I was fair game. Zee had to know that. All the boys did. Unless they
really
thought Blood Mama would behave.
Unless some risks outweighed my possible murder.
The men continued trying to stare me down. I flexed my right hand. Grant was a short distance behind me, still waylaid. I didn’t check to see if he’d noticed them—his so-called reformed demons—looking at me.
Mary brushed my shoulder, also watching them.
“When the cat’s away, mice will prey,” she murmured, and glanced at Grant, as he finally joined us, frowning at the possessed men—who finally dropped their gazes and shuffled backward, away from us.
Grant followed, leaning hard on his cane. “Stop.”
One word, spoken in a calm voice—but I felt the tingle of his power touch my skin, far deeper than it ever had before. It did not affect me because he hadn’t intended it to, but he could have made me stand forever in one spot with that same word. It didn’t make me uneasy, but it made me wonder if I would have gotten so close to him in the first place had I been vulnerable to his gift.
Would I have let myself trust him? Would I have always been second-guessing whether or not my feelings were real or products of manipulation?
Yes,
I thought.
I trusted no one, back then.
In some ways, I’d been more alone than I was now. I just hadn’t realized it.
I stayed close to Grant’s side, my right hand loose, ready. Not that I needed to worry. The demons weren’t going anywhere. Even their auras, which should have been churning, had gone perfectly still. Frozen.
We reached them. Instead of stopping, Grant limped past, and said, “Follow me.”
Like puppets, they did: down the hall, into his office, where the desk was piled with packages and paperwork, all the detritus of a month’s vacation. A picture of us on the beach was the only decoration. The rest of the room was austere, and nearly empty.
Mary hummed to herself, leaning against the wall. I locked the door and stood in front of it, watching the possessed men sweat.
“You’re different,” Grant said to them, in a voice that was a little too quiet. “You’ve reengaged your bond to Blood Mama. You’re feeding on pain again.”
The demons said nothing.
Grant leaned in. “Also, I didn’t like the way you looked at my wife.”
Someone knocked on the door. I would have ignored it, except a pounding thump followed that knock, and a muffled voice said, “Open up, it’s Rex.”
I opened the door. Rex, sweating, gave me a hard, uncertain stare—and then peered around me at the demons, and Grant.
“One of us stole a baby,” he said. “There’s going to be blood.”
CHAPTER 14
T
HE baby’s name was Andrew, and he was six months old. His mother was a short woman with a soft face and curly hair, but less than five minutes after I met her, I couldn’t remember what she looked like because all I could recall was her profound, terrible grief.
She was hysterical when we found her, slumped on the floor of the shelter’s day care, clutching a soft blue blanket to her face. Sobs dragged away each breath, making her choke.
Andrew had been left at the shelter’s day care for two hours while his mother went to a job interview. The twenty-something girl in charge of looking after him had walked away for five minutes to go to the bathroom—a fact corroborated by the elderly former schoolteacher in charge of the day care, who had taken responsibility for the baby.
And then turned her back for just a moment to clean up some vomit.
Andrew was gone when she turned around.
Infants were kept away from the older children, who had reported seeing a man—but little else. Fortunately, there were security cameras everywhere. Rex already had the kidnapping isolated.
I recognized that face. We all did. A possessed man named Horace, who had been at the shelter off and on for a year. His host was a slender white man who always dressed in worn khakis and a navy Windbreaker. I couldn’t see his demonic aura in the security tape, but I watched him pick up Andrew, and walk out.
“I fixed Horace,” Grant said, sounding sick.
“Free will.” Rex glanced at me. “With the Reaper Kings loose, all the rules have changed. No one will want to be without a clan, and those who were loyal to Grant will have to prove themselves to Blood Mama.”
“Those demons in Grant’s office . . . will they know where Horace went?”
“You think he’d share?”
I hated that we were talking about that baby like he was a meat loaf. I heard Andrew’s mother sobbing all the way down the hall, and the low quiet tones of the police trying to speak with her. “What do
you
think, Rex?”
He blew out his breath. “Someplace isolated and close.”
