The Iron Hunt Read Free

Today, especially restless. Tingling since dawn. Not a good sign.
When Zee and the others slept poorly, it usually meant someone needed to run.
Someone, being me.
    “Impossible,”
Grant muttered. “Did they say why they’re here?”
    “Not
yet. Someone could have called.”
    “Any
idea who?”
    “Take
your pick,” Rex said, the demon in his aura fluttering wildly. “You attract
busybodies like gravity and a 34DD.”
    The
old woman was still ignoring us, and had begun humming a complicated melody of
show tunes from South Pacific . A tiny person, skinny as a scrap of
leather, with a nose that had been broken so many times it looked like a
rock-slide. Pale, wrinkled skin, long hair white as snow. Wiry arms scarred
with old needle tracks and covered in thick plastic bangles.
    Mary,
one of the shelter’s permanent residents. A former heroin addict Grant had
found living in a gutter more than a year ago. His special project. An
experiment in progress.
    I
watched her lean over a red plastic bowl, filled to the brim with brownie mix
and chocolate chips. Her right hand stirred the batter, a pair of long, wooden
chopsticks sunk ineffectively into the mix, while her other hand held a glass
jar packed with enough finely crushed weed to make an entire city block high
for a week.
    She
peered through her eyelashes to see if Grant was looking—which he was, even
though his back was slightly turned—and we both flinched as she dumped in
another lump of the green leaves and started stirring faster.
    “You
need to get rid of that stuff,” I said. “Split it between the garbage and the
toilet.”
    Grant’s
knuckles turned white around his cane. “It could be a coincidence the police
are here. Some of them stop to chat sometimes.”
    “You
willing to take that risk?”
    “Flushing
evidence won’t take care of the basement.”
    I
looked down at the old leather of my cowboy boots, pretending to see past them
into the cavernous underbelly of the warehouse shelter. Furniture used to be
manufactured in this place. Some of the big sewing machines and leatherworks
still gathered dust in those dim, dark spaces. Lots of places to hide down
there. Rooms undiscovered.
    One
in particular, hidden behind some broken stairs. Found by accident, just this
morning. Filled with heat lamps. Packed wall to wall with a jungle of carefully
cultivated, highly illegal plants. A makeshift operation. And one old lady hip
deep in the middle of it, singing to her green babies. Knitting little booties
for real babies.
    Crazy,
charming, sweet old Mary. I had no idea how she had managed to pull off an
underground farm. She might have had help. Or been manipulated. Maybe she was
just resourceful, highly motivated. Either way, there was a mess to clean
up—and not just for Grant’s sake, because he owned this shelter.
    He
liked Mary. He liked her enough to bend his moral backbone and risk his
reputation—hold her hand and try to make things better. I felt the same. The
old woman needed someone to make things better. No way she would survive jail.
I knew it. He knew it. Not even handcuffs. Not a glint of them. Mary was like a
butterfly wing. Rubbed the wrong way, and it would be scarred from flying.
    “Sin
is in the basement,” she warbled sweetly, oblivious. “Turn on the light, Jesus.
Shine, Lord, shine.”
    The
zombie laughed. It was an ugly, mocking sound, and I stared at Rex until he
stopped. He tried to hold my gaze, but we had played this game for two months.
Two months, circling each other. Fighting our instincts.
    Rex
looked away, leathery hands fidgeting as he adjusted the frayed red knit cap
pulled low over his grizzled head. The high collar of his thick flannel coat
hugged his coarse jaw. His host’s skin was brown from a lifetime spent working
under the sun. Palms callused, covered in fresh nicks and white scars. He wore
his stolen body with ease, but the old ones, the deep possessors, always did.
Wholly demon, in human flesh.
    He
was afraid