Requiem for the Dead (16 page)

"We took Brett Lewis out to the building where you guys were held," he said without wasting breath on a greeting. Or asking where I was.

Brett had never been a Hunter, but he was a Gifted human whose specialty was post-cognitive psychometric readings. He could walk around a space and "see" events that had occurred. Sometimes he could sense strong emotions around an object, too. Brett at the jail was a good call.

"What did he find?" I asked.

"He mostly poked around upstairs. He saw some of what they did to Wyatt to get him to turn. Besides the four Felia, there was a fifth person present."

"Who?"

"Brett couldn't see him or her. Said the mystery visitor was blocking any kind of psychic signals, or whatever, but it basically screwed with Brett's reception. They were all fuzzed out, like something censored on television."

A nugget of worry settled cold and hard in my stomach, and the sandwich no longer seemed appetizing. Two other tables near me were occupied, including one with a young, Hispanic boy who kept glancing at me—exactly what I needed. Someone checking me out while I was having a private conversation.

I lowered my voice before asking, "So are we thinking someone is pulling Vale's strings?"

"It wouldn't be the first time the person we're looking for isn't actually the one in charge."

"Tell me about it. Anything else useful?"

"No."

"Thanks for the update."

"You up to anything exciting?"

"Just having dinner."

"Uh huh."

"Bye, Tybalt."

I didn't put the phone away, in case Wyatt called before his hour was up. I sipped at my coffee and watched traffic flow by for a while, until the little hairs on the back of my neck told me I was being watched. The young man three tables away was still there, observing me poorly over an unfolded newspaper. He wasn't a Halfie, that was for sure, and I didn't get a Therian vibe. He was interested, though, and doing a bad job of hiding it. But was he interested in me as a semi-attractive woman out alone? Or as someone who saw my photo on television and wanted the Frosts' reward money?

Damn them for making my life more complicated than it needs to be.

Time to test the level of this guy's interest.

I dumped the rest of my sandwich, took my coffee with me, and headed for the sidewalk. Strolled in the opposite direction of where I'd left Wyatt. A glance in the reflective windows of the businesses across the street told me Stalker Guy was following me. Too closely, too, which also told me he was an amateur at this. Should be easy enough to scare him into staying the hell away from me.

At the end of the block, I turned left, then quickly ducked into a pay-by-the-day parking lot that was only half-f of cars. Even over the sounds of traffic on the other street, I heard his footsteps approaching. As soon as his shadow fell on the sidewalk, I moved.

I grabbed his arm and shoulder, and then spun him face-first into the brick wall that bordered the parking lot. He hit with a pained noise that got louder when I twisted his trapped arm up high against his back. He quit fighting when he figured out that only made me twist his arm harder.

"Why the fuck are you following me?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," he replied in a softly accented voice.

"That wasn't an answer to my question."

"Please…please…."

Another twist on his arm. "Still not an answer, junior."

"Please, stop. I was a trainee at Boot Camp."

I froze as his words registered. When Boot Camp was destroyed several months ago, not every surviving trainee had agreed to join the Watchtower. Most had, but not all. Junior here could very well have been one of the deserters. Not that I was taking him on his word.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"Sure you do. You're Evy Stone, right? I saw you fighting there. You killed that beast in the Pit."

"Who was your Weapons instructor?"

"Lena Donaldson. She died."

He had good information, but I didn't quite believe him. "Who recruited you into Boot Camp?"

"Bastian. He died too, later that day."

I loosened my grip, then spun Junior around so his back was to the wall. He gaped at me with wide eyes. He seemed younger than eighteen, barely an adult, but I saw the truth of the horrors he'd witnessed in the hardness behind his eyes. I knew those kinds of eyes too well. "What's your name?"

"Alejandro Gomez."

"Why were you following me, Alejandro?"

He had the good sense to look embarrassed as he said, "I remembered you when I saw the Frosts on TV this morning. I thought I could get them information. I need the money."

"The Frosts have seen and spoken to me, so good luck with getting reward money."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. Why don't you do us both a favor? Forget you ever knew me, forget you were ever at Boot Camp, and go start your life over somewhere else."