We were in the warehouse district. Lots of places to choose from. I grabbed Grant’s arm and squeezed. “I’ll find him.”
“Maxine,” he said, then lowered his voice. “You don’t have the boys.”
“Who says I need them?” My voice only wavered a little. I reached into his back pocket and, before he could stop me, lifted out his cell phone.
I retreated. “No one can protect me forever, Grant. I either learn to live, or I don’t live at all.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Grant,” I said, with gentle strain because my heart was pounding, and I knew he could see I was afraid. “I will never be safe.”
He reached for me with too much desperation. I clenched my right hand into a fist, thought very hard about baby Andrew—and slipped into the void.
I seemed to remain in that place longer than usual, adrift and lost. The boys had always been with me before, but now I was completely alone.
I focused on the baby. Nothing but him. My thoughts flashed on the image of Horace holding Andrew—
—and I fell back into the world, teetering on the edge of a broken sidewalk. Rain hit my face, and so did the wind. Cold day. I wondered where in the night the boys were hiding, and what they were doing. Hopefully, nothing.
I stood facing downtown Seattle. There was a chain-link fence at my back. I spun in a slow circle and found open lots, along with several buildings across the street. Too many choices. If the boys had been here, they would have guided me in the right direction by tugging on my skin.
I recognized the area, though. I drove through it sometimes. The Coop was only five or six blocks away. I tried to imagine what would look attractive to a demon carrying a baby.
Close and isolated.
The buildings on my right appeared well maintained, with two good strong doors that were in plain sight of the intersection. The lot was clean, without the usual broken glass. No graffiti on the exterior.
Different story across the street. Rough-and-tumble, with broken windows and boarded-up garage doors that had a few planks loose. Grass grew in the lot, and
fuck
,
suck
, and
ass
had been spray painted in unique, colorful combinations. It was clearly abandoned.
I crossed the street, watching all those windows, trying to catch any sign of movement. I wanted to pretend I was brave, but my heart pounded. Punches would hurt, and I’d never been much of a fighter. Not like my mother and grandmother.
Seconds after I stepped onto the abandoned building’s lot, I heard a baby start to cry.
I froze, that sound cutting through me like a cold knife. It was coming from inside the building, drifting through broken windows. I started running, trying to keep my footsteps silent, light, as I searched for a way in. I pulled out the cell phone, and dialed Rex. He answered on the first ring.
I gave him the cross street, and told him what the building looked like. Grant’s terse voice rose in the background, but I hung up before he could take the phone from Rex. I powered off the cell and stuck it back in my pocket.
I heard other voices, then, from the other side of those broken windows. Two men: one stranger, one familiar.
“Whoa,” said the stranger, as the baby continued to cry. “Jesus. What are you doing with that kid?”
I recognized Horace’s rasping voice, each word deepening, growing harder, as he replied, “Fucking mind your own business, shitface.”
I discovered a spot where old plywood had been smashed, revealing a dark hole that was big enough for me to crawl through. I moved fast, breathing through my mouth. It was hard to hear anything but the baby and my pounding heart.
Keep crying,
I thought, sweating.
You’re still alive if you’re crying.
I found myself in a dark hall stacked with dusty boxes. The air smelled like metal and urine. Footsteps scuffed an old layer of grime on the floor, and I followed the trail into a large room divided by concrete pillars. There was some light, but it was dim, streaming through dirty broken windows high up near the ceiling, almost thirty feet above us.
Horace was in the corner of the room farthest from me. Back to the wall, facing in my direction, though I didn’t think he’d noticed me yet. No way to take him by surprise. Too much floor to cover. His demonic aura was thick and oily, heaving over itself in throbbing waves that reached like tentacles for the baby on the floor in front of him.
Andrew was wrapped in a blanket, tiny fists waving as he cried. I couldn’t see him well, but he seemed unharmed.
Standing a short distance away was another man. I could only see his back, but he was big, husky, with a long, ragged coat and crazy gray hair sticking out from under his hat. His hands were outstretched, his fingers dirty.
