Kelly Meding - Another Kind of Dead

“Four hours” was the response. “Keep the phone on you. I’ll call you with a location in three and a half, and with further instructions.” He hung up before I could utter another word.

Milo shouldered his way forward. “Nothing on the trace,” he said. “Wherever this guy is, he’s blocking us.”

“So we just give this loony tune what he wants?” David asked.

“Only if we have to,” I replied. “He has something far more dangerous than two vials of liquid.”

“You don’t know what’s in those two vials.”

“No, I don’t, but I sure as hell know what’s in that crystal. And if gets out, hunting Dregs will look like patty-cake compared to the things we’ll be fighting.”

“But what is it?”

I hesitated. I found no permission in Amalie’s gaze, but also no demand for silence. David had fought with us at Olsmill. His Handler had just been murdered. He deserved to know, especially if he tagged along for the ride, as I suspected he would.

“It’s a demon. It’s what Tovin pulled over from the other side at Olsmill, and what we barely managed to contain once. It is ancient and it wants to be free.”

David blinked. “Demon?”

“We hunt down half-Blood vampires for a living, David. Don’t tell me this really shocks you.” It had shocked the hell out of me once, but I needed him focused, not pondering the possibilities.

It worked, because he snapped to. “No, not really.”

I crammed the phone into my jeans pocket and took a step toward Kismet. “All of the stuff from Olsmill is still at Boot Camp, right?” She nodded. “Great. Road trip. Amalie?”

The still-sparking sprite queen turned those awful eyes on me. “I must return and report these events to the Fey Council. I will contact you again when the hour of the exchange draws near, and will offer any assistance you may require at that time.”

“David,” Kismet said, “can you give them a ride back—?”

“I’d like to go with you, if it’s all the same,” David said.

Kismet’s lips parted, but she hesitated on her answer. “All right. Felix, take David’s car and drop Amalie and Deaem off wherever they need to go, then meet me back at your place.”

“Sure, boss,” Felix said, though his tone communicated annoyance at being dumped with chauffeur duty.

I didn’t look back at Willemy as we left. I hadn’t really known him, and I grieved the loss of another experienced Handler rather than a friend. But all that aside, I had every intention of ripping his death out of Thackery’s ass.

This time around, David rode shotgun. Milo took his same single seat behind Kismet, so Wyatt and I sat together in the rear. We didn’t talk—just existed in each other’s pain. The city’s ten Handlers knew one another—it was essential for them to work together—whereas most Hunters knew only their two Triad partners. Wyatt and Kismet had to be taking Willemy’s murder hard.

I saw Wyatt’s grief in the tight line of his shoulders and tension in his jaw. I swear I heard his teeth grinding. He wanted to blow up or break down, but couldn’t allow himself that luxury. So I sat close, one hand on his left knee, in silent support. It was all I could do during the half-hour drive.

Boot Camp is more prison than sleepaway camp. High electrified walls bordered nearly two miles of perimeter, and deep fortified barriers ran beneath it. It was nestled in a valley almost twenty miles south of the city limits, off an unpaved mountain road that had no signs pointing it out. Fifteen yards onto the road, surrounded by dense underbrush and various booby traps, was the first checkpoint—a single gate accessible only with a PIN code. Only Handlers had them; once Hunters graduated, we were never expected to return unescorted.

As soon as Kismet stopped to enter her code, my pulse began to race. I’d not been back since completing my training four years ago. I had tried to forget about the people I’d hurt and seen hurt, forget the pain I’d suffered and inflicted.

Wyatt sat up straighter and covered my hand with his. “It might be safer if you lie low while we get the vials,” he said.

David had tensed considerably since passing through the gate. His visible left hand was curled around the armrest so tightly it trembled. Even Milo was uneasy, shifting in his seat as the SUV rumbled down the dirt road toward our personal hell.

“Maybe we all should stay,” I said, and Wyatt didn’t have to ask who I meant. He just nodded.

The dense foliage ceased abruptly. Beyond it lay a sunlit clearing.

Six buildings made up the main compound, and, to a stranger’s eyes, it looked like a small community college. The concrete structures varied in height from single-story to six stories. They were clean and painted ivory, their simple tin roofs gleaming in the sun. Windows covered with steel bars didn’t seem completely out of place, given the outlying security.

Past those six buildings—dormitories, a cafeteria, the infirmary, classrooms, an indoor gymnasium—was a line of loblolly pines. Beyond those, out of eyesight, was where we’d done most of our training. A ghost town for maneuvers and tactics, obstacle courses to test reflexes, a pool for water exercises and breath-holding games, a shooting range for guns and crossbows, and targets for knife throwing. Everything our trainers needed to churn out perfect little killing machines.

We stayed far away from the rear of the compound. Kismet parked in front of the farthest building from the entrance, a two-story job the size of half a football field—one of the only two buildings trainees were forbidden to enter. Its front doors had familiar keypad locks, bars on all windows that I could see, and it looked as quiet as a morgue. In fact, the entire compound was strangely silent.

“Truman, come with me,” Kismet said, palming the keys. “The rest of you, hang out for a bit.”

She didn’t have to ask me twice. Wyatt gave my knee a squeeze, then climbed out with Kismet. They disappeared inside, swallowed up by the building’s forbidding façade.

David twisted around to face the rear. “Anyone else not really comfortable being here?” he asked.

Milo and I raised our hands; I smiled at the comical display of solidarity.

“The day I walked out that gate,” Milo said, “I swore I’d never come back. Then what happens? I get to help move the ugliest, creepiest critters I’ve ever seen out of a forest lab and into Research and Development.”

I flinched at the sideways jab. “I never wanted to return, either. Guess I sort of kept that personal promise, since this isn’t the body I trained in.”

“Suffered in,” David said. “They don’t tell you about the suffering when they pitch the idea of coming here.”

“Most of us aren’t in a position to say no.”

“On the bright side,” Milo said with false bravado, “we’re the ones who passed, so we’re the lucky ones, right?”

Silence. I picked at a thread on the seam of my jeans, wishing for a swift return of our Handlers. Memory Lane was an uncomfortable place for me at the best of times, and given present company and location, this was definitely on the list of worst times.

“Your other teammate,” David said to Milo, “he lost his hand last week. How’s he doing?”

“Fast track to recovering,” Milo replied.

“It’s not an easy thing, man.” He could have meant a lot of things—cutting off a friend’s hand to save his life, relearning how to live with one hand—but it didn’t matter. Milo didn’t ask for clarification, and the comment hung there for a while in the uneasy silence.

Movement flickered in the corner of my eye. I turned toward the passenger side window. A line of six young folks, late teens at the oldest, were jogging near the edge of the tree line, led by an older man in blue sweats. Physical-conditioning time. At my peak, I’d been able to run a four-mile mountain trail in under twenty minutes. I doubted I could walk the same trail in two hours in this new body.