get stuck on the mystery of setting suns and horizons. National Geographic and the Discovery channel are the closest I will ever come to exploration.

"Did you always want to do that? Travel? Be a ... flute maker?"

"No," Grant replies. "Before I did that, I was a priest."

Expectations are a liability at this point. I lean against the wall, staring. Grant smiles. "I don't fit the profile, huh?"

I take in his long lean lines, his damp hair, the angles of his face, and those dark warm eyes that carry the edge of something sharp. A big strong handsome man-a good man, the longer I look at him­but impossible to reconcile with the idea of contemplation and devo­tion to a higher power.

"No," I say weakly. "Why did you change?"

His smile turns brittle. "Complicated. I counsel now. Without the collar."

I do not say a word. My ears are ringing. Demons hunting a for­mer priest? A flute maker? A man who walks in the rain and feeds the homeless? It makes no sense. I slowly push out my breath and meet Grant's eyes. The edge has faded from his smile, though not the humor.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I scared you, didn't I?"

"No, not scared. You're just ... confusing."

"And you're not?" He shakes his head. "Never mind."

All is clear around us. Without thinking, I take his hand and pull him toward the street in front of us. When I try to let go, his fingers tighten-but only for a moment. One squeeze, as though to say, I am here. He lets go, but the sensation lingers.

It is still drizzling. We weave around the stopped traffic on First Street, headlights illuminating the light mist soothing the flushed skin of my face and throat. It feels so good. I want to just stand be­neath the rain and close my eyes-breathe slow and deep. I want to forget violence, mystery, responsibility. I am so tired.

"Maxine," Grant says quietly, and oh, it is strange hearing him say my name. Hearing it breathe off his tongue. I do not answer him, but instead curl deeper inside my jacket. I forgot to check if the old zombie woman's blood is visible on the black leather, but the street is dim, growing darker by the minute. I do not think anyone will notice.

I try to stay alert, but I trust the boys to keep an eye on things.

They are good at that. They have to be, to keep me safe at night when my body is vulnerable. Their sleep is my armor, their freedom my weakness. Day and night. It is a pattern my mother warned me about, but I never understood until I had to live it myself.

I glance at Grant and find him watching me. He sways close, and I do not move away. "I see the darkness, too," I tell him. "It's how I knew that old woman, and all the others around her, had been pos­sessed. But you say you see other things, too. Colors. Has it always been that way for you?"

"I suppose so. I've seen colors-auras-since I was young. At first it started with music. I would play the piano or flute, and each note would have a hue. There's a neurological condition that causes that. Synesthesia. Stimulation in one sense creates a response in another."

"Except yours goes a step further."

"My ability to see colors in people started later, but because of the other, I thought it was natural. Until I started talking about it. Then ... it caused problems." He shrugs. "Like I said, there was a darkness around that old woman. A lot of those people."

"You've seen it before."

"Like a crown of night," he says quietly. "A crown on the head of a creature who does not belong."

"No." I think of that old woman dying on the street. "They do not belong at all."

"Neither do you." His gaze travels over my face and shoulders. "No offense."

I could ask him what my aura looks like-he clearly expects me to-but I do not want to know. "And are you going to judge me, for­mer Father Cooperon? Are you going to judge me for my demons­or worse, for not belonging?"

"If not belonging was a sin, Maxine, we would all be in Hell."

"And what makes you think we aren't?" I remember my mother's stories, her tales of our beginnings, of the world, this sweet prison. "What makes you think that the very thing that makes us

human, that sets us apart, isn't what also makes us prey? What makes you think that we haven't already been judged?"

Grant stops walking, his eyes turning so grave I almost wonder if I have made a mistake, if I have found the one thing that will make him angry. He leans close, rain dripping off his lashes, glittering like diamonds in the headlights of passing cars. "If we have been judged, Maxine, then there is no hope. There is no hope of anything, regard­less of whether or not one believes in God or Heaven. And if we have been judged, then why, why, are we capable of change? Why are we capable of becoming more?"

"And if that capability is its own judgment?" I close the distance between us. "If that capability to hope and dream, to be tempted for good or bad, makes us so vulnerable that without protection we would be nothing more than victims? Hunted into self-destruction? That our weak natures are what imprison us? Demand, even, isola­tion from all kinds of creatures, and for nothing more than survival?"

Grant says nothing for a long time. He stares at me, but I do not think he sees my face; only something else: memory, dream. And then his gaze clears, and he looks at me-looks hard-and says, "And you, Maxine? You speak of yourself as human, but you can't be. Not entirely. Am I supposed to believe that your ability to hope and change is set apart from mine? Or that the demons you live with are any different? That any sentient creature, demonic or not, is in­capable of becoming something more than what it was born to be?"

I start walking again. "You're not bringing up any questions I haven't already asked myself."

"And?"

"And nothing." Which is a lie, but better than facing the alterna­tive. I glance sideways at Grant, watching him watch me. "You sure you don't want to tell me why you stopped being a priest? Seeing as how you're still so opinionated on matters of religion."

"I don't think we're discussing any religion approved of by the

Church," Grant says wryly, "and as for my history, maybe I'll tell you later. After you explain why there are demons living on your body."

"Or why I saved your life?"

"I choose to think it's because you're a good person."

"And if you're wrong?"

He smiles. "I have faith."

I bite back another laugh. A police cruiser appears at the crest of the hill, lights flashing, sirens off, and speeds down the street past us. An ambulance follows. I hope it is the second, and not the first to ar­rive on the scene. I do not want to think of that old woman lying in the road. A zombie, yes; but a human woman first. Bleeding to death, without anyone to help her. Help I could have given if I were willing to expose myself and the boys. Which I was not-until Grant. And that, I still cannot explain to myself.

"You think she died." Grant's voice is heavy. He looks back over his shoulder at the disappearing vehicle.

"I hope she didn't. She deserved better."

"Everyone does. You don't blame her for being possessed?"

I shoot him a dirty look. "Do I blame women who wear short skirts for being raped? Give me a break."

Grant shrugs. "You might be surprised at how unforgiving some people are. Stray just a hair from the path that has been declared, and pow. You deserve what you get."

"Let me guess. You strayed."

"I was told I strayed. There's a difference."

I sway close-an accident, I tell myself-and brush his elbow. "Still bitter?"

"Bitter is such an ugly word, Maxine."

"How about pissed off?"

"Better." He smiles. "But not anymore. I find this life to be less ... stifling. I enjoy my intellectual freedom."

"Is that all you enjoy?"

Grant laughs. "What's your life like?"

"Fine. Ordinary." The first two words out of my mouth, and they

are utterly ridiculous. I shrug, searching for something better, but in

the end, all I can say is, "I don't know. No one's ever asked me." "You're kidding." Grant shakes his head. "Wow." Wow, indeed. "Can we talk about something else?" "Do we have to?"

"Grant."

"My, I believe that's the first time you've used my name." I roll my eyes, and he adds, "I think I've got a right to be persistently nosy when it comes to you."

"You should be more worried about yourself."

"And you seem to have a lot of expectations about how people should react to things, Maxine." Grant stops walking and leans close. Heat radiates from his body. I try to imagine him in black, with the collar, and I cannot. Or rather, I can-but I do not think I should.

I expect him to keep pushing-again-but instead he surprises me by reaching out and gently pulling up the collar of my leather jacket. He brushes aside a strand of wet hair from my cheek, and the heat that trails from his fingers reaches down into my gut.

I am not used to being touched. I like it. Which is dangerous, stu­pid. Men are a death sentence for me. Literally. And I am too young to start that clock ticking on the Grim Reaper's time.

Grant clears his throat. "Without this sounding like a line, do you want to go back to my place?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You have a ride?"

His smile is slow, warm. "I am a humble man. My legs have al­ways sufficed."

I jingle my car keys inside my pocket, nestled against the stolen

wallet. "I've got wheels. If you don't mind making a pit stop first." Grant checks his watch. "I need to be home by ten." "Curfew?"

"Not for me," he says, and I have to ask. I have to.

"Children?" I say to him.

His mouth curves. "Now who's fishing?"

Heat spreads over my face. I spin on my heel and walk fast up the

hill. Grant catches up with me after a moment, his hand sliding over

my shoulder. I feel the heat of each individual finger through the lay­

ers of my clothing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." "You didn't," I lie.

"Good." He hesitates, glancing at me. "And no, I don't have

children. I'm not married, either. No girlfriend. I've been single since

before I joined the Church, more than eight years ago."

This time I let myself smile. "Are you sure you're not still a

priest?"

His hand gently squeezes my shoulder. "I wonder about that my­

self, sometimes."

Th ree

Fifteen minutes later, Grant and I find ourselves seated in my little red Mustang. It is very strange being with another person inside my car. The windows are tinted, and the boys are in the backseat, hav­ing slipped from the shadows of the Mustang's interior to join us in the flesh. They have their things out, along with soft old blankets and pillows. Dek and Mal untangle themselves from my hair to join their brothers.

"Nice wheels," Grant says, sliding his hand along the smooth leather interior. He fiddles with the CD player I installed several years back, and Bon Jovi roars to life. The boys let out a cheer from the backseat.

Grant laughs. "Fans?"

"Groupies. They made me follow his last tour." "Best seat in the house?"

"Rafters directly above their heads."

"And you?"

"The other rafters." I bite back a smile. "After a while, I just waited for them in the parking lot."

He hums a few strains of "Wanted Dead or Alive," and twists in his seat to look at the boys. Aaz and Raw have rope and scissors; they are mangling their teddy bears, the ones with the cowboy hats sewn on. Zee lays over their laps flipping through a row of maga­zines. He pats Dek and Mal on their heads as they slither past him.

Grant peers down. "National Geographic? Vogue? Playboy?"

My cheeks get hot. "They like the pictures. I don't know why."

"I do," he mutters.

I dig into my pocket for the wallet I lifted. My gloves are still on. I do not touch the cash or credit cards, but instead pull out the li­cense to peer at it under the dome light.

Katherine Campbell. Born August 2, 1967. Still very photogenic. Organ donor. Mother of a demonically possessed child. A zombie.

I peer at the address, memorizing it, and then hand the license to Grant. "I don't suppose you know where that is, do you?"

He frowns. "This isn't yours."

"Yes, I know. I confess my sins. Now, address?"

His frown deepens. "Capitol Hill. It's close. Just head up Pine Street." He stops, hesitating, and I can almost hear the wheels spin­ning in his head.

"I don't steal for a living, if that's what you're wondering." I put the car in gear and slide out of the parking space. "I inherited money from my mother. That's how I live."

"Ah," Grant says slowly. "How long has it been?"

"Five years." I glance into the rearview mirror. Zee is watching me. "I never knew my father."

"And ... them?"

"The boys?" I smile. "Like I said, they're family. Everything I've got left."

"No home?"

"You're looking at it."

He blinks. "What about friends?"

"Are you asking me if I have any?"

"Do you?"

"I have friends. I just don't talk to them. Much."

The corner of Grant's mouth curves ever so slightly, but that is no consolation, because his eyes will not stop looking at me, not even to blink.

"What?" I say. My palms are sweaty, and there is a low warm ache in my stomach that has been growing ever since we got into this car together. His stare makes it worse, makes me scared and hungry for something I know I should not have-or contemplate.

"It's nothing," he finally replies, quiet. "Except that I believe I would prefer being your enemy to your friend, if it meant getting to talk with you more."

My cheeks warm. I look away, but when I steal another glance he is still watching me, and it is too much. His eyes are too gentle.

"Stop." My voice breaks on that word. "Please."

He finally does, but I do not feel any better, and except for him giving me minimal directions, we do not talk. I glance at him once, find him staring out the window, mouth covered by his hand, the other holding the cane. He looks thoughtful.

I am afraid to check the backseat. The boys are too quiet. They take men very seriously. Their survival depends on it, just as surely as mine does not.

Twenty minutes later we pull down a residential street filled with fine expensive homes. There are no streetlights, but it is only seven­thirty. I drive past the house listed on the driver's license. It is very bright inside. I see people moving behind the curtains.

I park one street over and roll down the window. I need air. "Zee, check the place out. Aaz and Raw, go with him."

They slide into the shadows of the backseat, while Dek and Mal slither along the floor until they reach my foot. They climb my leg

into my lap, curling and twisting as I stroke their backs. Their purrs are loud.

Grant reaches out and very carefully touches them. No one bites. He hesitates again, and then scratches the furred ruffs of their slen­der necks. Their purrs roughen, turning into low chortles.

"You are the first man to ever do that," I tell him. "I'm surprised you still have your finger."

"You weren't going to warn me?"

"Consider it a trial by fire."

Grant smiles, and stops petting Dek and Mal. "Maybe you can explain why we're here."

I tap the driver's license and slide it back into the wallet. "This woman has a son who was at the Market today. He's a zombie."

"A zombie."

"Sorry. That's my term. I mean he's been possessed. By a demon. The same kind that wants you dead."

His mouth curves down, the furrow between his eyes deepen­ing. "And you think this boy-or the creature inside him-will know why?"

"It's worth a try. Even if the demon won't talk, I need to remove it from the child."

Grant studies his hands. His jaw tightens. "You're an exorcist?"

