Hunters (Out of the Box Book 15)

by Robert J. Crane

  You’re such an ass, Harmon. It seems nice so far. Then, back to Ms. Perry: “I’ve taken up enough of your time, ma’am. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded at me, red eyes so swollen I thought they would explode the moment I left her flat. Out the door I went, apologizing and offering condolences as she nodded and made a squeaking noise in her throat that suggested her emotions were reaching critical mass and she was not going to be able to hold them in much longer. For the sake of her dignity, I sighed in relief as she closed the door on me, a little more abrupt than was perhaps polite, but judging by the sobs that strained their way through afterward, I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame her.

  So saddddd, Eve said, almost crowing.

  “Shut up, Eve,” I snapped. “Don’t you have any humanity?”

  Why…no. I think you took it along with my body and my life.

  Don’t let her fool you, Sienna, Bastian said, and I could sense his smile. She didn’t have all that much before she died.

  “It has been a while, and I’ve obviously known her longer in my head than I ever did IRL, but I do recall that, Roberto.”

  I walked down the Edinburgh street, catching a few stray looks either because I was talking to myself or because my blond wig commanded attention. It definitely wasn’t because of my height, which was average for a woman, or my looks, because the attention I was getting was the type of brow-furrowed looks that said, “That girl is crazy,” and not, “That girl is crazy fine!”

  At the nearest alley I dodged inside, just across the street from a hospital. I made a mental note of its location because I figured I’d end up sending someone to it at some point, and it felt like a point of interest I should know on that basis alone.

  Once I was in the alley, I tried to get my bearings, figure out where I’d left my bag of goodies. I’d tagged the location on the map app, which was good, because although my memory was decent, unfamiliar cities were kind of my kryptonite, at least from a rooftop perspective. They all tended to look somewhat the same, at least in Europe, a strange kind of uniformity of architectural style that looked nice but made it a real hell to navigate by air sometimes.

  Stuffing my wig in the inside pocket of my coat, I looked left and right down the alley. A light rain was falling, sprinkling my skin, but not really enough to even wet my hair effectively. “Come on, Scotland,” I muttered, “you can do better than this.”

  I rose into the air and started to orient myself to fly toward the castle again. I’d absorbed enough about the layout of the city to know that the touristy stuff was definitely near the castle, down the road that practically led out its gate, so that seemed like the place to start. My stomach rumbled again, and I realized that I kinda needed breakfast. Well, lunch now, I supposed. Still felt like breakfast time because it was…back home.

  My next move—after breakfast or lunch or whatever they served here—was going to be doing some old-fashioned investigating. And I didn’t mean drinking an Old-Fashioned while sitting around thinking. I sighed as I rose, wishing I could just call Jamal or J.J., but unfortunately the only way I had to communicate with them now was dreamwalking, and it being morning in America right now, I was unlikely to get a response, even on the off-chance I could have fallen asleep.

  As I reached rooftop height I saw a flash of movement, a blaze of red hair and someone shouted, “Sienna!” as I went past.

  Shit.

  Someone knew I was here.

  14.

  I flew around hard in a loop, circling the building and watching for attack from below or above. Usually when someone shouted my name these days, bad things tended to follow, like bullets and explosions.

  None of those came winging my way; just the continuinglight rain that was now beginning to wet my hair as I made my circle around the building where someone had shouted at me as I passed out of the wet alleyway. Looking down, I could see the person who’d commanded my attention, just standing on the rooftop and waving like a maniac—with both hands, like she was on a desert island and signaling a plane for rescue.

  I can usually tell when someone’s attacking me or of a mind to by the fact that they’ve got a gun, or an expression like they’re biting down on a rancid beet. Their body language, their facial expression, they’re all a dead giveaway when someone intends you harm.

  This gal, though…her body language suggested she might just pee herself in excitement at the mere sight of me.

  What the hell. I was already getting wet anyway.

  I came down to the rooftop slowly, the redhead waiting below coming into focus for me the closer I drifted to her. I kept a nice distance, about twenty feet or so, at the least. “Hello,” I said coolly.

