The Iron Hunt Read Free Page A

of me. He hid it well, his human mask calm, but I could see it in
the little things. I could taste it. Made the boys even more restless on my
skin, but in a good way. We liked our zombies scared. We liked them better
dead.
    Grant
gave the zombie a stern look and swayed close to my elbow, leaning hard on his
carved wooden cane. Tall man, broad, his face too angular to be called pretty.
Brown hair tumbled past the collar of his flannel shirt and thermal. His jeans
were old, his eyes intense, brown as an old forest in the rain. He could be a
wolf, another kind of hunter, but not like me. Grant was nicer than me.
    “Maxine,”
he rumbled. “Think you can handle Mary?”
    Sunset
was still two hours away, which meant I could handle a nuclear blast, the
bogeyman, and a vanful of clowns—all at once—but I hesitated anyway, studying
the old woman. I grabbed the front of Grant’s shirt, stood on my toes, and
pressed my mouth against his ear. “She likes you better.”
    “She
adores me,” he agreed, “but I can deal with the police.”
    I
blew out my breath. “What do I do with her?”
    His
hand crept up my waist, squeezing gently. “Be kind.”
    I
pulled away, just enough to see his mouth soften into a rueful smile, and
muttered, “You trust me too much.”
    “I
trust you because I know you,” he whispered in my ear. “And I love you, Maxine
Kiss.”
    Grant
Cooperon. My magic bullet.
    And
it was going to kill me one day.
    “Okay,”
I told him weakly. “Mary and I will be fine.”
    He
smiled and kissed my brow. Mary’s singing voice cracked, and when I glanced
around Grant’s broad shoulder, I found the old woman glaring at me. She was not
the only one. The zombie looked like he wanted to puke.
    Whatever.
My cheeks were hot. I cleared my throat and glanced at the flute case dangling
over Grant’s shoulder. “You going to use your voodoo-hoodoo?”
    “Just
charm,” he said wryly, kissing me again on the cheek before limping from the
small kitchen, his bad leg nearly twisting out from under him with every step.
Rex gave me a quick look, like he wanted to say something, then shook his head
and followed Grant past the swinging doors.
    Faithful
zombie, tracking the heels of his Pied Piper. My mother would turn in her grave
if she had one. All my ancestors would. They would kill Grant. No second
thoughts. Cold-blooded murder.
    Stamping
him out like any other threat to this world.
    I
glanced at Mary. She was licking brownie mix off her chopsticks—watching me
warily. I tried to smile, but I had never been good at holding a smile, not
when it mattered, not even for pictures, and all I managed was a slight twitch
at the corner of my mouth. I gestured at the jar in her hand. “Probably ought
to put that away.”
    Mary
continued to stare. Zee stirred against the back of my neck—a clutching
sensation, as though his tiny clawed heels were digging into my spine. It sent
a chill through me; or maybe that was Mary, who suddenly stared with more
clarity in her eyes, more uncertainty. As though she realized we were alone and
that I might be dangerous.
    She
had good instincts. It made me wish I was better with words. Or that I knew how
to be alone with one old woman and not feel homesick for something I could not
name, but that made my throat ache as though I had been chewing bitterness so
long, a lump the size of my heart was lodged like a rock behind my tongue.
    “Mary,”
I said again gently, and edged closer, wondering how I could get the jar out of
her hand. I did not want to scare her, but I had to hurry. No matter what Grant
said, I did not believe in coincidence. Odds were never that good. Not when it
mattered.
    Zee
twitched. I ignored it, but a moment later my stomach started churning, like my
bowels were going loose, and that was odd enough to make me stop in my tracks
and listen to my body. Except for nerves, I never got sick. Not a single day in
my life. Not a cough, not a fever, no vaccinations needed. I had an