"When I have to be." I study his hands, too. They look strong, accustomed to hard work. I see history in those long elegant lines, in the turn of his wrist, the sensitivity of his fingers as they begin to tap, tap, tap against the hard wood of his carved cane.

But there is an uneasy energy coming off him; I sense a crack in his calm, and that bothers me almost as much as his unruffled reac­tion to our first meeting.

I touch the smooth knob of the cane, caressing the outline of a leaf. Grant's fingers freeze in mid-tap. "How much do you know about demons?"

"Not a lot," Grant's fingers start moving again, only this time they skim a trail over my wrist. The ache inside my stomach be­comes a tremor; worse, as his exploration moves to the skin between my fingers; light, so light. "I've ... been motivated to study the sub­ject from a variety of cultural viewpoints."

"Before today, you believed they existed."

"I learned to believe. So I studied. It was impossible to know if anything I read was accurate. Now ... I think not so much."

"If you think about what you learned as a whole, some of it

might make sense."

"Searching for connections?"

"Lowest common denominator. The perpetuation of hate. The

war against compassion. That's what it all comes down to."

"Not always." His fingers slide up my wrist. "Not you." His touch feels too good. "You don't know me."

"I don't have to." He looks into my eyes. "Someone else tried to

kill me. A hit and run. It happened a month ago. I was headed to the

Market that time, too."

I have to take a moment. "And you don't know why?"

He shakes his head, but only after a brief and significant hesita­tion. It reminds me of the silent treatment Zee gave me when I asked him about Grant. It reminds me of someone who is thinking about telling a lie.

The boys return, flowing from the shadows into the backseat, breathless, chests heaving with subvocal chatter and clicking claws. I snatch back my hand from Grant as Zee says, "We found him. Bad runner, Maxine. Cutter got a good one when he found that boy. Rot­ten, rotten."

"What does that mean?" Grant reaches down into the backpack stashed between his feet and the cane. He removes a slender black case.

"It means that the boy was already damaged when the demon possessed him. More than damaged. A psychopath, maybe." I look at Zee. "Best way to him?"

"Now. Right now. Outside, Maxine. Playing."

"In the dark?" Grant mutters. I can taste his uneasiness. For a moment I think of telling him to stay behind, but he gives me a look so stubborn I know anything I say will carry little weight. He wants to go. He has to go. End of story, even though I could force him, Leave one of the boys behind to watch him, with that bad leg as my excuse. With anyone else I would. But this man ...

I do not know what it is about him. About us. I do not want tc shake him, even for a moment. First time in my life I have ever felt that way. Even with my mother there were times I wanted to run. I tried, too. The boys always brought me home.

We get out of the car and walk. Dek and Mal tuck away inside my hair, still purring, while Zee, Aaz, and Raw hop between shad­ows. The rain is coming down harder; the sidewalk is empty. Win­dows are bright and golden.

A nice neighborhood. Comfortable and rich. People who live in areas like this feel safe inside their homes. Safe outside their homes, as well. They are confident in their safety. So confident, that if a man and woman are seen strolling down the street before eight in the evening, at ease, one of them crippled, they cannot be a threat. No danger. No need to be afraid.

Unless you are a demon.

The Campbell home has a narrow walkway leading from their driveway to the backyard. For a fraction of an instant, Grant hesi­tates, but I take his hand and pull him along as though we live there. Confidence is the key, even if it just an act. There is so much that could go wrong right now.

"Don't turn around," I murmur. "Just keep your eyes forward. You live here, you're a guest here-"

"You are far too practiced at this," Grant says. "Have you ever been in jail?"

"Not yet," I mutter. "But if I get there because of you, we are go­ing to have words."

We follow the line of the driveway toward the back of the house. No one stops us. Zee disappears into its shadows first, and after a mo­ment is followed by Aaz. Raw waits, nose tilted to the sky, red eyes whirling. He takes the path. But not before clicking his claws at us.

The path is narrow and wet. On our left, the house-on our right, rosebushes drooping and heavy with rain. The air smells sweet. Ahead of us, I hear the muffled scrape of a body across grass. I walk faster.

Raw appears in front of me and grabs my hand. He pulls, I follow-dragging Grant behind me-and suddenly we are in a back­yard filled with bushes and trees, thick roses, and a large playhouse with a full-sized camping tent staked in front of it.

That is where we go. I can hear pots clanging in the house behind us; a woman's voice, calling something to her husband. The back door hangs open; she must feel very safe to let her son play outside at night, in such weather. That, or she is relieved to have him away from her.

Grant and I crawl into the plastic tent. It smells like dirty socks, and the ground is wet beneath us. The boy is stretched out flat on his back, held down by Zee and Raw. His mouth is covered. Dark aura aside, he looks frightened and angry, and so very young.

I hate this. I hate this part so much.

Aaz carefully peels back a layer of cut sod and reaches beneath to dig one-handed in the dirt. There is no light, but my eyes are good. I see him pull something furry from the ground. A squirrel wrapped in duct tape, with only its head and tail still free. The little thing is dead now, but I have a very bad feeling it was still breathing when placed in all that dirt. I also have a feeling there might be more little bodies buried around us. I see tools inside the tent.

There is barely enough space. I lay down on one side of the boy, while Grant crouches on the other, putting down his cane. The zom­bie child's eyes roll white in his head when he sees me, but when he looks at Grant a shudder races through his slender frame, a violent

shiver that makes his heels drum against the ground. He starts to fight. Aaz sits on his ankles.

"The boy knows you," I murmur, watching emotion flicker across Grant's face. "Why is that?"

Grant says nothing. Uneasy, I press my palm against the zombie child's forehead. I can feel the demon inside of him, curled like a fist around his soul, and I coax it up and up to the surface of his mind. I do not know exactly how; only, I feel a hook in my hands, a hook I send through flesh to snag and prick. A trick my mother taught me. I use it to snare the darkness and hold it in place.

But the boy still stares at Grant. I feel like a second fiddle-a real first for me-and I glance at Zee, who is also watching the man. His red eyes are thoughtful, which is dangerous for everyone. Grant merely looks upset. He reaches into the slender black case he looped over his shoulder and pulls out a slender wooden flute.

"What are you doing?" I ask him. Grant hesitates. Zee makes a low sound in his throat, while the zombie boy arches his back in a muffled scream, staring at that flute like it is a red-hot brand.

I do not have time for this. I mutter words my mother taught me-gibberish, strange, more music than speech-and the boy's eyes flutter shut into sleep. Just the boy, though, the host. The demon be­gins to fight like crazy beneath my hand, but with no body to con­trol, it is helpless. I drag my palm away from the child's forehead, like drawing out a rope of thick snot, and I grimace as I pull and pull, waiting for that snap, that break from the child's soul.

When it comes, Zee pounces. He stuffs the demon inside his mouth. I can hear it screaming.

"Come on," I mutter, breathless. "We're done here."

But Grant does not move. He keeps staring at the boy.

"His aura," he murmurs. "It's still dark, Maxine."

The boy, in my eyes, appears clean-but the only auras I can see are those that belong to demons.

"He is not a good child," I say to Grant. "There's nothing you can do about it."

But Grant lifts the flute to his lips, and before I can stop him, he breathes into the instrument. I hear a note. Just one, and it shoots through me like a blade of ice dropped from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. My fingers tingle. He plays another note, soft as a dream, and then more and more, the music whispering through the air as though poured from a fairy tale of moon dust and starlight. Zee and the others push against me, growling. The child, resting on the ground, stirs and mumbles.

Grant stops playing. He is breathing hard, his eyes wild, and I hear him murmur, "Better," just as the back door of the house slams open.

"Peter!" calls the child's mother, her voice tentative, hollow. "Pe­ter, it's time to come in."

I stop breathing. Grant clamps his mouth shut. The boys go still. The woman says the child's name again, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, and I cringe as I hear her move across the grass toward the tent. I wave at Grant and hold up one finger. At the same time, I tap Aaz on the shoulder. When he looks at me, I cover my eyes, then my mouth. The little demon nods and disappears into the shadows of the tent. Raw follows him.

A moment later I hear a muffled scream. I scrabble for the tent entrance, hauling Grant after me. Katherine Campbell is down face­first on the grass, squirming and fighting as Aaz sits on her back with his little hand clamped around her mouth. Raw holds down her legs, the long spikes of his spine raised in agitation.

Grant and I run. We run down the path, down the driveway, down the sidewalk to my car, arms pumping, cane tapping, breath rasping in the cool night air. I hear a distant scream just as I unlock our doors, and then we are in and all the boys are there, slip­ping from the shadows to crowd into the backseat. I start that en­

gine and go.

No one talks. Not at first. Even the boys are quiet. I glance back and find them all staring at the Grant. And his flute.

"So," he finally says, clearing his throat. "That's an exorcism."

I want to kill him. I see a McDonalds and swerve into the park­ing lot, choosing a spot as far from all the other cars as possible. I slam on the brake, cut the engine, and turn. Grant stares at me. I point at the flute.

Zee, in the backseat, makes a sound and waves his claws over his mouth.

"Spit him out," I tell the demon, though my eyes never leave Grant's face. I hear a wet smack, the sound of drool being slurped back into a mouth. A very tiny snarl.

I look. Held in Zee's gray fist is a wisp of nothing; dark air, shad­ows congealing into a writhing smoke that pulses and pounds. The boys gather around like cats to a mouse. I reach beneath my seat, pull the lever, and slide back until I am practically in the back with them. Dek and Mal uncoil from around my neck for a better look, and I put my face right up to Zee's fist, keenly aware of Grant watching, his knuckles white around his cane and flute.

The demon stops struggling, its wispy body settling into still air, a hiss. "Hunter Kiss."

"Yes," I whisper. "If you know who I am, you know what this means."

A high fine snarl fills the car. "Talk or torture. No choice."

"No choice," I agree. "None at all."

The demon screams and screams, but I have been through this before, and I know eventually the screaming will stop. I think of my mother as it wails. I think of holding my mother's body, drenched in her blood, sitting in a wet hot pool with nothing and no one, feeling my own scream building, my own scream cutting, and I remember the boys snarling in the backyard, the boys hunting, the boys kill­ing. I remember them coming into the kitchen covered in a different person's blood. Zombie blood. Human blood. I remember them

weeping blood. Huddled against the body of the woman who car­ried them for almost thirty years.

My past, my future. The demon, the little zombie-maker, stops trying.

"Talk to me," I say. "Tell me how you know this man and why you want him dead." I point at Grant, who does not flinch, but looks at me with his jaw set, gaze heavy.

"Piper," rasps the demon. "Twister. Perverter." "Really." I look at Grant. "All those things?" "Maxine-"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand and look at the demon. "Give me more."

"He steals us." The smoky air clenched in Zee's fist wavers. "He corrupts us. Takes us from our mother."

"Your mother."

"The Dark Queen," whispers the demon. "Blood Mama." Blood Mama. I stop breathing. The boys mutter beneath their

breath. Grant looks at them, then me. "Who is that?" "Trouble," I mutter.

"Big bad cutter trouble," Zee adds.

Grant still looks confused. I do not feel sorry for him. "I've told you there are other dimensions, all of them prisons, all of them separated by barriers, veils. On the other side of us is a place called the Blood Sea, which is where this"-I jab my finger at the smoky demon-"crossed over from. And the Blood Sea, supposedly, is ruled by a queen. She is, as you can imagine, a demon." And not just any demon. Blood Mama is the most powerful voice of the dark spirits who cross the prison veil. But until tonight, I have never heard her name spoken out loud, only read of it in the diaries kept by my mother and her mother, and all those women before us.

Legend. Another kind of myth.

I look at Grant. "You know what this thing is talking about. Corruption, being stolen away." When he hesitates, I lean right up

into his face, searching his eyes. All I see is uncertainty, regret, and it makes my heart ache. Makes me wish, all over again, that this day had never happened.

"Tell me," I whisper. "No games."

"Tell her," rasps the demon softly. "Tell her what you do to us."

Grant sways away from me and takes a deep breath. Holds my gaze as he lifts up his flute, laid flat upon his palms like an offering.

"I make them good," he says in a low voice. "I make those demons very good."

Four

need to think, and the boys are hungry. I go into the McDonald's. Grant follows. The lights are too bright, the interior looks like it has not been renovated since the early eighties, but the floors and tables are clean and mostly empty. That is all I need. Some quiet normalcy, even if it is nothing more than an illusion.

"I'm sorry," Grant says. I ignore him and wait for someone to come to the cash register.

"Maxine." He leans on the counter, forcing me to look at him. "It's not like you told me all your secrets."

"I asked if you knew why demons might want to kill you. And you said no. You lied."

"I evaded. There's a difference."

"Whatever. Man of God, my ass."

"Former," he snaps. "Give me a chance to explain."

Someone clears her throat, and I find a girl standing behind the register, staring at us like we are some kind of circus act. I wonder

what Grant and I look like together. The thought irritates me. I start tapping the plastic counter with my fingernail. Grant covers my hand and holds me there when I try to jerk away.

The girl frowns. "Um, are you guys going to order?"

"I'm buying," Grant says.

"Serves you right," I mutter, and ask the girl for twenty double cheeseburgers, twenty apple pies, twenty sets of fries, and four Sprites. I am not a complete bitch. I order off the dollar menu.

