Another Kind Of Dead (8 page)

The familiarity of Kismet’s route startled me, and it wasn’t lost on Wyatt, either. We stared out his window
at the length of train tracks running along our chosen street, taking us away from the busier portion of the neighborhood and into a section of empty lots and cracked pavement.

Ice settled in my chest as Kismet slowed and turned toward an open gate. Wyatt clasped my hand; I squeezed back. Through the gate, into a large, overgrown parking lot that was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Ahead of us was our destination. I shuddered just looking at it. A run-down, paint-peeling, gabled train station that hadn’t seen regular use in over a decade stood near a swath of crisscrossing tracks. The trains no longer stopped at the passenger station, but that didn’t prevent people from coming here.

Three other cars were parked near the building, including the stripped and tire-less car Alex and I had driven and left there once upon a time. One person paced around outside, a pistol steady in one hand. Dark clothes, tense stance—a Hunter I didn’t know. My chest ached.

“Evy, breathe,” Wyatt said.

I exhaled hard, unaware I’d been holding my breath. I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Heat flushed my cheeks, even though my entire body was numb. Cold.

This was where I’d died. What the hell were we doing here?

Kismet parked near the other cars and got out without a word. The rest of us followed. My limbs didn’t want to cooperate. I forced my feet to move forward, past the sullen glare of the Hunter standing watch by the vehicles. He barely gave me a look but had acknowledging nods for Felix and Milo. I hadn’t known every Hunter during my tenure (no one did), but those three were acquainted.

Up the steps and onto the porch went everyone except me and Wyatt. My feet just wouldn’t move. Wyatt
hadn’t let go of my hand, and I concentrated on him—his warmth and stability. It was the only thing keeping me from freaking out.

“Why are we here?” I asked, finally finding my voice. Alarmed at its shakiness.

Kismet turned, and her glare softened a fraction when she looked at me. “Someone left a message here,” she said icily. “Given the location, it seemed like a message meant as much for you as the rest of the Triads.”

Oh God. I don’t want to see this
. Nothing good was waiting for me inside. All signs pointed toward someone having been killed, or worse. And it was the “or worse” that nearly rooted me to the pavement. I’d been “or worse” once; I didn’t think I could witness that sort of suffering again.

Wyatt took the first step and tugged at my hand. I swallowed, gathered the last tattered remnants of my courage, and followed. One foot in front of the other, across the warped and rotting platform. Through the door and into the dusty ticket office. Following a familiar path of footsteps through grime that led toward a door marked “Stairs.”

This was the third time I’d come to this damnable place and had gone down these creaky stairs into the dank basement corridor. The first time was as a hostage, and I’d been taken out in a body bag. The second time I’d entered alone, with no memory of having been there before, seeking answers. Now I was here with the full weight of what I’d experienced. Clarity of detail had lessened a bit with time, as violent trauma often does, the sharp edges taking on a fuzzy hue like a sepia-toned photograph. Dulled, but not gone.

Another Hunter stood down the corridor, across from an open door. I didn’t have to look to know which door—the one marked with a black “X,” painted in my old body’s blood. He looked up, ebony face as blank as
a coma patient, dark eyes devoid of emotion. He just stared, glazed. I’d seen him around—he’d been at the Olsmill battle, but I couldn’t remember his name.

“Perimeter’s been set,” he said to Kismet as she approached. Even his voice was detached, and I realized it wasn’t apathy—it was shock. “No one else has been inside.”

She turned with visible effort and looked into the room (although “room” was generous, as it was barely larger than a linen closet). Blood rushed from her face; her hands shook, and she couldn’t help releasing a startled cry. Felix and Milo scrambled to her. They looked in as they moved her away, protective of their Handler, and as visibly sickened by what they saw as she.

Deaem glanced at the room—probably doing his duty to check for danger—then let Amalie go in. I couldn’t go farther. Ten feet from the door, I was still too damned close. The humid basement air tickled my nose. The odor made me want to retch. Memory was trying to overcome common sense, and I had half a mind to let the former win.

