The Iron Hunt Read Online Free PDF

seeping into the alley. Storm clouds
had not abated, and were so low and thick with shadow and rain and fog, it
could have already been night.
    I
blinked rain from my eyelashes and crouched. Peered into a box shoved tight
against the Dumpster, and found a pair of eyes like snow and stone: white and
gray, framed in black eyeliner. Boy. Hardly fourteen. Not old enough to grow
more than a weak black fuzz on the tip of his chin. He wore a thick coat and
jeans with holes in the knees.
    His
aura was clean. No demon inside his soul. Not a zombie. Just messed up, all
regular.
    “Hey,”
I said gently, wishing I had a photo of Badelt. One taken while he was alive.
“I’d like to ask some questions, if that’s all right.”
    The
boy had sharp eyes. Old as dirt. He studied me, and I held still, unblinking,
counting seconds as my skin tingled and tugged. Sun going down. Somewhere,
beyond the dark clouds.
    “You’re
not a cop,” said the boy quietly.
    “Kid,”
I replied carefully, “the last thing I am is a cop. But I do need
information. A man was murdered around here last night. His name was Brian
Badelt. White hair, long face.”
    Just
five blocks away. Yellow police tape still in place, and a cruiser parked at
the entrance. Forensics team not done yet, apparently. I had walked past,
collar pulled up, and gotten a quick look—just as any curious passerby might.
Seen nothing except slick concrete and shadows, and the memory of a dead man’s
face. No answers in that. Nothing that could help me understand why he had my
name, or whether he was looking for me. And if so, why that search had brought
him here.
    I
wanted to know if he died because of that search. Because of me.
    Maybe
the crime-scene investigators already had the answers. Or not. Over the past
two hours, I had learned that police had already approached most of the
transients living on this street. Based on the almost nonexistent levels of
cooperation I had received, I doubted Suwanai, McCowan, or their crew had
discovered much. Not unless they played dirty, something I was unprepared to
do. Adults and kids had enough problems, homeless or not.
    But I
saw something in the boy’s eyes. Gave me a feeling the others had not. He had a
softer gaze. Like the streets had not quite driven the sweetness from him. Made
my heart hurt. Made me want to do something I should not.
    “I
saw him,” whispered the boy, and all around us, eyes slit open, glints of cold
steel in wet shadow. His admission surprised me more than it should have. So
much that I had to take a moment and replay those words in my head, testing them
for what I thought he had said. I saw him. I saw, I saw.
    My
skin prickled. My skin moved. I rocked back on my heels and wanted to close my
eyes and hug the boy, hold my breath in case he turned to smoke and
disappeared. “What did you see?”
    He
hesitated, and though tucked at the back of the box, I was certain he felt the
other children staring. All of them, listening.
    Plastic
rattled. Feet shuffled. His gaze flicked past my shoulder. I glanced behind and
found a young woman. She had skin the color of a ghost, pale and flawless, with
studs running the rims of her ears, in her nose, inside her tongue. Black eyes,
black spiked hair dripping with rain. Canvas fatigues hugged her body. Brass
knuckles flashed. So did the edge of a blade. Tough chick. Nice style.
    I
turned my back and peered into the box. I had minutes at most. No time for a
pissing contest. Not with a kid.
    “Help
me, and I’ll help you,” I told the boy. Rain seeped down my collar, against my
skin. I did not feel it. The water absorbed too quickly into my tattoos. Faster
now. Heat spread beneath my turtleneck and jacket, down my stomach across my
legs. My fingers burned.
    The
boy stared, gaze torn, cheeks hollow. Like a ghost, biting the edge of living;
unseen, unknown, unsure. Something hard tapped my skull. Brass knuckles. I
ignored the girl and continued watching the boy in the box. He knew