I keep expecting Grant to protest. He never does. The cheese­burgers make his mouth twitch, the pies make it curve, and the French fries tug a slow blooming smile from his lips that is just so damn beautiful I cannot look away.

When I order the drinks he laughs, a deep and masculine rumble, and by the time that sound travels down my spine into my stomach, I am not quite so angry anymore. A miracle. This man is no good for me.

"Is any of that for you?" Grant asks. I shake my head, and he sighs, pointing at the menu. "Anything you want?"

"Fudge sundae," I hear myself say.

"Make it two," Grant tells the girl, and glances at me as he takes out his debit card. "This, apparently, is how I'm going to celebrate the second nervous breakdown of my life."

"What was the first?" The order total is quite high. I watch him swipe his card. "I'll pay you back for this, by the way."

"No," he says firmly, then leans close and presses his mouth to my ear. "The first has to do with a certain change of profession I had some years back. I think you might know what I'm talking about."

The heat of his breath against my skin is electric, crazy, though I manage to scrape together enough brain cells to look him in the eye. Grant brushes a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers linger, trailing a path down my cheek.

"I'm sorry," he says again, so softly I can barely hear him. "I was not trying to play you for a fool. I was not trying to deceive you.

I wasn't even certain there was a connection, though I began to suspect."

"You could have told me."

"I didn't know you."

"You still don't," I whisper. The girl behind the counter clears her throat and slides the fudge sundaes toward us, giving notice that it will take about ten minutes for our order to be completed.

We pick up our sundaes and walk to a battered table next to the window. I look out at my car. Everything seems normal. Everything in the McDonald's appears normal, too. No dark auras. No zom­bies. Dek and Mal purr against my scalp.

The fudge sundae tastes good. It has been a long time since I have had one. A long time, too, since I sat with someone over a meal. I wish it could be under better circumstances. I study Grant, watching him concentrate on his food. I want to smooth away the furrow be­tween his eyes. "Tell me what you do. Tell me why those demons are upset enough to risk their hosts and kill you."

"It's complicated. I didn't know I was putting myself into dan­ger." Grant shoves a heavy spoonful of soft serve into his mouth anc swallows. "You remember what I said about music and color: Auras? Well, aura reflects personality, the core of who and what person is, and I learned early on how to look at someone and know their heart based on nothing more than energy. Helps in other ways too. If someone lies to me, for instance, I can tell."

"And the connection to the demons?"

"That's where it gets complicated. In my mid-twenties I discov­ered I could use music to ... change the colors I saw. Change the . . language ... of a person's personality."

I set down my spoon. "Mind control?"

Grant hesitates. "I don't know. Based on the people I've affected all I seem to do is give a shift in perspective. A new way of looking at things. A choice."

"That hnv tonight. What choice did you give him?"

His expression darkens. "The child was sick, just like you and Zee said. His aura did not change when you took the demon from him. It simply became more ... transparent. All I did was infuse that dark­ness with color, as much of it as I could in the time I had. It might last, if the boy is willing to let it, but auras and personalities are like mus­cles, Maxine. The more you commit yourself to a certain way of be­ing, the harder it is to turn away from it. You keep wanting to flex."

"And you're sure this works?"

"Better with some than others. And not just humans." Grant gives me a rueful smile that does nothing to smooth the stress lines in his forehead. "Those things want me dead. What just happened in the car confirmed the reason. It's because I can change them, Max­ine. Give them a choice to be something different."

I almost laugh, but only to cover the sickness in my throat. "No such thing as a choice like that. Not for demons. Not for those demons. Born evil, bred evil. You can't change what they are, no matter how hard you try. And if you do, the reason they change will not be through free will. Not through choice. Not anything close."

"And Zee and the others? Are you going to condemn them, too?"

"They're different."

"But were they always different?" Grant leans forward, narrow­ing his eyes. "How do you know, Maxine? How can you be so sure?"

"Because there's no alternative." My voice is hard, cold. "Not for what I do."

"Which is?"

I do not answer him. I had a purpose, once, and I suppose I still do-but there is no destiny screaming in my ear. I am just a girl. A girl with a horde of demons living on her body. A killer.

"Maxine," he says.

"Every prison needs a guard," I tell him.

"I thought this wasn't a prison."

"It might as well be. That, or a feeding ground. Humans aren't equipped to protect themselves against demons."

"But you are," he says, thoughtful. "Do you have help?" I think of my mother. "The boys."

"No. More than them."

I remember cake and candles, white frosting sprayed with blood. "I'm the only one. There are no other Hunters." No others at all, not for centuries. I am the very last of the human hybrids created to act as wardens, guards, and protectors of this soft sweet spot inside the prison rings. And while I do not know much about how I exist, I do know this: I am not enough.

"You've seen some of what I do." I force myself to hold his gaze. "I hunt demons. I kill as many of them as I can find." "Just like that? So easy?"

"Yes."

"Liar." Grant traces the air above my head. "You're no murderer."

Murderer. The word hurts. No good pretending otherwise. It is a word wrapped in guilt and fear, a lingering unease that has followed me no matter how hard I try to shoot it down. My mother never questioned herself-not to me-but murder is a word I dream of of­ten. Murder is an old nightmare.

I dig my nails into my thigh. "Demons are parasites. Predators. In simplest terms, they are hardwired to cause humans pain, because that is what keeps them alive. So I kill them. I kill them because they kill. I hunt them because they hunt. If I find a demon looking for a host, I cut it dead. If I find a demon inside a host, I force it out and do the same. The boys are my weapons, but I am the assassin. And after seeing the damage those demons leave behind-the broken homes, the strings of murders and rape victims, children molested and neglected-I consider it a public service."

Grant's gaze remains steady, unwavering. "So you're helping others. But are you helping yourself? What price do you pay, Max­ine? Only psychopaths take lives without conscience, and you're no psycho. I can tell that much. So it must be costing you something, even if you're just ... killing demons."

"What's the alternative? Your way?" "Maybe."

"Maybe," I murmur bitterly. "You wouldn't say that if you had experienced what I have. You wouldn't dream of it."

"Then tell me," he says, searching my face. "Please, Maxine. Help me understand."

"Help you understand what?" I whisper. "How long have you even known these things exist?"

Grant pushes away his sundae. "I wasn't sure they did. Not until today. All I knew for certain was that people who had dark auras­no matter how kind or gentle they acted-had an equal darkness in their hearts. So I tried to fix them. First with words, my counsel, and then with music."

"You were with the Church at the time? How did you find out you could change people?"

"An accident. I was playing my flute, and someone wandered into my vicinity. A particularly disturbed man, an older fellow who hung around the Church. Not possessed, just crazy. He stopped to listen to me, and I remember thinking, I wish I could help him. Not long after, I saw the colors of my music inside his aura. And he changed, Maxine. For a little while." Grant stares at his hands. "I experimented. Maybe it was wrong of me. I prayed, asked for guidance-forgiveness, even-but I couldn't help myself."

"Power will do that."

"Maybe." Grant gives me a bitter smile. "I might have been se­duced by my hold over people. I like to think that I wasn't. I did, af­ter all, try to help."

"I'm not casting blame. Just saying." I rub my face, weary. "And the possessed? How did you encounter them?"

"Also by accident. Sometimes, not always, I would find two dis­tinct auras in the same individual, layered on top of the other. And by fixing one, I could fix the other."

"Tell me what you mean by fix."

U

"For all intents and purposes, every `possessed' man and woman I played for, the ones who had the double auras, who demonstrated the most destructive tendencies, suddenly ... stopped. Not over­night, and not without a persistent dose of my music, but I saw acts of compassion where I couldn't have found any before, shifts in lifestyle and interaction that were so radically different, and so ... beneficial ... that it was like a whole new personality took over."

"And then?" I lean close. "What made you leave the Church?"

Pain flashes through his face, so sharp I reach out and touch his hand, but before I can say anything to him, two girls wearing Mc­Donald's uniforms arrive with our bags of food. I tell them to leave it all on the table nearby, which they do, watching us warily. Grant does not seem to notice. When the girls are gone, I move around the table and sit beside him. I stay quiet, waiting.

"I thought I had a gift," he finally says. "A true gift from God, something that could allow me to help people in a very real way. So I told a friend. A very trusted friend, a fellow priest."

"He betrayed you."

"In a way. He refused to believe me. At first. But I was so naive, so stupid, and I kept at him until he finally did believe. Only, instead of seeing it as a gift, he became convinced that it was the work of the Devil, that I had become possessed by ... dark and arcane powers. It was crazy, Maxine. I felt like I was in the middle of the Inquisition, and it made no sense. I hadn't done anything wrong. I had only

helped people."

"They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Grant's jaw tightens. "They wanted to exorcise me. They wanted to drive the music out of me. They said I was stealing free will. And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But they called it the work of the Devil. Even sent someone from the Vatican to cleanse me."

My mouth curves into a faint smile. "Did he?"

Grant leans against me. "Guess not. I ran away before he ar­rived. Hardest choice of my life, but I had to go."

"Did you have family to turn to?"

Grant shakes his head and takes a bite of his sundae. He gives me his spoon. I go for the fudge. "I don't have much family, Maxine. Af­ter I left the Church, I went to Europe and followed a line around the world. Italy, Israel, India, Nepal, China. I even lived with a Navajo Shaman for a time. Everywhere I went, I tried to learn more about life, about all the different ways to believe in a higher power. And when I finally made my home-here, in Seattle-I had enough confidence in myself to believe that whatever I was, it was my choice to be good or evil. My choice to uplift or destroy. And I chose the light."

"And part of that light is converting demons."

"Like I said, I didn't know that's what they were. Despite my for­mer calling, I always questioned the dark side of my religion. I did not want to believe in true evil. I thought it was just ... an excuse, a way to cast blame away from bad deeds. The Devil made me do it. Blah."

"But you suspected something before tonight. You must have.

You were too calm. Even after seeing the boys come off my body,

you were too calm."

Grant hesitates. "Before I left the Church, I encountered one of

the people I had helped. I could see that something had changed.

One of the auras was darker than the other. Like it was reverting.

When I tried to fix it, that second shadow ... ran."

"Ran."

"Left the body and disappeared. And when it did, there was only

one aura left."

I lean back in my chair. Grant's sundae is gone, but he keeps scraping the plastic cup with his spoon. I reach across the table for my unfinished ice cream and slide it over to him. He takes it with a raised brow, but I wave him on, and that is that. No more soft serve. Grant stabs his spoon into the cup. I wait for a moment, just watch­

ing him.

"You really think you can change those demons?" I ask him quietly. "I'd like to believe so."

"And you still call it free will? Their choice?"

"I don't know." He looks at me, and his eyes are tired. "But if they are as bad as you make them out to be, does it matter?"

Yes, I say to myself, and not because I fear for the rights of demons. I am only afraid for myself. Because if demons can change, if they can-through choice or force-be altered in a way that takes away their ability to harm humans, then what am I? What am I, ex­cept a true murderer?

I close my eyes. Grant says my name. When I do not answer him, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the curve of his side. It feels natural to lay my hand on his chest. It feels good and safe, and when his lips touch the crown of my head, the heat that travels through my body makes me sigh.

"Maxine," Grant says again. "Tell me."

"What do I tell you?" I murmur, suddenly achingly weary. "There's too much, Grant."

His mouth travels to my temple, pressing light and sweet against my skin. "You said my name again. I like it when you do that." "You're too easy to please."

"No," he says, kissing me again. "Not at all."

F ive

When we go back to the car, dragging our bags of food, there is a police officer waiting for us. He has no aura that I can see, but that does not make me feel better. He is a tall lean man with an olive complexion and a buzz cut. Serious mouth. Suspicious eyes. His cruiser is parked on the other side of the lot, and he is standing so that the Mustang is between him and the McDonald's. I did not see him from inside.

"Are you the owner of this vehicle?" he asks Grant.

"The car is mine." I cannot see through the tinted windows. I wonder if the boys are still in there.

The officer looks at the bags in our hands. "Party?"

"Big eaters," Grant says. "Is there a problem?"

"I have some questions about this Mustang," says the man. "One just like it was seen driving away near the scene of an assault tonight. A place not far from here, in fact."

"That's terrible," Grant says, and damn if he does not sound like he means it, from the bottom of his heart. "Where did it happen?" "Capitol Hill. Fifth and Tunney."

Grant blinks, frowning. "We were in Capitol Hill not long ago." "Got a reason why?"

"My friend here is from out of town. She's thinking of moving to the area. We were out for a drive, and I thought I would show her the local neighborhoods." Grant's aura must be flashing fire­works; the man is a master liar. Some priest he must have been.

The officer frowns, his gaze flickering between Grant and me. "Can't see much at night."

"Places have a different feel after dark," I tell him. "You know. Sometimes scary, sometimes not."

He gives me a hard look. "Driver's license?"

I set down my bags and pull a slim leather card case from thf back pocket of my jeans. My hand bumps against the hard lump it my jacket; Katherine Campbell's wallet. Shit.

The police officer slides a Mag-lite from his belt and shines it or my license. "You're a long way from home, Ms.... Kiss."

"Texas isn't all that far," I tell him, trying to sound winsome pleasant. He gives me another piercing look and asks for Grant'; identification. Turns and strolls back to his vehicle. I hear the stati( of a radio as he opens his door. He sits inside, one leg hanging out Works on finding out if we are criminals. Which I am. Not that have ever been caught.