Amalie emerged moments later and waved me forward. I swallowed, certain the lump in my throat would choke me before I made it to her side. Wyatt stuck close. I squeezed his hand so hard I was sure I’d break it. As expected, the telltale “X” was still on the door. Lingering odors of blood and rot and death wafted out like black fingers, caressing my skin with their awful touch. I wanted to run, as much from what I remembered about this room as from what was waiting inside for me now.

I looked.

Past did not superimpose on the present as I thought it might. The mattress I’d died on and the shackles I’d been bound with were gone. Old splatters and sprays of my blood were washed away, the cement floor scrubbed
clean. The odor of old bleach made me want to sneeze. Yesterday’s gore was gone—but today’s was nailed to the far wall.

At first, I couldn’t tell who it was. He was bare-chested, stripped down to his boxer shorts. Long metal spikes had been pushed through his shoulders, chest, abdomen, and upper thighs, but very little blood had fallen. No, the majority of his blood had come from the wide gash in his throat and was collected in a metal bucket near his feet.

“Fuck,” Wyatt snarled.

I squinted at the man’s face, hard to see from its downward angle. It dawned on me moments later—Rhys Willemy. I’d only ever seen the Handler in fancy, pressed suits and polished shoes—an odd wardrobe choice, given his profession. I also realized that the stricken Hunter outside was one of his. Or had been.

I stared, dumbfounded and sickened by the dead man displayed in front of me. Why here, of all places to leave a body? The location by itself wasn’t much of a message. There had to be something else. I took a step closer. Wyatt made a noise but didn’t try to stop me.

If the blood drips were any indication, he’d been killed and drained elsewhere, then hung up on the wall. One person alone couldn’t have done it. At least two were needed, maybe three, and strong. Willemy wasn’t a defensive linebacker, but he wasn’t a small man, either. Even dead, nailing him to the wall couldn’t have been easy.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered.

“Evy?” Wyatt asked.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

I did. On the wall by the door, painted in blood, was a message:
Give me back what’s mine
.

An icy hand twisted my guts. I fled the room, panting,
and didn’t stop until I’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Above the lingering odor of bleach was the tangy stink of blood. All around me now, in my nose and hair and clothes. I bent over, hands on the third-from-bottom stair and sucked in great lungfuls of air. Tamping down panic and overwhelming disgust.

Near the base of the stairs was a pile of what looked like dried oatmeal. As I stared at it, I remembered Alex vomiting after seeing the room in which I’d been tortured to death. He’d been here a week ago. I saw his sweet, smiling face and wanted to cry for him all over again.

“You okay?” Not Wyatt’s voice, as expected. I turned my head and looked into the concerned chocolate eyes of the familiar Hunter. His Handler was stuck to the wall like artwork and he was asking if I was okay?

“Yeah, I’m okay.” His sensitivity shamed me into standing upright. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

“David Moreau. Stone, right? Someone said you were dead.”

“Only on paper.”

“Guess I kind of know how you feel now.”

“How’s that?”

“Being the last of your Triad.” The quiet despair in his voice made my heart ache. “I lost my partners at Olsmill, and now I lost my Handler to some friggin’ psychopath.”

“I’m sorry” was all I could think to say. At least it was the truth.

“What kind of message is that?” Wyatt asked, his voice booming down the corridor for all to hear.

Kismet had gathered herself back together, and she stepped forward. “I don’t know, but I don’t like cryptic notes from fuck-jobs who turn my friends into wall décor. Thoughts?”

“Who found him?” I asked, wandering toward the group. David stuck close.

“Anonymous tip,” she replied.

“So it’s down to who and what. Who did it and what do we have that they want back?”

“That’s why the perimeter. I figure if our killer is going to make a move, it’ll be while we’re here.”

I scrubbed both hands over my face. “And you think it’s connected to me somehow, because of where we are?”

Kismet nodded. “It can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

“Agreed,” Wyatt said.

“Trouble with that theory,” Felix said, “is everyone thought Stone was dead this past week. Longer than that, if they didn’t know she’d been brought back in the first place.” He didn’t seem happy about either piece of information, and the attitude was starting to grate.

“Then maybe it isn’t me specifically,” I said. “Maybe it’s just me tangentially, and it only has something minor to do with me. Maybe it isn’t—Wait. ‘Give me back what’s mine.’ ” It struck so fast my mental brakes left skid marks. “No way.”

