Marjorie M. Liu - The Iron Hunt

Copyright

The Berkley Publishing Group

Published by the Penguin Group, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE IRON HUNT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / July 2008

Copyright 2008 by Marjorie M. Liu.

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 0441016065

ISBN-13: 978-0441016068

ACE

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ACE and the A design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Iron Hunt

Hunter Kiss

Book I

Marjorie M. Liu

Synopsis

Silver smoke winds around my torso, peeling away from my ribs and back, stealing the dark mist covering my hands and lower extremities... tattoos dissolving into demon flesh, coalescing into small dark bodies. My boys. The only friends I have in this world. Demons.

I am a demon hunter. I am a demon. I am Hunter Kiss.

By day, her tattoos are her armor. By night, they unwind from her body to take on forms of their own. Demons of the flesh, turned into flesh. This is the only family demon hunter Maxine Kiss has ever known. The only way to live-and the very way she'll die. For one day, her demons will abandon her for her daughter to assure their own survival-leaving Maxine helpless against her enemies.

But such is the way of Earth's last protector-the only one standing between humanity and the demons breaking out from behind the prison veils. It is a life lacking in love, reveling in death, until one moment-and one man-changes everything...

Praise for Marjorie M. Liu

Raises the bar for all others competing in its league Lius screenplay-worthy dialogue, vivid action, and gift for the punchy, unexpected metaphor rocket her tale high above the pack. Readers of early Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, and the best thrillers out there should try Liu now and catch a rising star.

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

* * * *

Nonstop adventure a rich world with paranormal elements.

SFRevu

* * * *

Liu is masterful in merging espionage, romance, and the supernatural into fiction that goes beyond the boundaries of action-adventure romance or romantic suspense.

Booklist

* * * *

Fabulous romantic suspense fantasy that will hook the audience from the first note to the incredible climactic coda.

Midwest Book Review

* * * *

A wonderful voice.

Romance at Heart Magazine

* * * *

Red-hot Liu packs her stories with immensely intriguing characters, making the high-stakes plotlines even more mesmerizing.

Romantic Times Book Reviews

(Top Pick, 4 stars)

To my mom,
who taught me to play by ear,
and to my dad, who told me not to

Acknowledgments

My deepest thanks to my editor, Kate Seaver, whose unwavering support, insight, and kindness made this book possible.

I would also like to thank my copyeditors, Robert Schwager and his wife, Sara.

Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.

Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,

And woke far on. I did not know the place.

EDWIN MUIR

Contents

When I was eight, my mother lost me to zombies in a one-card draw. It was not her fault. There was a blizzard. Six hours until sunset, lost on a twisting county road. Bad map. No visibility. Black ice, winds howling down.

I remembered. Slammed against my seat belt. Station wagon plowing into a drift, snow riding high as my window. Metal crunching: the edge of the bumper, the front tire, my door. Beneath us, a terrible reverberating crack.

Lodged. Busted. Dead on our wheels. More than dead. My mother showed me spikes packed into the snow and ice. Tiny metal stars, so sharp the points pricked my palm when I bent to touch one. She pointed out the tires, torn into scrap, ribbons of rubber. Told me not to worry. Called it a game.

My mother cleared the road behind us. I watched from the car. Face pressed against the cold window, fogging glass. She juggled stars and spikes for me, and did not wince when the sharp points bounced off her tattooed hands. She danced in the falling snow, eyes shining, cheeks flushed with the blood of roses, and when I could no longer bear to sit still, I joined her and she held my wrists and swung me in great circles until we fell down.

I remembered her laughter. I remembered.

I remembered that I did not want to go with her. I wanted to stay with the car. I wanted to stay home with the wreck. Listen to the radio. Play with my dolls. My mother would not let me. Too dangerous. Too many weirdos. I was too little to handle the twelve-gauge stashed beneath the passenger seat, or even the pistol in the glove compartment; and the boys were still asleep. Anything could happen.

So we bundled up. Slogged backward in the dull silence of snow and the endless winter bones of the white forked trees. My mother carried me on her back. I saw: silver clouds of my breath engulfing the tattoos on her neck; that lazy red eye, Zee, tracking my face in his dreams. I felt the bulge of knives beneath her black wool coat, too light and short for a blizzard, for anyone but a woman who did not feel the cold. I heard the song she sang over the crunching beat of her boots on the empty road. Folsom Prison Blues. Voice like sunshine and the rumble of a slow train.

A mile behind us, some local bar. Lonely way station. Out in the middle of nowhere, just a shed, neon lights shaped like a naked woman flickering on and off through the dirty tinted glass. Nipples winking. Pickup trucks in the narrow, shoveled, salted lot. Scents of fried food and burned engine oil in my nostrils.

My mother hesitated when she saw the place, just as she had hesitated earlier when we passed it in the car. Wavered, shoulders hitching. Both of us covered in snow. I could not see her face, but I felt her tension. Breathed it. Looked down and saw Zee struggling sleepily against her skin. Tattoos begging to peel.

We entered the bar. My mother let the door slam shut behind us. I could not see: too dark, too smoky, loud with laughter and rocky music. Warm as an oven compared to the blizzard chill. I clung, face pressed to my mothers neck. She did not move. She did not speak. She stood with her back to the door, so very still I could not feel her breathe, and all around us those voices faded dead within a hush, and the music, the low, rolling wail of electric guitar, snapped, stopped. Silence descended. Slow, cold, heavy as snow. Pregnanta word I would have used. Expectant, full, with something living and turning,