Of course, there is always a first time for everything.

"Maxine," Grant says, under his breath. "This is not going t( turn into an episode of COPS, is it?"

"I prefer Prison Break, personally."

"Maxine."

"You're an excellent liar," I tell him. "Did you learn that in pries

school?"

"Try kindergarten," he mutters, and then, softer, "He's coming

back."

I steady myself, Dek and Mal shifting beneath my hair. I see a

flicker of movement beneath the Mustang; the tip of a claw, wagging

at me. I look away and force myself to greet the police officer with a

questioning smile. Dumb, sweet, and hopelessly innocent.

No effect. His expression is impossibly grim. He hands back our

driver's licenses and gives the cane a fleeting glance before meeting

Grant's eyes. "Sorry. You can go now."

Grant and I look at each other. The officer shifts his feet, a dis­tinctly uncomfortable expression passing over his face. "Gilda says hello."

"Gilda." Grant blinks. "Ah. I remember her. Is she ... doing well?"

"She's good in dispatch. Got a mouth on her, though."

"Feisty. But very ... pious."

The cop grunts. "She, uh, recognized your name when I called it in. Gave me an earful." He backs away, giving me one last distrust­ful look before tipping his chin at Grant. "Have a good evening, Fa­ther Cooperon. Ma'am."

"Um," Grant says, but thankfully, lets it go. And just like that, we are free. Hallelujah, Amen. The cop gets into his car. I reach for my keys and pretend not to watch him as he drives away. My heart feels like it is going to explode from my chest. This is not the closest I have come to the law since my mother died-but once was more than enough.

"Gilda?" I ask mildly.

"Long story." Grant tilts his head up to the drizzling sky and closes his eyes. "I helped her once."

"Apparently so."

He smiles, but not for long. Just keeps watching the road where that police car disappeared. Shakes himself and takes a deep breath. "Let's go home, Maxine."

He says it so naturally, like I belong with him. Like I have a home. With him. Makes me breathless, though I do not say a word. Just unlock the doors and climb in. The boys melt into the backseat, quiet, and we give them the drinks and food.

The demon, the little zombie maker, is gone. Grant starts to ask, but I shake my head. Better for him not to know. Zee and the boys have sharp teeth. Not even little demon wisps can escape their bites. And, it is enough that there be will be one less possession to cure af­ter tonight. No matter what Grant can do-or how he feels-in the end, that is all that is important.

He gives me directions. I put the car in gear and drive to the sounds of tearing paper, wet slurps. No music, no talk. I remember my mother and I-another night like this-driving and eating through a strange city, surrounded by that odd settled hush that comes from comfortable silence, an easy way. It has been a long time since I felt that kind of contentment. A very long time.

I look at Grant, the clean lines and shadows of his face. I think of his story, his ability to twist darkness into good. I think of what the demon said.

"Piper," I murmur, and Grant looks at me. "Piper. That's what the demon called you."

The skin around his eyes crinkles. "Piper of the Damned?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of the original Pied Piper.

Except with demons instead of rats. Or children." "Alas, alas, for Hamelin," he says.

We drive. The drizzle turns into a hard rain. Lightning flashes outside the car, a sudden burst of brilliance so close and bright that everyone, even the boys, flinch. Thunder breaks the world, a crack and rumble that rattles the car. I feel it in my chest. Unease crawls up my spine, Zee responding with a low hiss. Nothing happens, though. Nothing springs from the shadows into the road; no strange car follows us. I am on edge, that is all. It has been a bad night.

Grant lives in the warehouse district just outside of Chinatown.

An area of old brick, wide panes of glass, the docks and dirty ocean on the other side of I-5. And in the center, a gritty oasis-an upbeat stone building surrounded by old-fashioned pewter lanterns that line a landscaped walkway, which crisscrosses a larger piece of grassy property bordering a gritty burnout of chain link, cracked ce­ment, and broken glass.

Following Grant's instructions, I slow down in front of the main structure, which is cleaner than its neighbors, and rambles into sev­eral smaller facilities, one of which looks suspiciously like a church.

I park in the small lot. "What is this place?"

Grant shrugs. "Depends on who you talk to, though it's mainly a homeless shelter. A place for people to get back on their feet."

"And you live here?"

"I own the place." Grant smiles and climbs out of the car, lean­ing heavily on his cane. I take a moment, staring at his back, and shake my head.

I do not bother grabbing my suitcase from the trunk. I turn up my collar, duck my face against the cold rain, and run after him, jog­ging down a narrow sidewalk to a plain metal door set within an al­cove just off the core building. The boys melt from the shadows beside us, eyes glowing, claws clicking. Keys jingle in Grant's hand.

"I have a private entrance," he says, and then we are inside a dry dark space where the only way forward is up a steep flight of stairs, lit by a dim light somewhere far above us. Grant moves slowly, his cane thunking loudly on each step.

"Were you injured in the hit-and-run you mentioned?" My voice is loud in the hush of the darkness surrounding us. I feel the boys brush past my leg, and I watch the outlines of their sharp spines as they dart ahead to scout and explore.

Grant glances back at me. His eyes are hooded, shrouded in shadow. "All I received from that incident were some scrapes and bruises. The leg happened five years ago. I got on the wrong end of a tire iron."

I suck in my breath. "What happened?"

Grant pauses on the stairs, and I join him, close but not touching. Rainwater drips from the tips of his hair, the air is cold-but his body radiates a heat I feel down to my bones. We stare at each other, soaking in silence.

"There are risks to helping people," he finally says, softly, with an edge of pain. "It's safer to walk away. Turn a blind eye. You know that better than anyone."

"I do." I hesitate, then reach up and touch his wet cheek. Grant closes his eyes. His skin feels bristly, hot. So good. "People are never who they seem. Not even to themselves."

He captures my hand and presses my palm to his lips. "But you accept the risks. No choice, no alternative."

"Commitment. Dedication." I edge close, swallowing hard.

"Saving lives," Grant whispers, lowering his head. Our lips touch. Fire spreads down my throat into my breasts, my stomach. His strong arm curls around my waist, hugging me close. I cling to him. I let myself hold and be held, and though I am risking my life, my heart, I do not care. For the first time in my life, I do not give a damn. I want this. I want him. I lean in harder, tighter, and Grant makes a sound; low, guttural. He breaks off the kiss. We are both breathing heavy.

"Upstairs," he rasps, and we stumble up together, hands clasped tight. Grant slides his palm against the wall, and lights come on. The brightness hurts my eyes at first, but I can see well enough to take in the pleasantly large room at the top of the stairs. I see large windows of clouded glass, deep couches, and long massive bookshelves; a grand piano, several guitars, and a very large Triumph motorcycle polished to a loving red sheen. No doubt Grant's pride and joy, once upon a time-though I cannot imagine how anyone could have hauled it up those stairs we just climbed.

The room is nice, warm and cozy. It feels like a home, though a bit more luxurious than anything I imagine a former priest being

able to afford. The austere life, no more. Grant gave up more than the collar when he left the Church.

I walk to the piano. I have not been near one since I left home, and an ache soars through my throat with the memory of my mother giving me lessons; dark hair tumbling loose over her face, her long neck, brushing it out of her eyes, away from her red mouth. Day­time, her arms bare, skin covered in tattoos that I would trace and trace with my fingers; naming them, crooning lullabies.

I like to think I resemble her. I like to imagine I am as strong.

The boys are prowling. Grant moves close, and his fingers trail a path up my ribs, making me shiver. "Do you play, Maxine?"

"A long time ago." I capture one of his hands against my side and use the other to press down on a high C. The note drifts sweetly in the air. Grant reaches around my body. I go very still as he wraps his hand around my own. When I press down on another note, his hand is still there with me, resting large and heavy on top of my wrist.

"I'd play a duet with you," he whispers in my ear, "but I think that might be dangerous."

I cannot talk. All I can do is nudge his hip, and he sits down, slowly, on the piano bench. I join him, on his lap. Grant makes a sound, low in his throat, and I bite my bottom lip as I move very gently against him, savoring the hard sensation of his body against my own.

I touch the piano. I play a sonata. Grant reaches around me and lays his hands over my hands. I carry him across the music, his mouth touching my ear, my neck, trailing kisses across my skin. I miss a note, then two and three. Grant's hands slips over my skin to the keys, fingers slow and dancing, and for a moment we play to­gether, a duet, sweet and light, until the melody shifts, and I rest my palms on his strong wrists and let him be the one to carry me, rock­ing us both into music that is mournful and hot, hot like the hard cradle of his body.

Grant finishes the song and wraps his arms around me. I listen to his heartbeat, his slow breathing; more distant, the boys dragging and unzipping, rattling paper. His chest rumbles. "Are they going to burn this building down?"

"Not yet," I murmur, biting back a smile when he laughs, low. His fingers thread through my hair, holding me close, tight, my face pressed near the crook of his neck. His skin smells so good. I touch him with my lips. Grant's breath catches, and then his mouth slides next to mine, light and warm.

"Maxine," he whispers. "I want to take you to my bed." I close my eyes. Nod my head.

He cannot carry me-his leg is too weak to support that effort­but he clutches me so tight against his side he might as well be car­rying me, and we stagger into his bedroom, a clean place with only a bed and little else. The covers are rumpled, unmade, but I do not care. I fall onto the mattress, breathless.

Grant glances around, taking off his jacket. "Where are the boys?"

I look and do not see them. Probably close, though. I reach into my hair and pull out Dek and Mal. Their eyes are very solemn, and when I place them on the floor they slither from the room without hesitation. Grant closes the door. "They're not voyeurs, are they?"

"Not about this," I tell him, though in all honestly, I do not know for certain. I have become too used to not having any privacy in my life.

I swallow hard, watching him. Grant hesitates, then very deliber­ately walks to the bed and perches on the edge beside me. He twines his hand around my own.

"We don't have to do this," he says quietly. "Not tonight. Not ever, if you don't want."

"Change your mind?" I try to smile, to pretend, but Grant is not fooled. He kisses my palm and presses it to his chest. Holds it there, watching me with those dark wild eyes.

"I want you," he says, in a voice so low and rough it makes me shudder, makes Grant shudder, both of us shaking against each other like a hard hot wind is blowing through the room.

I almost tell him. I almost tell him what might happen if we do this, but I am afraid he will stop, and I do not want to. Before tonight I would never have thought I could change my mind, break the old promise to myself-not like this, so willingly-but being with this man has changed something inside me. I am no longer afraid. Nor am I resigned, though I would have every right to be. I tell myself I am simply being modern. One-night stand. A friendly roll in the sack. Nothing heavy, even if the consequences are.

But I want this to be my choice, not something the boys make me do. My choice, now. Not later. Grant, and not some other man.

I kiss him. I am awkward, an ugly duckling when it comes to lovemaking, and Grant is little better. All those smooth moves we had for each other fade away as we fumble at each other's clothes, rocking each other down on the bed as we give up trying to yank off shirts and jackets and jeans, settling instead for a tangle of limbs, cradling each other with hot deep kisses that burn so deep I can feel the slow rise of some cresting pleasure, an ache that makes me twist and writhe. Grant murmurs my name, running his fingers through my hair, while my hands trail down his chest to his belt, his button, his fly. I push my hand inside his jeans and swallow down his gasp with a kiss.

Grant breaks away, chest heaving. "Holy God."

I laugh. "Should you be using the Lord's name in vain?"

"No," he rasps, a slow smile spreading. He rolls us, half-pinning me with his body, and his hands touch my hair again, my face, stroking the outline of my cheeks. His eyes are dark, heavy with hunger, but he does not kiss me. Just stays there, poised, drinking me in.

"You shine so bright," he whispers. "I wish you could see what I see, Maxine. I wish you could see how beautiful your spirit is."

"Not possible," I murmur. "Not me. No light."

"You're wrong." Grant kisses the corner of my mouth. "You're good, Maxine. Down to the core of you, good."

Heat fills my eyes, my face; with it, guilt. I place my hands against his chest and try to push him away. Grant resists, holding me down with his hips and hands. A crease furrows deep between his

eyes. "Maxine."

"Let me go," I say to him.

"Tell me," he replies, unmoving. "What's wrong?"

I close my eyes, silent, anger and disappointment stealing away the warmth inside my body. After a moment I feel Grant shift, his arm stealing around my waist and back, turning me so we both lie on our sides. He snakes his leg around my hip and draws me close and snug. Our noses brush; his lips touch my forehead.

"Tell me," he says again.

I cannot look at him. "There's something you should know. About what might happen if we're together. Now, tomorrow, for any length of time." I hesitate, forming the words inside my head, tasting them, finally afraid. Saying it out loud will make it real. "No matter what we do to protect ourselves, chances are good I will be­come pregnant."

What a mood-killer. Grant blinks. "Pregnant?"

"As in, with child." I shake my head, trying to pull out of his arms. He refuses to let go. I could force him, but I give up, eyes squeezed shut. "It's part of the magic that makes me what I am. It's to keep the women of my line from ... cheating the boys out of their future."

"Cheating." His voice carries an edge. "Does that mean the boys are passed on, from mother to child?"

"Mother to daughter. Only daughters."