  “Ohmigosh,” she said in a light Scottish accent, and her voice told me she was just as pleased as punch to see me. She blushed wildly. “I can’t believe it’s really ye.” Yeah, she said ‘ye.’ Her accent was a little heavier than the other Scots I’d met thus far in Edinburgh, but not indecipherable. “I mean, I saw ye fly over before, but just—so quick—I thought maybe my eyes were deceiving me.”

  “Nope. Your eyes are firmly telling you the truth. Still, presumably,” I said, trying to gauge this person who’d flagged me down. I had a feeling it was someone who’d want me to sign her yearbook. Or maybe something more private and awkward.

  “I am such a huge fan of yours,” she gushed. “I saw you over there—” she pointed back toward the castle, where I’d flown over before “—and I followed. I’m sorry. I just—this is Edinburgh, we don’t get that much excitement around here, at least not since they finished filming the Avengers movies here.”

  What do you even say to something like that? “Uhh…that’s nice…”

  “I’m so sorry; I’m making a right fool of meself,” she gushed, pale skin flushing to the roots of her red hair. She covered her mouth in both hands and went chokingly silent for a moment. I was just about to ask her if she was okay when she squeaked. “So sorry.”

  Harmon stirred in my mind. I can’t read her. He was calm at first, then, Uhm…this is bad.

  Stifle yourself, Gerry, I said, and then, to her, “What’s your name?”

  “Rose,” she said, flushing deeper, which I had not believed possible. “Rose Steward. I’m—I’m just such a fan, you have no idea. I was, uhm…manifesting right around the time you—came out, I guess you could say. I was so confused, and just…unsure of my place in the world. And all the sudden on TV, there’s this girl who—she’s got powers, like I had powers—and it was like, uhm…someone shining a light on me, like a voice telling me—I’m not that weird—I’m not alone in this, totally—” She went a deeper hue of red and fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. That probably sounds—so bloody stupid to ye—”

  “Ah, no,” I harrumphed, trying to control myself, my emotions, because she’d, uhm…stirred a few. I remembered really well what it had been like at the Directorate, a freak in the middle of a sea of people who seemed to have a really good lid on their own powers, their own weirdness. It was part of them in a way that it was alien to me, which made me feel like even more of an outcast. “No, it doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

  “Well, enough about me,” she said, finally returning to her regularly scheduled shade of milky pale. I could empathize with that too, because it was my shade as well. “What brings the great Sienna Nealon to Scotland?” She put what was, to her, probably an appropriate amount of awe into her question. Unfortunately for those of us not so enamored with me, it sounded…uh…worshipful.

  “Business,” I said tightly. I wasn’t ready to give away the farm on this just yet, especially to a total stranger. “What kind of meta are you, Rose?”

  “Empath,” she said, going red again. “When I found out who ye were—well, it’s—never mind.” Her redness cleared. “You know, whatever business you’re here on, maybe I could…give ye a hand—”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, drifting a few more feet away from her in order t
o give the psychological impression that the request had pushed me away, because…well, it had. We’d been having a nice polite conversation at a safe distance, and then she’d basically made a request to get closer to me, one which I immediately answered by getting farther away. It didn’t take a PhD in behavioral psychology to work out the obvious sign behind that movement.

  She took a step forward, apparently missing the carefully buried symbolism in my movement. “But—I’m dead useful—”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said, “but I’m worried you’d just end up dead, and useful to no one, because that is a thing that happens to people around me sometimes.” Her face couldn’t have fallen any harder if it had leapt off the top of the castle with her attached to it. “I’m sorry, Rose. I work alone. And…I’m probably not who you think I am in your mind.”

  “You’re a hero,” she said in worshipful tones, like she was about to take a knee and throw a prayer at me as though we were in Ancient Greece and I was one of the old gods.

  “I’m a fugitive from justice, actually,” I said. “I’ve caught more bullets than a backstop at the FBI range. Been burned more times than the collective crotches at an LA wax parlor.” I cringed. Where the hell did that come from?

