Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel)

by Nancy Holzner

  “You said you want to stop Pryce. Here’s your big chance. We know he’s allied with the Old Ones and they’re providing him with a base somewhere in the city. I need you to find out where that base is and what he’s giving the Old Ones in return for their cooperation.”

  “Oh, is that all? How ’bout I bring you his head on a platter while I’m at it?”

  “That would be nice. But the location and the deal would be enough.”

  “And how do you propose I get this information? Just saunter up to him and ask?”

  “You’ve brought me information from the demon plane before.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just passing on rumors. Demons gossip a lot, sure. But if someone as nasty as your Pryce-Destroyer combo wants to keep a secret, ain’t nobody gonna ask about it.” The demon shook its head. “Besides, you say the base is in Boston. That’s your turf. If I snuck into the Ordinary trying to do some fly-on-the-wall routine and Pryce noticed me, he’d squash me flat.”

  “But you’re our best chance to find this place. If you could follow him out of the demon plane, you know, unobtrusively—”

  “Unobtrusively my demon ass. If I materialize anywhere around the guy in this plane, his Hellion buddy will know in a second. And if they catch me spying, I’m one dead Eidolon.” Butterfly’s wings quivered in indignation. “Not that you’d mind. But information flows two ways, you know. If they even suspected I was spying for you, they’d torture me until I spilled everything I know about the contents of your messed-up head.”

  “I’m willing to risk that.”

  “Oh, you’re willing to risk my life. Now, there’s courage.”

  “Okay, forget it. I’ll figure out another way to find them.” I should have known better than to ask a demon for help. Especially not my very own Eidolon. “Get out of here now. I’ve got things to do.”

  “But—” the demon began.

  The mark on my arm itched.

  Butterfly snapped its mouth shut. “All right, all right. Don’t get angry. I hate it when you’re angry. It’s like a big salt shaker full of yuck ruining your otherwise yummy emotions.” The demon sighed. “Anger’s only edible when it cools off and turns into regret. Fresh anger—too hot. Anyway, I can see I’m not going to get a meal here tonight, so I’ll be off.” Its wings fluttered, and its body faded. “If I happen to hear anything about you-know-who—in passing—I may be in touch. But don’t count on it.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  Butterfly winked out. Stupid Eidolon. At the airport, when it said, “Stick with me, kid,” I’d almost believed the thing was on my side. Silly me. It was a demon, and I was a demon fighter. Tonight, it had reminded me what I could expect from it: a big fat load of nothing.

  18

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, I WAS TAPING A HASTILY SCRIBBLED note on the front door to alert Juliet that Mab was asleep on the sofa. Another note, including the number for my newly acquired cell phone, awaited my aunt on the coffee table in case she woke up. I locked up and headed for Kane’s rally.

  My street was deserted. I hoped that meant everyone was at the rally. I checked my watch; it had started ten minutes ago. Hurrying through the cool night air, I set off toward the Old South Meeting House. The former church now served as Deadtown’s town hall. The Council of Three held public meetings here, and its steps had been the starting point for several protest marches. Nice symbolism—this same building had launched the Boston Tea Party in 1773.

  Smells of smoke and wet ashes hung in the air as my boots clicked along the sidewalk. I passed an abandoned food cart, then another. The third, badly dented, lay on its side, its contents disgorged and trampled beyond recognition. Apparently Deadtown’s zombies hadn’t recovered their collective appetite.

  Several yards ahead, a silhouette detached itself from a dark wall and planted itself in the center of the sidewalk. I stopped. Two more figures stepped from a doorway. My hand slipped inside my jacket, fingers closing around my pistol grip. I’d almost left the gun home—it didn’t seem like the best accessory for a unity rally—but I was glad to have it now. My demon mark twitched and warmed.

  Around the corner came a Goon squad patrol. Four big zombies, dressed in body armor and carrying evil-looking automatic rifles. The group on the sidewalk turned and strolled past the Goons, like that had been their intention all along. I left my pistol in its holster and zipped my jacket. I nodded to the Goons as I continued on my way, hoping Kane was building some unity at his rally. On Deadtown’s streets, all I’d seen so far tonight was trouble.