Grant's chest rises and falls; I listen to his silence, his breathing, his heartbeat, my own heart shrinking and shriveling, my skin crawling. I want to run. I should have run the first time I saw this man. I should never have let this go so far. Damn.

"So we would have a child," he says, finally, softly. "What else aren't you telling me?"

I cannot lie. I could say nothing at all, but I do not want to hurt Grant, to do him the disservice of distrust. I want to believe he is a friend. I want to live the illusion that such a thing is possible for me. To have a friend, even it means he no longer wants me in his bed.

"It's hard," I tell him, my voice breaking on the words. "The mo­ment I have a child my death sentence is signed. I might have a decade, maybe two, but not much longer than that. And I won't die in my sleep. I'll be murdered. Like my mother was, and her mother, and her mother before that. A single line of women running so far behind me I can't see the beginning of them. All victims of a violent end."

Grant flinches, his arms tightening around me. "No."

"Yes. One day the boys will stop protecting me. They will aban­don me for my child. And when that happens, the demons I have spent my life hunting will know, and they will kill me. It's the price we pay for the protection we are given. The boys ... the boys have to survive. And I'm not immortal. I'll get old, maybe sick, and if I die of natural causes before the boys have made the switch ..."

"They'll die, too?"

"I wasn't always the only Hunter. There were others, a long time ago."

"You could rebel. You could ... stay celibate."

The catch in his voice almost makes me laugh. "I've done that, but it won't last forever. The boys will make sure I get pregnant. Might hold me down and force a man inside me. Might threaten to take a life if I don't find a man to have sex with. It's happened to some of the other women in my family. Sometimes I wonder if they didn't do that to my mother."

"You said she died."

"Shot in the head. Right in front of me."

Grant shudders. I force myself to look at him, but instead of fear,

"Please."

dismay, all I see is anger, a terrible white-hot fury so chilling I cannot see past the pale of his cheeks, the line of his lips, the cold heat of his eyes.

"You love them," he says in hard voice. "Despite that, you still care about them."

"Family," I whisper. "Family cuts, but it's thicker than blood. They live because of me, and I live because of them. I can't hate them, Grant. Not even for how my mother died. How I'll die. They're too much a part of who I am."

He takes a deep breath, pushing it out, slow. "So if we do this, I'll become a father.

"Probably." I hesitate. "I didn't want to tell you."

"Because you didn't think we would be together long enough for me to find out you're carrying my child? Or because you didn't think I would want to be with you if I knew the truth?" He snorts, some color finally returning to his face. "You don't know me at all, Maxine."

"Sorry," I mutter, my eyes burning, burning like my cheeks, my throat. "I'm so sorry, Grant."

"No." His lips find my forehead again, his hands pushing back my hair, cradling my face. "No, Maxine. This is not your fault. And this is not anything to be scared of. We'll make this work. We'll fig­ure something out. I am not going to let you die before your time."

"You can't stop that."

"There's time," he whispers. "If you want to try.

He almost makes me believe. If faith could be a gift, then this man is capable of giving in spades. But I am afraid, and I do not have his faith, or his belief in my future. I know what I am, and all I have is the present, the past. And it does not matter that the hope in his eyes, his conviction, is addictive. Intoxicating.

I swallow hard. "I am not your responsibility, Grant."

"But you were willing to have a baby with me. Some last-minute choice, huh?" His jaw tightens. "Don't you think I knew what I was

getting myself into?"

"No," I say flatly. "I really don't think you did."

"So I didn't know all of it. But I considered at least one possible consequence." His hand slides off my waist and presses gently against my stomach, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe this is rash of me, too. Maybe I could step back, wait another day. Cool off, think this through. Not put you in danger."

"I understand," I murmur, unable to look at him. "Good idea."

"No." He tilts up my chin. "You don't get it, do you? I can't walk away, Maxine. And not ... not because I want to ... to just have sex with you. And not because I want to hurt you. Not that. Just the opposite."

"You don't know me, Grant."

"You don't know me, either. Not really. So why are you here? Why, when the risks are so great?"

"Because I want you," I whisper. "And I'm not afraid to want you. It feels ... right."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what," I tell him. "Even if it's just for a night."

"Okay," he breathes. Just like that. Okay.

I search his eyes. "You're so calm. Why are you always so calm?"

Grant never answers me. Just wraps his hand around the back of my neck and presses his lips against mine, taking me under with an achingly tender kiss. I almost pull away, almost fight him, but I give up and press against his body, doing everything in my power not to think about what I am doing, to not second-guess myself. No future. Just here. Now. Him.

I stop shaking after our clothes are gone. I stop shaking when I touch him. I stop shaking when he touches me, though another kind of quake rushes through my body as his palms caress my breasts, my stomach, between my thighs. He is a big man, a strong man, though his right leg is the only sore spot; a mangle of muscle and bone, twisted, skinny. I kiss it. I kiss it with my mouth, my fingertips, my hair tumbling over my face to trail a path up his skin. He shivers and

groans, writhing beneath me as my tongue finds more to love, hard and hot and long.

And then, somehow, we are inside each other, and there is a bit of pain but nothing more, nothing but a full heavy pleasure as we move against each other, again and again, riding ourselves higher, together, and it feels so good I think I cry out. I think he does the same, neither of us lasting long at all. But we rest, and we touch, and not much later, begin again.

Lost time, Grant calls it.

Not enough time, I say.

In the wee hours of morning, just before dawn, I feel the boys crowd close beneath the covers and hug my naked body. Grant is spooned behind me, snoring softly.

"Sleep," Zee breathes into my ear. "Sleep as we sleep, Maxine. And dream."

I do as he says, and the next time I open my eyes I see sunlight through the window.

My skin is covered in tattoos.

Six

Grant is gone from the bed, but I do not feel particularly aban­doned. Not after last night. I roll free of the covers, taking a moment to stare at the chaos behind me. My body is sore, my knees weak. The memories make me smile, though not for long. There are con­dom wrappers everywhere on the floor, but that is no guarantee when it comes to me. Or at least, that was my mother's warning­the same warning that has ever been written in the old family di­aries. I have always been slightly amazed at the lengths my ancestors went to in an attempt to prevent conception. Always failing, though I have to question the resources at their disposal. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe it does not matter. Not anymore.

The door swings open. Grant walks in, dressed in sweats and nothing else. He is leaning on his cane, but in his free hand carries a white mug of something that smells like coffee.

He stops when he sees me, and the appreciation in his eyes makes

me smile. I go to him, walking slow, with a sway to my hips that I never thought I would be capable of achieving.

"Love the body art," he murmurs. "Not sure I care much for who makes it."

I glance down. My skin is entirely covered in tattoos: shades of silver and obsidian, scaled ripples of muscle and limb and tangled claw; here, there, a red eye and a curling fang. The boys cover me from the bottoms of my feet to the pads of my fingertips to the tips of my breasts. I do not have a mirror, but I know the intricate labyrinth of dark lines and bodies ends at the top of my neck, be­neath my hair. That my face is clear is a conceit on my part, though in the daytime I am still as protected there, as anywhere else.

Grant hands me the coffee, leaning close to kiss my mouth. His fingers trail down my throat, between my breasts.

"Feels like skin," he says. "Is that really them?"

"In all their glory."

"And you don't know how?"

I shake my head, sipping the coffee. "No one does. There are sto­ries of why, some of which stray into legend more than truth. That humans were first and that the demons came, offering a choice. I don't suppose it matters what kind of choice, just that humans made the wrong one and invited the darkness into their lives. Bad times, after that. And then the Hunters were made, the barriers went up, and all the violence and strife left behind belonged solely to humans. No blame left to cast, except on themselves. And eventually us, the people trying to protect them. Hunters. Demon-runners. Unholy."

Grant frowns. "And there was never any mention of God in those stories? A higher power?"

"I suppose. But not ... in a direct way.

"Someone made you, though. The barriers, too. The demons

didn't go away on their own."

"It took power to do that," I concede. "Immense power." "But you're not convinced."

"I don't believe in Satan, either," I tell him. "As ironic as that

might sound."

"Very. But you do believe there is a ruler over those demons. The

Dark Queen."

"She rules only some of them. And there's a difference. One is

myth, archetype. The other is real."

"Real as far as you know."

"As far as I've been told. By those she commands."

Grant shrugs, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

"I've never questioned the existence of God. Just the Devil. I've

changed my opinion."

"Have you?" I ask him. "And do you think you could convert

the epitome of evil, in the same way you think you can change its

followers?"

"No," Grant says, after a brief hesitation. "I know my limits."

"Maybe." I smile, trying to take the bite out of my words, and

bend down to pick up my jeans. He clears his throat and my smile widens. I like this. Being with someone.

Grant takes the coffee from me, kicks away the jeans with his good leg, and takes me to the bed. We fool around for a while, aban­doning the mattress for the shower. There's a plastic seat in the stall to ease the pressure off his leg. I have a good time straddling his lap, though I do not take him inside me. No more condoms. I find other ways to make him call out my name, until Grant twists me so that I face away from him, spreading my legs wide with his hands. He pro­

ceeds to return the favor, many times over.

I dress in my jeans and steal an old navy sweatshirt from the bottom of Grant's closet. He is in the bathroom, shaving. My hair is wet, tangled, but I tie it into a bun and leave the bedroom, walking bare­foot into another world of sunlight and glass and hardwood floors. I notice little things that escaped me the night before; masks and

photographs on the brick walls, rocks and sticks and other knick­knacks scattered on the tiny tables placed like islands around the couches. Homey touches that remind me of the old farmhouse I shared with my mother, a place I have not returned to in the years since she died. The day after I buried her, I placed all our furniture into storage, locked the diaries and papers in the bank, threw a suit­case into the Mustang, and just took off. Like the old Bon Jovi song. On a steel horse I ride. Wanted dead or alive.

Tall bookcases take up most of the room. Grant's reading mate­rial is mainly religious in nature, but not just about Christianity. I see shelves devoted to Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, and Shamanic faiths; myths and legends, archaic texts with odd titles I cannot pronounce, some of which are not even in English.

I hear Grant's cane, but do not turn around until he is directly be­hind me. I smile. "Some library you have."

"I might have left the priesthood, but not my faith. Even if it has ... changed over the years."

I say nothing. I am no expert on matters of faith. Being with Grant is the closet I will ever come to such a thing.

We leave his apartment, walking slowly down the stairs and out the metal door. The sun is shining, and the air smells fresh, with only a hint of the sea and the docks. Up and down the street I see row af­ter row of ramshackle brick warehouses, some of which seem to still be in use. Others are under construction. I see billboards announc­ing the imminent arrival of upscale lofts.

The property I am standing on looks far bigger in the daytime. It also appears to have had its own revival. I glance at Grant. "You own this place? Seems as though it would be pretty pricey for a for­mer priest."

"We both inherited from our parents." Grant points at the squat brick buildings around us. "My mother died from cancer when I was in high school, and my father drank himself to death after she was gone. He had money, though, and the foresight to put a stipula­

tion in his will stating that all his property would be held in trust foi

me until I left the Church."

"Wasn't he happy you became a priest?"

"Hated the idea. He thought there was too much hypocrisy. And

perverts."

"Nice image."

Grant shrugs. "It was a lot of money. Still is. When I was done traveling it didn't seem enough to just live somewhere like a fat cat. I wanted to do more. And this area, five years ago, was a wasteland. I bought this block cheap and converted the space into a shelter and social services office."

"And let me guess ... you give free concerts, nightly."

He looks at me sideways. "It's helping, Maxine. You wouldn't believe the number of people who have significantly turned their lives around."

"You're walking a fine line, Grant."

"I know," he says. "I know."

Outside, I do not see much in the way of people except for two el­derly men in battered overalls who emerge from a back door around the side of the main building off Grant's apartment block. They carry buckets full of gardening tools and greet Grant with big smiles. They look at me with equal, if only slightly less-trusting gazes-focusing briefly on my exposed throat, my hands and forearms, which are dark with those wild tattoos. The men nod once, like it means something, then putter off down the sidewalk with shuffles that are stooped and worn and bespeak old nagging aches in muscle and bone.

From behind the nearby door I hear pots banging, cheerful whistling. I smell grease. Grant, biting back a smile, opens the door for me.

There is a kitchen on the other side-industrial in size and de­sign, with a clean black-and-white tile floor and shining stainless steel appliances. A woman stands at the wide double sink. She is tiny, almost frail, with a nose that resembles a rock slide, full of old

breaks and scars. Everything else about her is delicate: her chin, her pale skin, her long hair that is a snowy shade of white. Bangles sing as she moves, and under her arm she holds a small potted plant that bears a suspicious resemblance to cannabis. When the old woman

sees us, she lets out a cry.

"Grant!" She dances to him on light feet, her little plant bobbing and weaving as she floats across the floor.

"Mary," he replies, in a voice just as dramatic and grandiose. "Mary, my lamb. It has been only a day, and yet I am nigh swooning for your company."

She giggles, a sound that is surprisingly girlish. "Fred was terri­bly concerned when you didn't show last night, Grant. I told him not to be, but he gets so caught up."

"Typical." Grant strokes the delicate leaf of the plant she holds out to him. "Fred, what have I told you? I need my own life. So does Mary. You have to let go."