  Rose made a funny face at that one, too. “All…right…”

  “The point is,” I said, quickly getting back on track, “I work alone. And I’m sure you’ve got a life to attend to, so…” I shrugged, and started to rise into the air, intent to get back to breakfast and then catching a murderer. “So long, Rose.” I waved.

  “Wait!” she called after me, but the wind stole the next thing she was going to say. I didn’t dare look back, for fear of encouraging her; just turned my back on this girl who admired me, and flew for the High Street up on the hill.

  15.

  I found a breakfast place—well, a cafe that served breakfast among other things—and sat down inside the sparely appointed dining space, waiting for them to bring me my food. I’d ordered a standard Scottish breakfast, figuring I’d try some of the local cuisine, and while I was waiting I sat in silence in the empty cafe, listening to the owner grouse at the young man who’d taken my order as he did a fry-up or whatever they call it when they make breakfast.

  You know, Harmon said, once again taking up the role of meddler-in-charge in my head, you could have not shut the door quite so hard on that poor girl.

  I didn’t roll my eyes at him, but only because the server was crossing the cafe right then on his way to the front door and I didn’t want him to think I was being a huge jaghole for no reason, so I smiled tightly to keep up appearances. I’m getting sparkling personality advice from you now, Harmon? The man who never gave a damn about another living soul?

  That hurts, he said, though he plainly wasn’t hurting much as he said it. I tried to save the world, I’ll have you know.

  I’m sure Wolfe was trying to save the world, too, I said, one partially digested human carcass at a time. Not even a grunt from the old boy. Man, he must have been really up his own ass today.

  Well, what are you trying to do? Harmon asked, keeping his tone quite level given that I’d just insulted Mr. World-Saver President by comparing him to a prolific serial killer. Solve a local murder. But you don’t want local help?

  You couldn’t read her mind, I said. You really want someone around whose mind you can’t read?

  Oh, please, Harmon said. You saw this poor, sad little puppy, didn’t you? That girl had no capacity to lie. If you’d set down on the rooftop next to her, she’d have been beset by a severe case of incontinence all over your boots.

  “These are new,” I said, “so I guess it’s good I kept to the air.” Realizing I’d just spoken aloud to an empty room, I shut my mouth and bit my lip to keep it from happening again.

  You could have used some local intel, Bastian added, apropos of being an interfering busybody dickhead.

  And you could use a muzzle, I offered in return.

  You lack the desire to hurt us that you once had, Eve opined, because why not? I wasn’t actually muzzling anyone, and hadn’t for a long time.

  Remember the good old days when she used to suppress us with narcotics? Gavrikov asked. Or simply lock us in that mental box she’d constructed.

  “Good times,” I muttered, then bit my lip again.

  You have too much heart for that now, Harmon said. You got in touch with your humanity.

  Talk about the top of a long list of regrets, I said.

  Maybe you should have been a little nicer to the girl, Zack offered.

  Et tu, Zachary? I sniped back at him. He just shrugged. What is the deal with all of you today? I’m trying to catch a serial killer here. This isn’t a time for me to get all lovey dovey with the hero-worshipping natives in the local population. That’s a good way to get that poor girl killed like—well, like any of you. Or Breandan. Or Mom. Or—

  Yes, we know, Harmon said. Long list of dead bodies.

  Mostly my enemies, thankfully, I said. But still…this poor girl? She has no idea what she’d be getting herself into. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. Hell, I don’t know what she’d be getting into, except that there’s a serial killer somewhere at the bottom of this. That’s probably not healthy for most people.

  Metahumans are not most people, Bjorn chimed in, because it was clearly asshole day. You need to begin thinking about your legacy.