"Could you forget the things you saw and did at Boot Camp?"

Hot damn, Alejandro found a spine. I liked that. "No, I can't, but I've been at this a few more years than you. You can still get out."

"To do what? I have no money, no real skills other than what I was taught at Boot Camp. Please, may I join your Watchtower?"

"That's not my call."

"You can recommend me." He seemed ready to drop down to his knees and beg, and my heart went out to him. Life wasn't easy when you had no one to help you out, nobody to turn to when times got rough.

I thought of the three Lupa pups, finally desperate enough to ask for help. "Look, Alejandro, I can't—"

"I have information!"

I flinched at his sound level. "Information on what?"

"I've been tracking a female goblin for the last four days. I can show you where she went yesterday."

A female goblin moving around the city. It could be Nessa, or one of half a dozen others. Goblin females were not only very rare, they were also able to pass as humans—with a little makeup and help from their clothes. They didn't tend to pass for fun, though. Goblins only showed up in the city for business reasons. Alejandro could be bluffing, but I didn't think so.

"You can show me right now?"

"Yes. In exchange for a job."

"I can't guarantee a job, but good information will go a long way toward pleading your case with the people who can." I thought back to my half-eaten sandwich and the desperate, hungry look in Peter's eyes. Might as well try to help Alejandro out. "We do pay our informants, though. In cash, not in employment."

"It's a start."

He showed signs of a good Hunter and he probably would have made a passable one someday, had Boot Camp survived. I finally let him go, stepped back, and dug out my phone.

"Who are you calling?" he asked.

"Backup. We're not going goblin hunting alone, Junior."

"Ale."

"Fine, Ale." The Spanish pronunciation didn't exactly roll off my tongue, but I did my best.

The other line only rang twice between Tybalt picked up with a grumpy, "Monahan."

"It's Stone. You busy?"

"Not at the moment. What's going on?"

"Grab some people and meet me at the Carter Street Bakery. I've got a lead on a goblin."

8:50 p.m.

In the twenty or so minutes it took for our ride to arrive, Wyatt called briefly to tell me he was all right, to not worry, and that he'd contact me soon. Only my absolute confidence in his ability to handle himself, even around three flighty teenage Lupa who'd hurt him once already, allowed me to hang up without insisting he provide more details. I trusted him to know what he was doing.

I still didn't totally trust my new BFF Alejandro—only time would gain him that—but I did buy him a sandwich at the coffee shop while we waited. He inhaled that sucker like he hadn't eaten in days. So many of the Hunters I'd trained with, the Hunters I'd known through the Triads, could have easily been him if Bastian hadn't found us—lost, starving, with no real hope for the future.

Not that being a Hunter had promised us much of a future, but we never went hungry or wanted for a place to sleep.

Tybalt's Explorer pulled up, already full of Kyle, Shelby, and Marcus. After a little rearranging of seats, I took the front passenger seat, while Alejandro kicked Shelby all the way into the rear compartment. The kid looked terrified to be surrounded by Therians—a feeling I might have shared once upon a time and kind of sympathized with.

I gave everyone the bullet points.

"A goblin Queen, huh?" Tybalt said. "Impressive."

"Not if you know what to look for," Alejandro said. He even managed a little bravado through his fear. "I was two weeks from finishing at Boot Camp. I haven't forgotten a thing they taught me there."

Tybalt glanced at me, as if to verify the claim. I shrugged. We had no way to check up on Alejandro. All Boot Camp records had been destroyed the day we tore it all down. The last thing we needed was all of that information falling into the wrong hands. Giving it up voluntarily was the lesser of two evils.

"Where to, Junior?" I asked.

He scowled at me in the rearview. "Head west, toward the Black River docks."

As we headed out of the center of Mercy's Lot, the streetlights became fewer and farther between. The area between it and the river was mostly made up of factories and industrial centers, some functioning and most not. It was quiet out there this time of night, with the daytime shifts gone home and the nighttime shifts firmly entrenched in their duties. Nearer to the docks, a sense of wicked familiarity washed over me and not just because I'd been here five dozen times in the past.