Too late, I think, but the old woman turns her gaze on me, fol­lowed by a smile so bright I think it must be carved of sunshine, and she throws her free arm around my shoulders in a hug fierce enough to enter my bones.

"Greetings!" she cries. "So lovely. Who are you?"

"Maxine," I say, wondering when and if it might be polite to dis­

entangle myself from the wiry arm crushing my body.

"Maxine," echoes Mary. "A very strong name. So manly. How

nice for you! Please, say hello to Fred."

"Um." I stare at the little plant, and glance at Grant, who is standing behind the old woman. He makes a shooing motion with his hand.

I touch one little leaf and shake it gingerly. "Greetings ... Fred."

Mary beams. "Would you like something to eat? I'm preparing lunch for all our lost souls. Grant says no one does it better." She leans close, voice dropping to a whisper. "It's because I cook with the love of the Holy Spirit, my dear."

"And, occasionally, some other illegal substances that I hope,

sweet Mary, do not inadvertently enter today's dessert. Yes?"

Grant's smile has an edge. All I can do is stare.

"Oh, of course, Grant." Mary smiles sweetly. "None of Fred's

brethren have been sacrificed for today's meal. I take sin seriously."

"That's good," Grant says. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I have

more to show Maxine."

"Ah!" Mary releases me. "Good-bye!"

"Bye," I say weakly, and let Grant steer me from the kitchen into

another large room filled with tables and empty chairs and oversize

windows. I glance over my shoulder at the metal door swinging shut

behind us.

"Wow," I breathe. "Was that a cannabis plant she made me pet?"

"Yup," Grant mutters. "She keeps getting the seeds, and I keep

making her get rid of the plants. She's stubborn that way."

"And the prospect of arrest doesn't phase her? At all?" Grant

just looks at me, and I shrug. "Fine. Is she another one of your ex­

periments?"

He grunts. "How old do you think Mary is?"

"Pushing seventy."

"Not even close. She's only forty-two, Maxine."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head. "You're seeing her good side. Mary was in

terrible shape when she got here. Lost cause, was the general consen­

sus. But I could see she had a good core, so I did my best. Not that

it means she'll ever make a full recovery. I think what you just saw is

as good as it's going to get."

"She lives here full time?"

Grant smiles. "She livens the place up." "Apparently so. And last night? Gilda?" "Former prostitute and drug addict."

"Huh." I smile. "You're a knight in shining armor, Grant

Cooperon."

He hugs me against his side. "And you are my lady, Maxine Kiss."

"Yeah," I murmur, all warm. "What a pair."

Grant laughs, leaning down to kiss me, but just as our lips touch, I hear a loud echoing bang, followed by angry shouts.

"That's coming from the men's ward," Grant says, and I do not wait for him; I run, moving swiftly out of the mess hall down a long winding corridor decorated with framed movie posters and bulletin boards organized by want ads and announcements. I glance over my shoulder; Grant is behind me, limping heavily-forehead wrinkled, mouth twisted. He does not tell me to stop.

I hear more shouts, hard language, the crash and shatter of some­thing large, and I slam open a set of metal double doors, rushing into a space full of cots and tables, sofas, yet more windows-and a group of men beating the living shit out of someone. I take a step, prepared to yell, but my voice catches like thorns in my throat.

All the men have auras. All the men are zombies.

I do not know who sees me first, but the fighting suddenly stops­frozen-and every head snaps around to look at me. I see bodies on the ground, bleeding out, needing help, and I do not think-I do not question. I run toward those possessed men. I run fast.

I have never used a weapon against a zombie. No guns, no knives-I have no quarrel with human hosts-but as I near the men I see a flash of steel. Behind me Grant shouts, and I brace myself as a knife arcs down into my gut.

The blade breaks. I stagger. The zombie in front of me takes a step back, all of them staring, confusion and recognition flickering in their eyes. Seven, all shrouded in crowns of darkness that flicker and pulse. Hard gazes. Makes me wonder, again, what it is to be pos­sessed and not realize it. To have a creature inside your head, whis­pering, compelling urges, and not be able to turn it off. To have it with you and with you until your body becomes nothing but a tool, a living and breathing illusion of free will-a game of manipulation.

Prisoners, puppets, pawns. I suppose I am not much different.

Though maybe that can change. Faith is contagious.

I hold up my hands, palms out, staring down the men, all of

whom have history etched into their bodies; tattoos, hungry hol­

lows, sinew and leather for skin. They look strong, but it is their

minds that are the weapons. The will and intent of the demons in­

side of them.

"Hunter Fucking Kiss," mutters one of the zombies, a man with

a red wool cap pulled down hard over his grizzled head. He makes a move, but I do not give him the benefit of a good feint. I grab his wrist and twist, driving him to his knees as I slam my free palm against his forehead and hold it there, chanting, watching the man's eyes roll white, fluttering like a hard current is sizzling through his lashes. He tries to break free, but the boys are strong in my body, and it is nothing to hold him. I hook the demon and get ready to pull. The other zombies stand watching, none willing to lift a hand to help their brother.

I want to know why they are not running. Not running, like those zombies at Pike Place Market.

Cold fear slams my gut. I am so stupid. I hear Grant hobbling close, and I scream at him to stop. He does not. He stands in the doorway, staring, eyes hard, unforgiving, the slant of his mouth so cold I feel a chill when I look at him. No demon has ever frightened me, but Grant-right at that moment-comes close.

"What is this?" His voice is low, commanding. My skin tingles when I hear him, a prickly rush that reminds me of that first note from

his flute. Like something is opening, shifting. Magic, I think. Power.

"Grant," I say, trying to stay calm. "Grant, turn around and

walk out of here. Go to a secure room and lock the door. Please. Do

it now."

He ignores me, limping forward, and I shove away the zombie in front of me and run, expecting at any moment to hear a gun go off,

to see Grant's skull explode in my face like a melon. To go down holding his body, again and again and again.

But no gun is fired, and when I reach Grant he is still alive-alive and impossibly grim. I try to push him out of the room, but he holds

his ground.

"No," he tells me in a hard voice. "No, Maxine. This isn't what you think. I know these men. They're regulars here." "There are demons inside of them, Grant."

"I guess I know that now," he replies, but he still does not move, and I tug on his arm. He still pulls back. "No, Maxine. No, I know them. I know those men. They won't hurt me."

"Fuck that," I snarl, finally understanding. Makes me furious. I turn back around to face the zombies, who are still watching us, un­moving. Grant grabs my arm. His fingers are loose-I could break free just by shrugging-but I freeze inside his grip, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw screams with pain.

"One chance," he whispers. "Let me find out what is going on. They'll talk to me, Maxine. They don't know I'm aware of what they are."

"They do now," I retort. "The two of us together? You bet your ass they know."

His mouth hardens. "Let me do this my way."

"Your life, your choice," I snap, but there is heat in my eyes, my throat, and I swallow hard, fighting back the pain. Grant moves in front of me, hiding my face from the zombies, making himself a tar­get. I fight him, afraid, but he presses his fingers against my cheek, stilling me.

"I don't want to die," he breathes. "And I don't want you hurt, Maxine. But you have to trust me."

"I trust you," I tell him. "I just think you're too stupid to live." "Maybe," Grant says. "But God even loves His fools."

He begins to turn away from me. I grab his hand and hold on

tight. Step up to his side. He hesitates, then nods once, mouth curv­

ing into a smile that is more intimate than any touch; unspoken, se­

cret, a riddle between my heart and his, where the truth is simple

and profound: I belong with him. And he belongs with me.

We walk to the zombies. I loosen my hand. No one tries to attack

us. They stare at Grant, and they stare at me, and I do not under­

stand why they look at him with deference in their eyes. Respect.

When they look at me I see fear, hate-which, at least, is something

I understand. I welcome it.

The man with the red cap steps forward. "You shouldn't be here, Mr. Cooperon. Nothing doing that needs your concern."

Big fat lie. I glimpse blood on the tile floor behind their legs. I walk up to the zombies. They do not move. I do not ask. I snap my fingers and point, pouring cold rage into my eyes, making them dead, dead like my mother, like my heart when I think of her. I stare at those demons, unflinching, telling them in silence their futures, and after a moment, they shuffle aside.

I see two young men sprawled on the floor behind them. Bloody, beaten. They are zombies, too. Grant tries to go to them; the man with the red wool cap stretches his arm across the path.

"It's not safe," he rasps. "Bastards came here to hurt you. We caught them outside."

I force the zombie to step back. "You're protecting Grant?"

Red cap says nothing. Just stares at me. Grant says, "Answer her, Rex."

The zombie's lips curl. "You don't know what she is."

"I know she wants to kill you," Grant replies. "You, as in, the de­mon inside of you. The demon I am speaking to. Yes, I'm aware of that now."

"Weren't you always?" Rex narrows his eyes. "Or just that naive? Not that it matters. We still need you. Still ... want you."

I glance past him at the zombies stretched beaten on the ground. One of them is young, no older than eighteen, with hollow cheeks and brown greasy hair. Red jersey, loose black pants. He hasn't been

1i

possessed for long. A new zombie. Fresh meat. I can tell by the strength of his aura. It's not too late for him.

The other is a different story. An older man with coarse black hair cut through with silver. Deep canyons in his face. Conscious, with a burning gaze. The nimbus around his head is dark as coal, so strong it almost throbs. This one belongs to the demon, heart and soul.

I peer into his eyes. His lips peel back over his yellow teeth; snarling, or just in pain. I do not care, either way. Two other zom­bies crouch close to hold him down.

"Did you come here to hurt Grant?" I ask the beaten zombie, wondering as I do what is wrong with me. I should not be here. Grant should not be here. I should have dragged him out of here the first moment I saw all the zombies in this room. Demons and their hosts cannot be trusted. Ever.

But I do not move. I have to trust Grant. I have to play this out.

The zombie says nothing. I press my palm to his forehead. He fights, and the ones holding him down share a quick uncertain look.

I stare at the man in the red cap. Rex. "You know what I'm go­ing to do to them." My gaze travels over every watching face. "You know what I could do to all of you. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't."

"There's no reason," says Rex. "Kill them."

Not the answer I was expecting. Grant rests his hand on my shoulder. "Tell me," he says, his voice still holding that soft ring of command. "Tell me what is going on."

"I think you already know." Rex lifts his chin, regarding him with an edge of defiance that is made weak when he is unable to hold Grant's gaze for more than several seconds. "You and your mu­sic. You remake us. You turn us into ... something else."

"Something worth killing over?" Grant asks.

"Yes," says Rex, and there is a heat in his eyes, a passion, that disarms me, makes my skin crawl. I feel like I am looking at some­

one who has found religion-the fanatical type, of any faith, who says yes without question. Worship-yes. Die-yes. Kill-yes.

Grant leans close. "I'm the one you should be trying to kill. You wouldn't be the first. Here I am. Perfect target."

I want to grab him and run. Rex smiles coldly. "If we wanted you dead, Mr. Cooperon, you would be dead. But given what you've done to us, we need you alive. Need you to keep playing your music. Keep making the change."

"Change into what?" I ask. "You know what you are. What could Grant possibly give you, ever, that you would want?"

"Freedom," Rex says, giving me a hard look. "Freedom from our queen."

The boys stir against my skin, tossing in their sleep. I grind my teeth. "Your queen is locked behind the veil. She has no hold over you."

"And you would know?" Rex shakes his head. "You are a Hunter. You kill us, but you know nothing about us."

"I don't have to," I snap. Grant's hand squeezes, but I shrug him off, pointing at the zombies being held down on the ground. "Not everyone feels the way you do. Some are terrified. Some run. Some fight. What makes all of you so different?"

Emotion flickers in the zombie's narrow grizzled gaze. The aura above his head is the weakest shadow I have ever seen a zombie pos­sess, but I do not take it as proof or comfort. The darkness is still there. The demon inside that man knows it.

He is making a choice, whispers a voice inside my head. He is choosing to be something else. Something different than he was born to be.

And the thing about choices, I remember, is that not everyone

makes the same one.

Grant takes a slow deep breath. "Why do you want freedom

from this ... this queen?"

"Why does anyone want to be free?" Rex gives him a wary look.

w 1,

"She controls us, commands us, sees through our eyes all that we see. Even now she watches, everywhere with us, feeding, taking what we take and using it to make her strong. That is all she cares about, being strong." He touches his head, tapping it twice. "I can feel her. She wants me to kill you."

"Then why resist?" Grant asks. "Why fight for me?"

"Because your music does something to us. You dull the link. Quiet the hunger."

"But it's there," I say, unable to look away from the shadow of that aura. "You still crave the pain your hosts provide."

"I crave yours," Rex says, and Grant steps right up into the zom­bie's face, knocking him back with a hard shove-surprising everyone, including me. I wait for them to strike back, but not a one-not even Rex-so much as twitches. Even I feel the pressure to stay still, anything to avoid the terrible focus of the man beside me.

"You don't touch her," Grant says, in a voice so cold and strong it cuts. "You never touch her. None of you. And if anyone else tries, you stop them. Protect her like you protected me."

"No," Rex whispers, a light sweaty sheen covering his forehead. "No, we will. not do that."

"Then get out," Grant tells him. "Go back to your queen."

Rex shuts his eyes. "She'll kill us. If your influence fades and she regains control-"

"I gave you a choice. Promise not to hurt Maxine. Or leave It's easy."

