The Iron Hunt by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

went in person. No one was there. Or at least,
no one who wanted to answer the door.”
    I
nodded, threading my fingers deeper into Zee’s hair. I would have to check it
out. Men like Badelt did not stay in business without some kind of
organization. There would be payment records, names, and numbers. Maybe an
appointment book. Something that would lead to the person who had given him my
name.
    It
was important. Too few humans had ever heard of me for it not to be. Not that I
was invisible. I had bank accounts, a house in Texas. Apartments in Chicago and
New York City. Lawyers in San Francisco and London who handled the various
trusts and estates passed down from mother to daughter over the past five
centuries, a process begun by an Italian Hunter, a noblewoman by marriage, who
had understood that guarding the prison veil was not a call to poverty.
    I had
a different name on the paperwork, though. Not Maxine Kiss. Maxine Kiss had
never existed for anyone but my mother and the boys. Some zombies. Grant.
    Living
off the grid. A paper trail would have felt like a cage.
    Not
that it had kept me safe from the Seattle Police Department.
    Grant
pulled in to the parking lot outside the homeless shelter, and we sat with the
engine ticking, rain pattering against the glass. He glanced down at Zee and
tickled the demon’s belly. He was the only other person who could. “What was
the message? What did Blood Mama tell you?”
    His
tone was gentle, but strained. He had his own issues with Blood Mama: her
attempted possession, how she had almost killed him just to weaken his mind. No
other demon could have done it. Grant was too strong.
    But
the memory kept me up some nights. Grant was a good man. He would make a
terrifying monster.
    Aaz
and Raw twitched. Dek and Mal stopped purring. Zee turned his face away,
burying his head in my stomach. “No. Private.”
    Grant
frowned. I shook my head. If the boys had made up their minds, nothing would
change them. Scared me, though. All of it. Building in my gut, the same awful
sensation that had crawled through me earlier, but without the pain. I did not
like mysteries. Especially when they involved me. Too much about my life, my
bloodline, was already a question mark.
    The
teen made a small sound. I reached for his hand. Grant whispered, “Come on.
Let’s get him in.”
    Inside,
home. Grant lived above the shelter: three adjoining warehouses bought years
ago with money inherited from his father. Local and national newspapers
published regular stories about the place, though I suspected that had less to
do with raising awareness, and more with the fact that the reporters were women
and Grant was dead hot. And a former priest. Some chicks dug that.
    Green
grass and young oaks covered the grounds, along with winding sidewalks and
small benches illuminated by old-fashioned pewter lanterns. There was a garden,
part of which had been converted from an adjoining lot. Some of the homeless
regulars had green thumbs. Grant let them work their magic. No flowers blooming
this time of year, but the roses had just been pruned, and the smaller, native
plants nestled in the transplanted roots of evergreen and cedar were green and
lush. Less than an acre, but an oasis, sheltered in the city with a hush.
    Grant
moved fast with his cane. Kept his flute tucked under his arm and clipped up a
short path that cut through the southern corner of the garden. The boys slid
between shadows. The damp air smelled cold and sweet. I heard glass break some
distance away, and drunken shouts. Bad night for someone else.
    Grant
had a private entrance to his apartment. He unlocked the door, and I walked
past him, carrying the boy up the stairs. A lot of stairs. Grant said it kept
him in shape, helped his balance. I thought he was a masochist.
    The
apartment took up the entire upper floor of the southern warehouse. Good views
of the city, soft wood floors, brick walls, and miles of bookshelves. Other
things, too: a motorcycle, a