wanted man.
Just like me.
But he was correct—Wyatt was important to me, and not just because of the investigation or our past. My resurrection bound me to him in a way I still didn’t understand. Since the moment he entered that burger joint, I had missed him. Physically missed his presence, like an amputee misses a leg or an arm. He was gone, and I was incomplete.
“He’s more than that,” I said.
“I figured.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked straight ahead, eyes on the traffic in front of him. “I’ve heard women talk about guys like that, with that tone.”
“We have a tone?”
“Forget it.”
“Oh no.” I turned sideways in the seat, giving my full attention, and he squirmed. “What tone?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone, that’s all.”
“You should see me when I really want information from someone.” I cracked my knuckles for effect; he winced.
“I just …” His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “I mean, I’ve never even met the guy and I’m a little jealous. Just ignore me for a while, okay?” Humor speckled his words, so I let it go. “Where are we going again?”
“Lincoln Street Bridge. I need to check on a friend.”
He nodded and moved into the right-turn lane. “Lincoln Street it is.”
Chapter 14
52:17
A coat of fresh, black tar covered the underside of Smedge’s bridge. Every available cement surface was coated with the oily substance that prevented bridge trolls from rising. Smedge had been forced to relocate. The city had a plethora of bridges—footbridges, overpasses, train bridges—and an almost equal number of trolls. Finding another home would be difficult. Until he surfaced and sent word, I had no way of contacting my last Dreg ally.
Alex remained in the car with the engine running while I inspected the area. He hadn’t argued, and I appreciated his growing trust. The footprints in the dust were inconclusive. Average shoe sizes, bipedal, and at least four different people. They left nothing behind. Even the body of the hound I’d killed the day before was gone, every drop of blood washed away. Someone was being careful. Too careful.
I climbed back into the passenger seat and stared at the dashboard, willing an idea to come to me. Something more productive than sitting around and waiting for dusk and the promised phone call from Rufus.
Staking out the phone booth was a good idea. That prevented someone else from getting there first and laying a trap—assuming he even called. I wanted to trust Rufus; his Triad was merely reacting to the information at hand. Their leader had been kidnapped. They needed to get him back at any cost. I understood that sort of blind devotion.
“Your friend’s not here?” Alex asked.
“No, he’s not.”
“So what now?”
It was time to do the one thing I’d been avoiding—go to the place I didn’t want to venture without Wyatt by my side. It could jog my memory, and I wanted Wyatt there when it did. He would understand without my giving him the details. Alex—bless his innocent little heart—needed everything painted in broad strokes. But as much as I hated going, I couldn’t just sit on my ass for four hours until the sun set.
“We go farther south,” I said. “Over the Anjean River, and follow the train tracks to the East Side.”
“What’s over there?” Alex asked, shifting the gear back into Drive.
“An abandoned train station. That’s where I died.”
“So how does one become a Dreg Hunter, exactly?” Alex asked.
Neither of us had spoken in the ten minutes it took to reach the East Side, and his question came without preamble. I could only imagine what was going on in his head. “We recruit, same as anyone else.”
“Not quite like anyone else. You can’t exactly set up a booth on Career Day.”
I snickered. “We tend to do our recruiting at juvenile detention centers and orphanages.”
“Seriously?” His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
“As a vampire bite. Though the recruiters don’t wear suits or ask for references. They want kids who are looking for direction, kids they can train to kill.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“Normal’s relative. When Bastian recruited me, I was barely eighteen, and my biggest goal at the time was avoiding an adult prison sentence for B&E.”
“Whose house did you break into?”
“The guy who ran the McManus Juvenile Detention Center. The one I was in for most of my teenage years.”
“Why’d you break into his house?”
“So I could beat the shit out of him. Payback for beating the shit out of me a couple of times.”
The steering wheel creaked; his knuckles were white. He stared at the road ahead, shoulders tense. “And orphans?”
“No one’s there to miss us when we die.”
“Someone obviously cared when you died.”
“I meant at Boot Camp.”
“What’s that?”
I blew hard through my teeth, glad we were nearly to the train station so the conversation could end. “They don’t just put a knife in our hands and tell us to kill, Alex. We have to survive Boot Camp first. The ones who live become the Hunters.”
“And this is legal?”
“Probably not, but it’s necessary. Why do you think you’ve never heard of us before today?”
“What about Wyatt?”
“He’s definitely heard of us before today.”
“He’s your Handler, right?” Alex asked, exasperation leaking into his words. “Do they do Boot Camp?”
My lips parted. It was a question that, in four years, I’d never actually pondered. Handlers knew what they were doing; it wasn’t my job to ask how they learned it. “I’m sure they’ve got their own training requirements. Think of Hunters as the prizefighters and Handlers as their coaches.”
“Some of the best coaches are former players.”
I shrugged. “If any of the Handlers are former Hunters, no one talks about it. We do our job, we save lives, end of story.”
“Okay.”
Trees green with spring leaves surrounded the station. It felt desolate and lonely, the perfect place for a kidnapping. Ten-foot-tall chain-link fencing lined the perimeter, but the lock had long since vanished. Alex drove through the empty parking lot, cracked and overgrown with grass and dandelions. Space lines had faded away, leaving behind a sea of grayed asphalt and little else.
The station itself was two stories tall—an old-fashioned gabled style with peeling red walls and white trim. Boards covered windows long devoid of glass. Childish graffiti marked dozens of teenage dares and initiations. The platform on the rear, facing the tracks, was warped and defaced and probably rotting in a dozen places. It smelled of fuel and decay.
Alex parked close to the building. He turned off the engine and reached for the door handle. I put a hand on