  That was the most absurd thing I’d ever heard, especially coming from him, and I was pretty glad that the owner was back in the kitchen doing his cooking and not visible where he could see my face, because he would probably have thought I was having a damned spasm or something. Really, Bjorn? You’re going to talk to me about legacy? What the hell did you leave behind in—five hundred or a thousand or however many years you lived? Other than a mess and a crap-ton of victims, I’m hard-pressed to figure out what kind of mark you left on the world. I mean, your brothers are known, and, like, legends, but who the hell are you? Really, I mean. No one remembers Bjorn Odinson—

  I left my legacy out there, Bjorn said with a deep-seated sense of satisfaction that stirred a sense of nausea in me as the owner emerged from the kitchen and set a plate in front of me with a grunt. Eggs, the yolks hard like they’d been fried to death, a couple of big, greasy sausages that I immediately slid to the far end of the plate. Yorkshire black pudding, which I also slid to the far end of the plate, intent on not eating it since it was, in fact, a blood sausage (I looked it up on Wikipedia last time I’d had one and found it gross). That left the fried tomato, some mushrooms, my haggis, which I’d wanted to at least try, as well as something they’d called a “tattie scone.” It looked the most appealing, so I ignored the harrumphs of Bjorn in my head as he puffed up himself about his legacy or some such bullshit and took a bite.

  I was in instant heaven. It was rich and buttery and delicious, like the Scandinavian dish lefse, a potato bread that you ate with cinnamon and butter, a Minnesota staple—except this was about a thousand times better. “Ermagerd,” I muttered between bites, “I need these in my life. How are tattie scones not a thing the world over?”

  Try the haggis, Bjorn muttered with a snicker.

  I shrugged and did. “Not bad,” I said.

  It’s sheep’s heart, liver and lungs, he said, guffawing loudly within me.

  You think I didn’t know that? I directed this thought at him with a heavy load of amusement and it shut him up. Please, Bjorn. I once chewed up a human being in my dragon mouth. You think a sheep’s stomach is going to make me queasy? Haggis is like that little piece of Minnesotan insanity, lutefisk. Except lutefisk is even more disgusting—

  What’s this…lutefisk? Gavrikov asked.

  It’s fish aged in lye, I said. Minnesotans eat it at Christmas. Old Viking tradition, supposedly from back when they’d get raided. They’d take their fish and dip it in lye so that it was so disgusting no raider would dare take it, and instead sate themselves by pillaging the women of the villag
e and eating the kids or something, I dunno.

  That sounds appropriately revolting, Harmon said.

  It kind of reminds of a death cult thing, honestly, I said. They want you to try it, but I don’t think anyone really enjoys it; they just sort of eat it to prove their group insanity.

  I scarfed down the rest of the tattie scone while the voices in my head argued about the most disgusting cuisine choices they’d ever tried. Wolfe, thankfully, was silent, because he would have been the winner in a walk, I was sure, leaving the rest of us as big-time losers in that discussion.

  Speaking of…I was just about to wonder what was up with Wolfe, so uncharacteristically silent, when the bell at the door tinkled and what I can only describe as five toughs—or tough guys—came strolling in.

  Unlike Rose and her clear lack of aggression, these guys were full of it from feet to neck. And they weren’t just directing it aimlessly, like guys looking to cause trouble. Their body language screamed one thing, because they were all tense, shoulders hunched, their gazes flitting but focused on one centering point—

  Me.

  “Well, hell,” I muttered to my plate, “I didn’t want the sausage, the blood sausage, the eggs, the fried tomato, the—you know what, this Scottish breakfast is really a mixed bag. But the mushrooms were good, and so was the toast, and the haggis decent—but that tattie scone—”

  The toughs were sharing cool looks among themselves, not saying a word, like they were able to communicate telepathically. Which prompted this gem from Harmon:

  Sienna…these aren’t ordinary thugs.

  I looked them over. They seemed exceedingly average, maybe even a little below. I couldn’t even pick out a ringleader, just one guy in a knee-length coat that was holding himself awkwardly. Not like flasher or pervert awkwardly, just…stiff. “I’ll say. Look at these clowns. They’re like a bunch of losers that wandered in out of the junkyard after they got bored sodomizing each other with old struts—”