  THE RALLY HAD DRAWN A GOOD CROWD. AS I JOINED THE fringes, a zombie stepped aside and smiled, waving me closer. The mood here was upbeat, not like on the dark, deserted street. A woman’s amplified voice carried through the night, and I craned toward the platform that had been erected over the steps of the Old South Meeting House. Several chairs had been set up at the side of the stage, and I picked out Kane sitting there. At the microphone stood the current speaker, dressed in a pearl gray suit and black pumps. “It took nearly three years for us to get a school . . .” she was saying, and I realized with a jolt I was looking at Tina.

  No Barbie pink. No giant hoop earrings. No sparkly rhinestones. She looked like the zombie version of a young businesswoman making a presentation to the Chamber of Commerce.

  I closed my dropped jaw and tuned back in. Tina was contrasting her experience as a high school student before and after the plague—first as a norm girl in Revere, then as a zombie in Deadtown.

  “My old school was all about cliques. You belonged to one group, and you didn’t make friends outside of it. There were the popular kids—that was my clique, as I’m sure most of you would guess.” She beamed at the audience. “There were the jocks, the gamers, the drama club kids, the stoners, the overachievers . . . You know what I’m talking about. You probably had similar cliques when you were in school. And everything was all about which group you belonged to. To some of us, that was more important than classes.”

  She raised her hand and pointed at herself, nodding, causing a ripple of laughter among listeners.

  “Then came the plague. And for those of us caught in it, suddenly there was just one group: the outcasts. Or the losers, or the freaks, or whatever you call people that the rest of the world wishes would go away. Like I said earlier, we waited almost three years even to have a school in Deadtown. When we got one, cliques didn’t seem so important anymore. Hey, we were all outcasts together, so why make life hard for each other? In my school now, I’m friends with kids I never would have spoken to back in Revere. Most of my classmates are zombies, but there are some werewolves, too. Sounds like a really bad horror movie, right? Deadtown High: Zombies vs. Werewolves. But you know what? We get along.

  “And you know why? Because now we want to learn stuff. Not just from our classes, but from each other. My friend Brendan knows everything about computers, and he’s also teaching me martial arts.” She did a karate move that brought more laughs and scattered applause. “My best friend, Jenna, she’s an awesome negotiator who never met an argument she couldn’t resolve. My other friend Sharon, who’s a werewolf, is into finance and makes these amazing predictions about the stock market. People come to me for fashion tips, which you’d expect”—she twirled to show off her outfit—“but also to learn how to get rid of their personal demons. Because kids have their own demons to wrestle with. And I learned about demons from the best demon slayer in the business, who, by the way, happens to be a shapeshifter.”

  My doubts about Tina as demon-slaying expert were squashed by the lump in my throat.

  “So, in conclusion, my point is this. Most things about being previously deceased well and truly suck. But for me, there’s been one good thing, and that’s the ability to look past stupid, meaningless differences and come together to support and learn from each other. And if us kids can do that at the DA-1 school, we can all do it.” She looked around, as if expecting applause, but the audience was silent, every face wat
ching her. “So . . . um . . . go, unity!” As she pumped a fist in the air, the applause came, along with cheers and more pumping fists. Tina grinned and clasped her hands above her head, like a prizefighter. Then she skipped to the edge of the stage. Kane, standing, shook her hand, before she went down the steps. Kane went to the microphone to introduce the next speaker.

  I skirted the edge of the crowd and caught up with Tina a couple of minutes later. When she saw me, she threw her arms around me in a hug that nearly broke my ribs.

  “Nice job,” I said, once I could breathe again. “The audience loved it.”

  “Yeah, they did, didn’t they? I practiced, like, a gazillion times. Kane said not to say ‘like’ and ‘you know’ and ‘stuff’ and, you know, other stuff. That was hard. But I think I did okay.”

  “You did great.”

  “Thanks.” Tina grinned, still riding high on the applause. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I’m getting interviewed. It’s just PNN, so it’s not like anyone will watch, but hey, TV is TV.”