"You're asking too much of them," I say. "You don't know thf history of my kind and theirs."

"I know they want to be human." Grant tilts his head, eyes nar rowed. "Isn't that right, Rex? All of you crave something more More than just being ... what was it, Maxine? Parasites?"

Don't push them, I beg silently, but Rex does not retaliate. Hi

shuffles backward, the rest of the zombies moving with him, drag

ging the two on the ground. I run after them, falling to my knees over the young man in the jersey. I drag my hand against his fore­head, hook the demon squirming inside his unconscious body, and yank hard. It feels like pulling a raw chicken apart with my bare hands: juicy, cold, dirty. The demon wisp writhes, screaming, beg­ging his brothers for help, but the zombies look on, glancing at each other, shifting from foot to foot. I do not say a word. Just slap the fighting cloud against my forearm, the mouth tattooed there, and apply pressure.

Aaz stirs, dreamily. The demon screams. And then, after a mo­ment, stops. No time wasted-I reach out to the other man, who is still conscious, and exorcise him as well. He fights, but not hard enough, slumping into a deep sleep the moment I make the hook. This time I feed the demon to my other arm. Raw sucks him in.

I look at the zombies, at Rex, who is watching me with cold dis­passion. "Leave them."

"No trust?" Rex smiles, reaches beneath the jersey of the young man, and pulls out a handgun. Taps the barrel against his forehead and tucks the weapon into the deep pocket of his jacket. He backs away, and the others follow. No talking, no dissent. Just like the zom­bies at Pike Place. Working together. Cooperating. Sharing territory.

Except this time all the zombies but Rex look uneasy, afraid­and not just of me.

"Our queen wants you dead, because she fears your power," Rex says, as the men reach the metal double doors. He stands there, framed by the other zombies, his red hat askew over his grizzled head. His eyes are dark, burning. Grant steps close, his hand brush­ing against mine, our fingers tangling as the zombie watches on, eyes narrowing. He shifts his gaze to me. "But if the two of you are to­gether ... maybe she's right."

Just not right enough for Rex to do anything about it. He gets out, fast, followed by the others, who hesitate a fraction longer

before following. Maybe some second thoughts, after all. That queen of theirs, Blood Mama, must be a big bad bitch to make me­the sole executioner of their kind-look appealing.

Grant lets out a long slow breath, staring at the door. I glance at him sideways. "What happened to Mr. Love and Kindness?"

"I have my limits."

"They wouldn't have been able to hurt me. You could have used them."

He glances down at my stomach. "I wasn't thinking in the short term, Maxine."

I look away, rubbing my neck. "And what if you get hurt?" "I thought you didn't trust them."

"They needed you. That makes its own kind of trust."

"They still need me, Maxine. And if they need me bad enough, they'll come back."

"Which, of course, leads to the problem of what happens after they're done getting what they want."

"One thing at time." Grant sighs, then says, softly, "I knew those men, Maxine. I was making progress. And I still ... I still believe that they can be helped. I want to help them."

"You have helped them," I admit grudgingly. "You've made progress. Enough progress that they decided to save your life. That's something, Grant. I never thought I'd see the day."

Grant squeezes my hand, looking down at the two men sprawled at our feet. "Will they remember anything of what just happened?"

"Not likely. You've heard of selective amnesia and lost time, right?" I raise my eyebrow. "Bingo."

"Seems convenient."

"I suppose, but what they did-what all those men in here just did-is highly unusual. These kinds of demons usually hang back, live like shadows, just ... whispering. Manifesting urges. What you've seen over the past day or so is much more intense. Takes energy, rower. to completely take over a host.

"Where would they get that power?"

"Good question." I chew the inside of my cheek, not fond of the possible answer. "Did Rex or any of those men know you were going to Pike Place last night? Or a month ago, before that other attack?"

Grant nods, his gaze sharpening. "Like I said, those men were my regulars. Rex came first. Ex-con, drug addict. Trouble, right off the bat. Eased up after a while, though. He was ... responding well. Got a job down at the docks. The other guys came later. Rex said they were ... friends."

"Sounds like he recruited them."

"Yeah." Grant clears his throat. "My movements wouldn't have been much of a secret."

"Which means, if Rex is to be believed, their queen would have known you were coming. She could have commanded some of her demons to be there waiting."

"But why Pike Place? Why at the market, when there would have been a dozen other places and times that she could have had some­one kill me? Doesn't make sense, Maxine. It doesn't even make sense that anyone would wait until now to come here."

He is right. It makes no sense at all. The boys shiver against my skin. Grant wraps his arm over my shoulder and draws me close. "This isn't going to stop, is it? Not until I'm dead."

"Not until we're both dead," I whisper, and press my lips against

his shoulder.

Seven

There is no time. The men need medical attention. That, and the for­merly possessed always wake up confused, frightened. Grant calls 911, and in ten minutes an ambulance arrives, followed closely by the police. We are questioned separately, but spin stories of surprise and confusion and who-could-do-such-a-thing. Voices shake. Knees trem­ble. Adrenaline, riding us down, just as it should-not entirely an act.

And then the men, still unconscious, are carried out on stretch­ers. The police leave. Grant and I go back to his apartment, take off our clothes, and crawl under the covers of his bed, simply holding each other. I like how his sheets and pillows smell like the both of us. I like how it feels to have his body tangled heavy and strong around my own, the warm planes and angles of his face so close I could kiss him by tilting my chin.

So I do, on his jaw. Grant rumbles, almost a purr. "Do that again, Maxine."

I press my lips against his mouth, and his hands slide up my back

into my hair as he deepens the kiss, crushing me to his body, wind­ing his legs around my hips. Something hard and hot presses against my stomach, and I touch him, stroking lightly, watching Grant's throat tighten, his eyes flutter shut.

His hand trails from my hair to my breast. "You're a bad woman, Maxine."

"My horns hold up my halo."

He laughs, his thumb moving in some very interesting circles that

make my back arch and my thighs rub together. "What are we going

to do with each other? What are we going to do?"

What started out on a teasing note turns into something softer, darker, and it makes me sigh. "Our options are limited. Run or fight."

"I won't run. I don't want to be prey. I don't think you do, either. Assuming ... you even want to stay."

His hesitation makes me smile. "I treat men like dirty socks, Grant. Use 'em, then lose 'em."

"Is that so?" His hold around me tightens. "And if I don't want to be lost?"

No more room for jokes. I brush back his hair, stroking the line of his cheek. "Then you won't be. Not ever."

Grant looks at me with such tenderness I forget how to breathe, how to think; all I can do is ride the sudden sharp ache in my heart, a pain that rises thick and pure into my throat, making it hard to breathe.

Life goes on, my mother used to say. Even i f you don't want it to.

But I want it to. My life. My future. Hope. Faith.

And no more running.

I do not know what scares me more.

wake at sunset, just as the boys are ready to peel off my skin. Grant is not in bed with me. His side of the mattress is cold. My searching hand nudges paper. A note.

I barely notice my tattoos dissolving into smoke as I kick back the covers, scrambling to get up, but before my feet can touch the floor I hear a familiar tap from the other room. Grant, leaning on his cane, pokes his head around the doorway. "Hey, you're awake."

I force myself to breathe, and look down at the paper in my hands. I see the words "going downstairs" and "be right back" and "don't worry, love, G."

I crumple the note and meet his gaze, which is becoming con­cerned. "I thought you had gone and done something stupid."

"Tempting, but no." Grant's mouth quirks into a wry smile. "I wish I could pound my chest and lock you up, but I'm no superhero, and I value my life."

"Those demons would kill you." I stifle a gasp as the boys peel free, smoke coalescing into flesh before they scatter to the floor, stretching and yawning, claws clicking madly.

"I was thinking more of you killing me," he mutters, watching the transformation. Calm. Always so calm. I wonder what it would take to make him lose his nerve for real. He takes a step into the room. In his free hand he holds a wooden flute. I raise my brow.

"I have a plan," Grant tells me. "But it's dangerous. Stupid. And it probably won't work."

"Wooo!" cheer the boys, pumping their little fists into the air.

We eat dinner. Talk. Make love. Hold each other inside the shower, where I wrap my arms around Grant's hard body and hug him so tight I leave bruises. He never complains-just embraces me with his quiet strength, rumbling words I do not understand, but which sound good and warm, like home.

And then, when the hour turns late, we leave. Grant takes his flute. I have the boys.

It is raining, water sheeting down against the windshield with deafening force, blinding my view of the road. Lightning cuts the

city skyline, thunder rolling over the empty downtown streets. It is a

bad night to be out.

I park the car on First Street, directly in front of Pike Place Mar­

ket. The steel grates are down, the lights off. Neither of us moves,

though the boys melt into the shadows of the backseat. Dek and Mal coil tight around my neck.

Grant fingers the flute. "I suppose we could test my theory in here where it's dry. I've never tried to summon a demon queen from inside a '69 red Mustang. Might make a quick getaway that much easier."

"Having second thoughts?"

"Not really. You said this place is a hot spot, right? Where the veil is thin?"

"And you said you've been playing weekends in this market for months. Just ... doing your thing." Changing personalities, weav­ing color into the darkness of human spirits. Work I question, work I would never want him to attempt on me-no matter how good his intentions. "I suppose that explains why you became a threat, if your music somehow made it through the weak spots in the veil. Af­fecting demons on the other side."

"It may have been enough that I changed demons already here."

I say nothing. Just tap the steering wheel, staring out the window at the rain-battered street. Chew the inside of my cheek, trying to consider the possibilities, the future. My brain goes empty. All I can see is darkness and cold, the shelling water beating the world into a hard drum, a hard pulse, a hard heart.

I touch the door handle. "Ready?"

Grant never answers. Zee explodes from the shadows of the backseat, claws tearing up the leather. Something massive slams into the Mustang's hood, tilting the vehicle up on its front two wheels be­fore dropping us hard to the road. The crash is bone jarring. My seat belt cuts so deep I imagine it touches my spine. Grant shouts my name. Glass shatters, a massive fist punching through the wind­shield, slamming into his headrest. Zee howls.

I shove open my door and tumble out, dragging Grant over the driver's seat behind me. The rain steals my breath away, as does the hulking figure crouched on the hood, a creature twice my height and triple around. No features, no eyes or nose or ears-just a mass of smoky shadows radiating heat like the rough shell of a hot coal.

Zee melts from the shadows, Aaz and Raw close behind. Dek and Mal loosen their grip around my neck, uncoiling through my hair, whispering words I do not understand. A prickle runs up my spine. I glance over my shoulder.

We are not alone. I see other bodies, darker than night, shambling close like sludge hills with legs. Their skin hisses and steams beneath the rain, and there is a glint of red where their eyes should be.

The demon on top of my car makes a throaty sound and leaps down, concrete cracking beneath its feet. Behind it I see a shimmer that makes me blink hard, wipe rain from my eyes, and stare hard at the hood of my car, which is no longer crumpled and torn-but completely undamaged. The windshield is intact. The only indica­tion there was ever violence is the driver's side door, still hanging open.

"Bogeymen," Zee mutters. "Pain baiters."

Grant lifts the flute to his mouth. The bogey watches the man, measures him. Makes me think of my mother, the zombie who must have sat in darkness outside our home, also watching, also measuring.

I click my fingers, and Zee throws himself at the demon. His claws sink into the frayed darkness of its back, teeth ripping into shadow, tearing out chunks of it like meat. Aaz and Raw cut behind us, yanking spikes from their spines and using them as daggers as they slash through the hulking demons behind us, spraying sparks through the rain, against the cobblestone road.

Grant presses his mouth to the flute, and the trembling notes that pour from the instrument, quicksilver and throaty, make me gasp and the bogies howl. I see no colors, only I feel-like riding breath­less and wild on the back of a thundercloud-and it is more than

music, more than I imagined, more than Grant could explain. Pied Piper, running Hamelin into Hell.

Heat blossoms around the crown of my head. I look up and see a slit in the night sky. An eye, bathed in red; a cut in the veil, a break in the rain. I hear heartbeats, the tumult and chatter of jostling bod­ies, the world on the other side pressing down and down through the narrow opening. The bogies try to touch that bulge, but the boys hang on like monkeys in banyan trees, swarming and cutting, weigh­ing down those thick arms and legs with their small dense bodies. Looking at me the entire time. Waiting for my call, while I wait for Grant, who falters, the music dying against his lips. An acrid filthy scent fills the air-the miasma, the spit of the Blood Sea.

The bogies disappear. Gone, sparking out-one blink and no more. The boys fall hard to the road, scrabbling and searching. Nothing. I do not bother looking. I reach out and touch Grant. We lean into each other. I wish he would keep playing his flute-that was the plan-but all I can do is stare.

"Maxine," Grant whispers hoarsely. "There's something I need to tell you. About why I was never afraid."

"Not now," I murmur.

"Now," he says, and the quiet urgency, the fear in his voice, is enough to make me tear my gaze from the sky and watch him tap his temple with a shaking hand. "I had seen you before. Up here. I dreamed your colors, your aura, before I ever met you. And I

knew ..." He stops, his eyes growing hot, bright. "I knew I would

love you. I knew then, and I knew it after. I couldn't help myself."

"Grant," I whisper.

"I was afraid of not telling you that," he says. "I'm still afraid."