“What no way?” Wyatt asked, alarmed.

“Token’s master, the one we took those hybrids and science projects from. It has to be him, Wyatt. He already sent his … whatevers out there to attack Boot Camp.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows arched, mouth forming a surprised O. He was finally on track with my train of thought. Then Kismet jumped on board and said, “You mean the name you gave me back at the apartment?”

“Walter Fucking Thackery,” I said.

As if on cue, a phone rang somewhere inside the little closet of death.

Everyone in the hall who still possessed a phone checked, but I was already making tracks toward the
sound. Willemy had been stripped to his boxers, leaving few other places to hide a cell phone. The muffled ringtone grew no louder when I stepped inside. Breathing carefully through my mouth, I approached the body—it seemed to be the source of the sound.

No, not the body.

“Tell me it’s not in there,” Kismet said.

Another ring confirmed it. The phone was submerged inside the bucket of blood.

“That’s fucking sick,” Felix said.

The person who’d killed Willemy was on the other end of that line, and I had every intention of answering. I crouched in front of the bucket. The thick, metallic tang of blood invaded my mouth. I could taste it, smell it even without using my nose.

“We need to get it,” I said. I reached toward the shiny crimson surface, pulled back, then tried again.

“I’ll do it,” David said. Rolling up his sleeve, he squatted across from me and reached right in. His lips pulled back from his teeth. Blood swished over the edge of the bucket and splattered on the floor. I couldn’t begin to pretend I knew how he felt, feeling around in a bucket of his Handler’s blood for a ringing phone.

He withdrew his arm. Clasped in his hand was a dripping, sealed plastic bag. He stood, careful to keep his arm over the bucket, and held the bag out toward me. I swallowed, grasped one edge of the seal with the tips of my fingers and pulled. David pulled opposite me. The seal hissed open. I plucked out the still-ringing phone, and the bag splashed back into the bucket.

A generic phone, nothing special. The I.D. said “Willemy, R.” I grunted. Bastard.

“You gonna answer?” David asked.

I found the Speaker button, turned toward the waiting crowd that had spilled halfway into the tiny room, and
accepted the call. “This isn’t Rhys Willemy, so who the fuck are you?”

Wyatt flinched. My greeting could have been more polite. I wasn’t in the mood for false pleasantries.

A deep chuckle answered me first, and then a male voice spoke. “I was hoping they would scare you up, Ms. Stone. I’ve heard so much about you, and yet we’ve never managed to meet.” His cadence was a little too precise, like a man trying hard to affect a nondescript accent and not quite succeeding.

“How about you turn yourself in so we can get better acquainted, Thackery?”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

“It’s easy when you know how to get answers from people. You fond of turning humans into goblins?”

David blanched—the only one listening who hadn’t met Token.

“I have a fondness for a great many things,” Thackery said. “Not the least of which being the things you confiscated from Olsmill.”

I glanced at the painted message. “If you wanted your toys back, you could have just asked. Murdering people to make a point is a sure as shit way to end up on my bad side.”

“Mr. Willemy’s death is unfortunate. Yet you are taking me more seriously now than had I merely called you up for a chat over tea. Don’t you agree?”

Bastard. If Thackery had been in the room, I would have wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed until his eyes popped out. “Violence gets your attention, huh? I’ll keep that in mind for when we meet.”

“You’re so certain we will.”

“Well, given the location in which we found the phone and your own admission that you’re glad they scared me up, I’d say it’s a damned good bet.” The conversation was grating on my nerves and composure. I didn’t like
talking; I liked pummeling. “So what is it you think we have that’s yours?”

“Two things, specifically, that I would like returned to me. One of them is a sealed jar of amber liquid, marked with the designation ‘X-235.’ ”

Kismet had produced a small notepad and miniature retractable pen, and she was scribbling notes. Prepared.

“The second thing,” he continued, “is in a vial the size of an average cigar, red in color. It has no markings but was the only red vial in the lab that night.”

I glanced at Kismet; she nodded, to confirm the vial or simply that she’d written it all down. Thackery wasn’t getting anything back from me. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s in those vials?” I asked.