I knew where we were going, and it hit me with a sickening kind of clarity.

The last time I came to this area to see the gremlins, I'd been with Baylor, and the memory sent a shot of grief right to my heart. We'd been looking for information on Thackery and his menagerie of Lupa pups. Ironic because the Lupa were now in Wyatt's custody, and I hadn't brought any sort of snack to feed the gremlins' collective sweet tooth. If a goblin Queen had been in the area, they wouldn't tell without a treat.

My instincts proved me right when Alejandro's directions landed us in front of the gremlin factory—a long, narrow building with four stories of papered-over windows. A chain-link fence surrounded it, the only entrance an old guard hut that still worked. They'd let us inside that way before.

Something about the place felt off, though, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

"You tracked the goblin to an old factory?" Marcus asked.

"Yes," Alejandro said. "She went into that hut, and then a few seconds later the fence rolled back a little bit. It closed again before I could slip inside."

"Did you see her leave again?"

"No."

"How long was she inside?"

Alejandro squirmed, and I almost felt sorry for him. Marcus had his full-on intimidation face going, and he could be a scary interrogator. "I'm not sure."

I twisted around in my seat to face them. "Let me guess. You didn't hang around to see what she was doing or how long she stayed, because you didn't know if an entire horde of goblins was inside waiting to eat you, right?"

He blushed, then nodded.

"Good instinct. Death by goblin is not a nice way to go, trust me. But you were wrong."

"What?" he asked. "How do you know?"

"Because a couple thousand gremlins live in there, not goblins. The only things gremlins like to eat are sugar and junk food."

"Oh." Alejandro glanced at Tybalt. "How does she know this stuff?"

Tybalt chuckled.

"So should we try the gate?" Marcus asked. "Or idle here and discuss it further?"

Tybalt drove up to the guard hut. I climbed out and went inside. The controls seemed simple enough, and I hit a red button that said Call. I expected a buzzer or beep, something to indicate the call went through. I held it down and said, "Ballengee be blessed," which is the traditional gremlin greeting.

Nothing.

I tried it again to more silence, which unnerved me. I hit a few other buttons, but nothing seemed to be working. The hut was free of electricity, and then I realized that's what bothered me about the place. It was nighttime and dark outside, and there wasn't a single indication of light or power about the place. It felt abandoned.

Had the gremlins packed up and left town, too?

I went outside and manually tugged on the gate. It surprised me by rolling back on its track. Definitely not good. Tybalt drove inside, picked me up, and we trekked across a narrow strip of parking lot. Last time a garage door on the south side of the building had opened automatically. Nothing happened tonight.

"This isn't right," I said. "Stay on your toes, boys."

Tybalt parked near a side door that had once said Authorized Personnel Only and had faded to only every other letter. We piled out of the SUV. Marcus, Kyle and Shelby immediately turned toward the building and sniffed the air. All I smelled was oil, rubber, and the far away odor of the river. Beneath it all was the familiar, cloying stink of gremlin piss—like whiskey, only more eye-watering and less enjoyable to drink.

"I smell death," Marcus said.

Terrific.

I pulled a knife from my ankle sheath, while Tybalt fixed a wicked double-blade attachment to his prosthetic hand. Marcus stripped and shifted into his jaguar form, while Kyle and Shelby stayed in their clothes. We gave Alejandro a hunting knife from the weapons stash in the back so the kid wasn't completely helpless. The three of us humans, with our poorer eyesight, also grabbed flashlights.

The door wasn't locked, and it opened with a groan when Tybalt pushed. A gust of hot, stale air stole outside, carrying the stink of gremlin piss and rot. My nose tingled with it, and I held back a sneeze.

This isn't going to be good.

I went in first, alert for anything. My yellow beam of light flashed down an empty corridor, its concrete walls and floor stained here and there with indescribable colors. The air became more ripe, more suffocating the deeper into the factory we went. Twenty feet of corridor ended at a large metal door that said Floor. I stopped to listen.