He presses the flute to his mouth, but only manages to play a

high sweet trill before something long and dark snakes from the eye.

I move, but not fast enough. The tentacle coils around Grant's

throat and raised arms, snapping tight. The flute drops. Grant goes

in the opposite direction, kicking wildly, screams muffled as he is

hauled like a fish up and up to that red steaming eye. Hooked-just as I hook demons.

I grab his ankles and go with him.

Born again, sliding from the womb into a splash of blood. I open my eyes and see red clouds, red smoke, an expanse of red water running into darkness, boiling and spitting like some hot pustule on the ass of a hissing volcano. The air is foul. Shadows dance around my body.

I hover in the air, my arms tearing from the sockets. My hands are still wrapped around Grant's ankles, and he is being pulled by some­thing I cannot see. Pulled, yet unmoving. Just as I am not moving.

I look down. There is a slit beneath me, and from that slit I see Zee. His little hands clutch my feet. His teeth are bared, the spikes of his hair standing straight up. I can only guess at who is holding his body, anchoring us all.

I hear a whisper, just behind my ear. I cannot turn to look. Too much pain, not enough leverage. I wait, and a moment later a body floats around me, preceded by a wave of darkness: tentacles, shivering, writhing like underwater fronds of seaweed, massive enough to block out the sea and surround, cocoon, weave me into a darkness absolute, where all I know is what my hands know, what my feet know, crushed as they are by another set of small hands that refuse to let me go.

From the darkness, a face emerges, golden and wide and round. Like a doll's head-a simulacrum. Not human, but a rough attempt, and totally devoid of expression. Black eyes, no lids. Slits for nos­trils. A small red mouth.

I swallow hard, fighting down fear, focusing on Grant. Grant, who I have not heard make a sound since opening my eyes in this place. His body is so still.

"Hunter Kiss," says the face, a melodious voice, a song of soft vowels and cruel charm. The voice of a queen. Blood Mama. Her lips barely move. "Give him to me, Hunter."

Make me, I tell her silently, and Grant is tugged, sharp. I cry out, but my hands do not slip, not even when a tentacle snakes around my throat, pressing. Dek and Mal, nestled in my hair, attack with hisses and muffled growls. Blood Mama shows no reaction, but a moment later the boys are torn away from me. I scream, watching helplessly as they fall past Zee through. the opening in the veil.

Zee howls. Red foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth. Blood Mama's head tilts toward him.

"Little man," she murmurs. "Still paying penance?"

"Get away from him," I snarl, tears running down my face­from the pain, the effort to hold on, my own sense of helplessness. My fingers slip, but only just. I bite back a cry.

"Let go," Blood Mama says again, squeezing my throat. I grit my teeth. She could take him if she wanted, but she has not. She wants me to release him, which is wrong; it must mean something.

"You think too hard," whispers the queen. "Little girl lost. Your mother was never so aimless, nor her mother. Not any woman of your line. Warriors, merciless. Beautiful adversaries. True Hunters. And now you. Soft. Adrift. Letting grief unhinge your life, when the simple truth remains that everyone dies, everyone loses, and your pain is no more special than any other."

I remember my mother wearing a stupid frilly apron, a rare mo­ment of whimsy, singing Happy Birthday. "You killed her."

"I ordered her death, yes. As I have ordered the death of all the women who came before you. As I will order yours, when the time is right."

My throat burns, but not from the tentacle. Blood Mama laughs, quiet. "You want to kill me. You think you can kill me."

I think I can try. The darkness around us deepens, folding close against my skin; warm and sticky. Blood Mama's imitation of a face floats so close I can see myself reflected in her black pitiless eyes; shark eyes, doll eyes, glassy and empty.

"Try," she breathes. "Try and we will all die. Stupid girl. You

wonder why I hunt this man. He is no threat to me. But with his power . . . "

She wants to use him, my mind whispers. Possess him.

"Yes," Blood Mama breathes. "Alive, he would never accept me. His mind is too strong. Dead, or close to, he would have no choice."

"Why?" My heart is breaking, right along with my body. "Why would you want his power? There's no one here for you to convert. You can't even leave your prison."

"Can't I?" Blood Mama sways close. "Can't I, Hunter?"

I stare, stricken. "Then why haven't you? Why haven't you torn down the veil?"

Her face remains smooth. "There are worse things than my kind, Hunter Kiss. You think you are the only one with a covenant? You think you are the only Hunter?"

My fingers weaken. Grant's leg twitches. I close my eyes, pouring all my strength and will into my hands. Blood Mama's warm breath touches my cheek.

"The veils are weakening," she whispers. "All the veils. And if they break, as they most surely will in time, all will be lost. There are demons who have no love for us. They do not need us, in the same way we need you. They eat only death."

The First Ward, I think. World Reapers.

"Yes," she breathes. "They will destroy us all."

I have lost the strength to speak out loud. There must be a way to stop them. They were locked away. Someone did that.

"And where is that someone?" Blood Mama's eyes glitter. "No, we are alone. All of us. We must fight or die."

I believe her. But that does not mean I want to help her. Give me Grant.

"No." Her voice rises-with frustration, perhaps, though I can barely imagine it, not with her power, not with our vulnerability. "The man will serve me here, alive or dead. I will use him against the First Ward. Perhaps he can turn them in the same way he has begun to turn

my kind. If not, I will send him back to your world and turn his gift to darkness. Open doorways for my kind into the hearts and minds of humans. Power, Hunter. I need power, if I am to hold the veil."

Grant's foot twitches again. I have trouble breathing. I f you want him that badly, why haven't you taken him from me? Why haven't you tried to hurt me?

Silence. Zee says something in a language I do not understand, words tumbling from his sharp mouth, running almost into song. Blood Mama looks down at him. She barks back a single word, and Zee begins to laugh. The queen snarls. I hear a cracking sound, like a lash; her tentacles, snapping against the air.

A moment later, Grant begins to descend. It happens so slowly I believe it must be my imagination-until my arms bend and my joints scream with another kind of pain. I hold my breath, trying not to shake as I clutch his ankles, my hands sliding up his legs to his waist as he moves past me. I hug him close, pressed belly to belly, shaking against his chest, savoring its slow rise and fall. I will him to wake. He must speak.

The tentacle around his shoulders and head loosens, as does the shadow constraining my neck. Blood Mama presses close. "Take him. Go."

I stare, stunned. "You'll try again."

"No," she says, the edge of a scream in her voice. "No, I cannot."

Zee tugs on me. I glance down at him, still disbelieving. "Why?"

"Promises," hisses the queen, and a tentacle snakes between Grant and I, pressing hard against my lower belly. "A promise I should never have made."

I do not feel us move, but I feel something wet against my legs and look down again. Zee is gone. Grant and I are knee-deep in the eye of the veil. I glance back at Blood Mama, whose face hovers like a terri­ble golden moon above my head, her body blocking out sky and sea.

"The First Ward," I say quickly. "When?"

Her masks fractures; an actual crack splitting down the middle of

her face. A terrible screaming wind surrounds us, abrading my skin, tearing and cutting. I squint, still trying to watch the queen, listening hard.

If she answers I never hear. Grant and I slip into another world.

open my eyes to rain. My cheek is pressed against cobblestone. My body aches. Grant is on his back beside me, still breathing, soaked to the bone. I push myself close. It is difficult. My body does not want to move, but I get there, tasting tears.

The boys gather around, Dek and Mal curling warm against my throat, purring. I swallow a sob. "Everyone okay?"

"Same question, same answer," Zee says softly. "Your heart's too big for us cutters."

"Big enough, bad boy." I brush Grant's hair away from his fore­head. A hot flush steals over my body, joy mixing with heartache. I try to speak, but my voice breaks. I try again, and this time I choke the words out. "What happened up there, Zee? What did you do?"

"Reminded her."

"Of what? What promise was made?"

"Protection," whispers the demon, sharing a brief look with Aaz and Raw. "Protection she tried to steal from you. Hard earned, hard fought, by those long dead. Protection for those you mark."

"I never marked Grant."

"Yes." Zee places his small hand over my heart. "You did."

Headlights cut the rain. I try to stand, but my body refuses me. So I lie in the road, trusting the boys, too tired to care if they scare the hell out of anyone who sees them.

The car stops just in front of us. A door opens, followed by foot­steps. I roll over and look up into a familiar face. Rex.

"This is not a promise," he says, then bends down and grabs Grant's shoulders. Other hands take hold of my body.

The zombies drag us to the car and take us away.

Eiaht

An hour before dawn, Grant still sleeps. I can stand on my own. Zee, Aaz, and Raw are curled on his sofa, sucking their thumbs, watching. Yogi Bear on the television. They regress, sometimes. I de­cide to go for a walk. After a moment, they come with me.

It has stopped raining. I see stars scattered through breaks in the clouds. I crane my neck, staring, but what I remember is red sky, red ocean, and the face of a pitiless doll, a demon, a queen.

A queen who must keep her promises. Whatever those might be. Zee has more explaining to do. Just not now. I am tired. My mind and body hurt. I do not know how my heart feels.

Around the corner of the building, I see a man sitting alone on a bench. I recognize the red hat. In his hands, a bottle of beer.

I walk softly and sit down beside Rex. No warning. The demon

inside his body flinches, but the human host never moves a muscle.
Zee and the others prowl the shadows; Dek and Mal lean on my ears.
"I suppose you know what happened," I say to him, wondering

just how long a human personality can be suppressed by the demonic before being lost forever. I wonder, too, who this grizzled old zombie was before being possessed-and whether I will ever meet him.

Rex grunts. "Our queen is not in the habit of sharing informa­tion with her people, especially those who have rejected her."

"You came to get us. I assumed that was a request on her part."

He says nothing, which is all the answer I need. I stand back up. I miss Grant. Absurd, I know-it has been less than five minutes­but the ache is strong, the need, powerful. Like I have to go reattach a limb-or maybe my heart. I walk away.

"I won't be coming back," Rex calls after me. I give him the finger.

Grant is standing in the middle of his apartment when I open the door. He looks terrible, hollow, and when he sees me he stares like his heart is breaking. Takes me off guard, stabs me right down to the core. Grant only manages two steps before he goes down hard, off­balance. No cane. I run, dropping at the last moment and skidding to him on my knees.

"When I woke up. .." Grant whispers, then stops, shaking his head. "Sorry. I was worried."

I brush back his hair, still breathless from the grief lingering in his eyes. "You thought I was gone. That I left you."

"Or that you were hurt. Dead." He closes his eyes. "I don't re­member much of what happened."

So I tell him, and as I talk we lie down on the cold hard floor, curled inside each other's arms. Grant does not ask many questions. What he does ask, I cannot answer. He holds me tight, burying his face in my hair. "This isn't over, is it?"

"No," I murmur, tracing circles against his shoulder. Grant shifts, looking into my eyes. His gaze is solid, strong, warm with compas­sion. He looks at me like he can see my soul, and I suppose he can.

He untangles himself and slowly stands, tugging on my hand. "Come on. I want to show you something."

Leaning heavily on my arm, we walk to a door built into the

back end of his living room. Outside is a fire escape, and we climb the wide metal stairs to a flat expanse of rooftop, the center of which is covered by an immense ragtag array of pots and planters and bird fountains. It is not the most beautiful garden I have ever seen, but it is the most heartfelt. In the center of it are two white plastic chairs facing east. I see a glow against the sky, a sliver of light beneath a line of dark clouds.

We sit down, both of us sighing with relief as we ease our various aches and pains. The boys melt from the shadows and lean against my legs. Grant reaches out and takes my hand. He kisses it, and I scoot my chair closer, close enough to bump, and still that is not enough. I gently dislodge the boys and crawl into his lap. Grant cradles me.

"Another day," he murmurs. "Anything can happen. Something wonderful, Maxine."

"You believe that?"

"We're still here, together. That's miracle enough for me."

"Man of faith," I murmur.

"Man of hope," he replies. "So are you."

I do not know what I am, I tell him silently. I do not understand how I exist, or what my purpose is except to be a prison for crea­

tures that are mine to command, who cannot be killed, who make

me a killer. I am a demon hunter. I am a demon.

And I had thought, until tonight, that I held some sliver of the

truth of my life, some hard-earned sense of place in this world, how­

ever small.

I realize now that even that much was an illusion.

"I've been running for such a long time," I whisper. "I don't have

a home. I don't have anything."

"You have me," Grant says.

Claws clutch at my ankles, tugging. My boys wrap their skinny

arms around my legs, red eyes glowing. "And us," Zee says, voice

reedy and sad. "You have us."

Tears burn. Grant kisses my brow and points at the first blush of

dawn. The sun will crest the horizon soon; I can feel it in my bones, a beautiful morning. "Are you ready, Maxine? Are you ready to be­gin again?"

The boys hold their breath, eyes shuttering closed. I remember my mother, family gone and dead-and now, here, another chance. A miracle. Miracle enough for me.

I think, too, of what Blood Mama said. That there is a war com­ing, the same war promised millennia ago when the veil was raised and the demons locked away. A dark future.

But that future is not here yet, and I have love. I love Grant. And I am willing to fight for that love, for him. For us. For the child who will take my place when my time is done.

"Yes," I say, taking his warm hand, pressing it to my lips. "Let's do this."