  “You never know who might see it.” The Paranormal News Network’s largest audience was in Deadtown, but it was available nationwide. “Have fun.”

  “I will.” But she didn’t move away. She bit her lip and looked almost shy. “Um, Kane told me your aunt is visiting.”

  “That’s right. We picked her up at the airport tonight.”

  “Did she . . .” Tina glanced around. “Did she come to my speech?”

  “She’s asleep in my apartment.”

  “Oh. I guess she must have been tired after flying across the ocean and all.”

  “She did have a very long day. We’ll watch for your interview on PNN tomorrow.”

  “Awesome. They’ll probably show part of my speech, too.” The shy look returned. “Um, do you think it would be okay if I came over to see her? You know, to say hello and whatever.”

  “I’m sure Mab would love to see you. Just call first.”

  “Really?” She bounced on her toes, looking more like the Tina I knew. “Cool. Okay, I’ll call tomorrow. Talk to you then.” Another hug, and she disappeared into the meeting house while once again I checked for cracked ribs.

  SEVERAL MORE SPEAKERS, ROUSING BURSTS OF MUSIC FROM an all-paranormal brass band between them, took the stage. All of Deadtown’s main paranormal groups were represented: zombies, werewolves, and even vampires, who weren’t normally into things like unity and togetherness. Most moving was Clyde, who’d traded his doorman’s uniform for a cleric’s robe. “I know that many of you lost your faith after the plague,” he said. “Certainly, I’ve struggled with my own. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, I’d like to offer a simple prayer. Even if you don’t believe, I hope you’ll listen to the spirit that moves these words.” By the time he’d finished his quiet, dignified appeal to heal breaches and bring people together, I was wiping tears from my cheeks. The female zombie beside me put an arm around my shoulder. If zombies could cry, there wouldn’t have been a dry eye in the audience.

  Then it was Kane’s turn. He praised the speakers and thanked the audience for coming. He described some of the work he’d been doing to secure paranormal rights through lobbying and the courts. “I’m not going to talk about winning this fight,” he said. “Fighting, warfare, battles—those are the wrong metaphors. If we try to fight, we will lose. We will lose in more ways than one. First, we possess neither the weapons nor the numbers to win an actual war. The forces that oppose us would smash our homes, our businesses, take away what little freedom we now have. Even worse, to my way of thinking, is that we would lose our ability to define ourselves. ‘Look at them,’ the powers-that-be would say. ‘They’re monsters. All they understand is violence. We have to destroy them—they give us no choice.’”

  A couple of shouts came from the back of the crowd. A fight? Hecklers? From where I stood I couldn’t see what was going on. Kane stared in that direction for a moment, then continued.

  “What we face is not a fight,” he said, “but it is a struggle. Think of the difference. Any thug can pick a fight.”

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” What at first sounded like an echo of Kane’s word turned into a chant. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The voices came from multiple directions. I heard scuffling behind me and turned around to see a big zombie take a swing at a werewolf who wore a SECURITY T-shirt.

  Kane raised his voice. “Struggle demands sacrifice. It demands discipline. It demands looking beyond the immediate situation to our long-term goal.”

  The security werewolf snarled and launched himself at the zombie. All around, scuffles broke out. Groups of zombies threw themselves at those standing at the edges of the crowd. It looked like a coordinated effort to interrupt Kane’s speech.

  The security werewolf and the zombie he was fighting crashed to the ground beside me. A bronze dagger was already in my hand. I didn’t remember unsheathing it, but my burning demon mark urged me to use it. Now. Cut up the damn zombie’s face. He wanted a fight? He’d picked the right rally.

  Unity, my ass. I’d teach this assclown a lesson.

  “STOP!” A thunderous roar exploded from the platform. It shook the ground and echoed off the buildings. Everyone froze. A thousand pairs of eyes turned to the platform.

  Kane stood tall, his face a mask of barely constrained fury. His silver hair shining under the stage lights, he looked like an avenging angel. This was not a werewolf to be messed with. This was strength and power given form.