“Put down that knife, man. Come on. Put down the knife and step back from the baby. Those two things don’t go together.”
Horace gave him a weary look and turned his wrist—revealing a long knife in his hand.
“You should have minded your own business,” he said, speaking in a voice that was heavy and resigned, and all the more chilling because of it.
“I was,” replied the man. “I squat in this building. You made it my business by being a nutjob with a baby. Now walk away, before I hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” repeated Horace, brow arched. “I’m going to kill
you
, stranger. I’m going to cut your tendons first, so you can’t run. Then I’ll cut out your tongue and gag you, so you can’t scream. When I’m done with that, I’ll cut the rest of you.”
He pointed his blade at the man’s groin. “I’ll save the best for last.”
The big guy straightened. “I’m
not
going to let you do anything to that baby.”
I walked from the shadows, and the armor on my right hand glimmered as though burned with moonlight. Horace saw me and started to laugh.
The other man turned and stepped sideways, frowning.
“I’ve called the police,” I told him. “I need you to wait outside for them to arrive. I’ll take care of this.”
The stranger gave me the same look a lot of big men did: like I was small, fragile, and couldn’t possibly handle myself.
Which meant he ignored me, and turned back to face Horace, who was all flesh and shadow, and quiet thunder. That knife was still in his hand, pointed down at the baby. I didn’t know how fast I could move.
“Hunter,” whispered Horace. “Maybe you should just walk away.”
“Maybe
you
should,” I replied. “Otherwise, you’re mine.”
“That line won’t work anymore.” Horace gave me a grim look. “You fucked us all, you know that? What were you thinking, breaking that last wall? Letting
them
loose?”
“I was sabotaged,” I told him. “What’s your excuse for
this
shit?”
Horace grimaced. “You
are
my excuse. Morals were fine when life was good, but with the Reapers free . . .” A shudder raced through him, and he closed his eyes. “We need to gorge ourselves now before the clans break from the prison. You thought it was bad before, Hunter . . . but every one of us demon parasites will be going hard for the sweet pain, as much as we can, as fast as we can. Before there’s nothing left.”
The big man lunged toward the baby.
I’d thought he might make a move—and so, apparently, had Horace. He lunged with incredible speed, slashing that knife through the air. The man cried out, clutching his eye. Blood poured between his fingers.
I crossed the room in seconds and grappled for Horace’s knife. The armor flared white-hot over my hand, making the possessed man stumble back. Inside me, the darkness stirred, heavy with power.
I shoved it down, ruthless, and kept after the demon—only realizing, moments later, that I also held a dagger in my right hand.
The armor had transformed, giving me a blade: shorter than my forearm, made of the same silver metal, and light as air. A thin, delicate chain hung from the guard, connecting the blade to the armor. I was not as surprised as I should have been. The armor had shifted shape before, attuned to my needs—usually, in battle.
“You still think you can murder my kind?” Horace snapped, eyeing that blade. “You’re
nothing
now, Hunter.”
You are a Queen,
whispered the darkness.
And those beneath you must remember their place.
I snarled, slashing at Horace. The demon’s host barely escaped the blow, but the tip of that blade caught a fragment of his raging aura, scarring it with a trail of light. He screamed, eyes widening in shock, and staggered back against the wall.
“You’re nothing but a gutter rat,” I whispered. “A parasite. Who the
fuck
do you think
you
are?”
Horace struck me. I couldn’t evade him. I’d never had to be fast, just patient.
He gored my shoulder with his knife, the tip of the blade sliding off bone until it hit my breast and sank in. I felt cold metal pierce my body—a distending, sliding sensation of parting flesh—followed by a bright, unexpected pain. The shock of being stabbed took my breath away.
And then my primitive brain took over, and I grabbed Horace’s arm, holding him close with all my strength—his hand still gripping his knife. He tried to pull it out of my breast, but I wouldn’t let him. I thought I would pass out from the pain, but I gritted my teeth and focused, focused hard. I was staring at his eyes when I hacked my own blade across his aura, staring into eyes that flickered from rage to horror—horror becoming resignation as my weapon cut through the shadow of his life.