  Kane took advantage of the crowd’s silence. “This is exactly what they expect of us,” he said in a low, deadly voice. “I thought we were coming together tonight for unity. Apparently not. So tell me, if you don’t want unity, what do you want?”

  He waited. Silence reigned for three, maybe four seconds. Then a voice yelled, “Kill all the bloodbags!”

  Kane’s gaze zeroed in on the heckler. “Really? That’s what you want? Because if that’s your goal, you can’t complain when they start dropping bombs on Deadtown.” He gestured, waving his arms around to imitate a fascist dictator on crack. “‘They’re our enemies! Kill them all!’ If that’s the attitude you take, are you surprised when the other side looks at you the same way? The same anger. The same hatred. The same feeling of ‘All our problems would be solved if only those other bastards didn’t exist.’”

  Again he waited. This time, the heckler stayed quiet. Kane shifted his stance, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. I put my dagger away, willing the heat in my demon mark to cool. Nobody shook hands and started singing “Kumbaya,” but no one threw a punch, either. A few zombies slunk away from the crowd’s edges.

  “Struggle, my friends,” Kane said at last. “Not fighting the norms. And for God’s sake not fighting each other—there’s nothing they’d like more. But struggle. It’s how we’ll make our voice heard. It won’t be easy, but we have to show we’ll never give up. Because our goal—no matter how long it takes—is to be equal participants in society. That’s my vision. But we have to be in it together. Because if you’re not with me . . .” He didn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence. He dropped the microphone, which landed with a thunk and squeal, and walked to the edge of the stage.

  He hadn’t made it down the first step before the chanting started up again. But this time, the chant wasn’t “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Instead, a thousand voices called out his name.

  “Kane! Kane! Kane!”

  Even the zombie who’d attacked the security werewolf was chanting it.

  “Kane! Kane! Kane!”

  Kane stopped, his hand on the railing. He turned back to the crowd.

  “Kane! Kane! Kane!”

  I added my voice to the chant. We clapped with each repetition. All of Deadtown chanted in one voice, until the word exploded into a tumult of cheering.

  By the time Kane took the stage again, his hand on his heart, even from where I stood I could see the tears shining in his eyes.

  WHEN I FOUND HIM, KANE WAS ANSWERING A REPORTER’S questions. The mome
nt he saw me, he pushed the microphone away and enfolded me in his arms.

  He came home with me. Mab still slept on the sofa; Juliet was nowhere to be seen. We tiptoed down the hallway to my room and closed the door, so softly it made no click.

  What we did next was more than lovemaking. It was a uniting, a coming together so profound that every cell of my body confirmed that nothing could ever, ever pull us apart. Not the Night Hag, not the full moon, not the Destroyer’s mark. Not even my own fears. Whatever we’d meant to each other before, we deepened those feelings. Whatever hurts or disappointment we’d inflicted on each other in the past, we erased them. Together, we became something more. Something indestructible. Something that would stand together and face whatever came our way, no matter what that might be.

  19

  I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE SHOWER RUNNING. HALF turning to check the time, I slid out from under Kane’s arm. He murmured something I didn’t catch, and then his eyes opened. When he saw me, pleasure filled those gray eyes, and he smiled sleepily. Troubles piled in jagged heaps all around us, but in the midst of them, we were together. I would not let him down again.

  He ran his hand along my shoulder and down my arm. Just a fleeting touch, but electric sparks shot through me as I felt his warmth, as I turned and snuggled against him, enclosed in his pine-and-moonlight scent.

  No, I would not let this man down.

  “I thought maybe that was you in the shower,” I said.

  “What time is it?”

  “I was just checking.” I twisted around to see my bedside clock. “Almost seven.” We’d managed about three hours’ sleep.

  Kane groaned and rolled onto his back. “Midnight rallies do not mix well with eight-to-five jobs.”

  “When did you ever knock off work at five?” Or start as late as eight, for that matter. I heard the bathroom door open. “The shower’s free. If you get ready now, you can be at work on time.”