Chapter 21
We picked up takeout in Maywood and drove back to the compound.
Remi stared out the window for the entire drive and did not engage despite numerous attempts to catch his attention.
It was silently decided that we would eat at Jae's cabin, away from the listening ears of the other Hunters. Remi surged forward, the first into the cabin, as the rest of us followed. Davenport carried the unearthed box of bullets in his hands, delicately, like a baby bird. Hugo had insisted on paying for all of the food, and no one had argued. I felt like I had been included in a secret initiation rite. Hugo ordered the food on the phone as we drove, and he did not stumble once while rattling off a complex and extensive list of what the team wanted. He hadn’t even needed to ask. I got a glimpse into their post-mission ritual, and I was all too happy that it included Kung Pao chicken and Chow Mein.
No one had asked for my order, but I had a sneaky feeling that the extra hot chili noodles had my name written all over them.
Hugo placed the white boxes onto the coffee table in the living room, while Remi reclined in the tub armchair and flicked through Netflix. The rest of the team dived into the food like ravenous animals. Davenport was the only person to get silverware and a plate.
Wedged in between Jae and Hart, I spooned noodles into my mouth and watched the silence slowly melt from tense to thoughtful.
Every so often, Davenport would glance at Remi to gauge his emotions. I could tell that we all wanted to bring up Alicia's temper and her childish tantrum. I certainly wanted to talk about it. I wanted to shake Remi and tell him to ditch the witch.
I knew plenty of places to bury a body if she didn’t get the message. Daddy Davenport and I shared a look, and I could tell that he was thinking the same thing. I stuck out my tongue. He clicked his chopsticks, threatening to grab it, even though I was across the other side of the room.
“Aren’t we going to mention the horse in the room?” Jae said wickedly, spearing a piece of chicken into his mouth.
I groaned. Hart reached behind my back to smack Jae across the head. He darted out of reach, cackling.
Remi continued to flick through Netflix, silently perusing the movies, his food laid untouched on the floor by his combat boot.
“What’s this about a horse?” Hugo asked innocently.
I swallowed a mouthful of noodles. “Nightmares can't change shape like Higher Demons, but we have more than one form. Most Demons do.” I waved my hand dismissively. I dropped my voice, going for dramatic effect “Legend has it, that if you ride on the back of a Night Mare, you will see your own death.” I said spookily, wiggling my fingers.
“Is that true?” Davenport quirked a brow.
“Who knows?” I blew a raspberry. “I can't ride on my own back, can I?”
“I’ll ride you anytime.” Jae's face was the picture of innocence.
“That’s what Cole meant when he said stables,” Hugo said without emotion.
“Yeah.” I twirled noodles around my chopsticks. My nose burned with the spices. “The King of Greed, Mammon, collects rare creatures.”
“And you're the last Drude.” Hugo finished my sentence, but he did not seem at all happy.
“Most Demon and Witchling magic does not work on me.” I shrugged. “I’m not worried.”
Davenport eyed my collar but said nothing as he spooned one of his boring steamed vegetables into his mouth. Even with a plate on his lap, the man had impeccable table manners.
“My magic doesn’t work on you?” If Remi's sudden decision to join the conversation startled any of my Hunters, they showed no sign of it.
“I guess.” I winced. “Witchling magic comes from a Devil's bargain, and Lucifer's magic does not work on me.”
“Including Devil's Silver?” Davenport sat forward, intrigued.
“I've never tried,” I admitted. “Drudes have a collective memory. I can check back if you want?”
For once, Daddy Davenport looked stunned. Hugo perked up, eyes alive with interest.
“What does that mean?” Hugo asked.
“We share memories with our Cluster. If one Drude experiences it, we all do.” I said.
“So you felt when all your family...” Hugo swallowed the lump in his throat, crunching his water bottle in his fist.
Davenport's face turned pale, and he looked sick all of a sudden. Sitting back, he took a swig of his water.
I stared down at my food, picking at the sauce-covered chicken. I didn’t want to think about my kin.
Jae's finger drew patterns on my thigh. Even though I wore trousers, the delicate artwork of his touch made my skin tingle.
“Bullets,” Davenport said, clearing his throat. No one said anything about his abrupt change of subject.
“Classic Red Herring.” Jae sat back smugly.
Hart shook his head and snorted. “Not everyone reads as much as you do, Angel-face.”
Jae looked contrite. “A red herring is—” He began to explain before Remi cut him off. The Witchling's eyes never left the TV screen.
“—it's a clue purposely meant to misdirect.” Remi interrupted. “The bullets were commissioned and planted so we wouldn’t look at the true murder weapon.”
“But there are no wounds.” Hugo pushed his hair out of his face. “The only consistency is an elevated iron level in all of the dead Fae.”
“Which was explained by the dissolving Iron bullets,” Hart stated blandly. “Except that none of them were used.”
“Is Ryn Cole the only supplier?” I yawned and slumped back, resting my head on Hart's shoulder.
Davenport scratched his stubby chin. “To my knowledge.”
“Could an Ifrit kill a Fae with iron poisoning?” Remi asked, putting the TV remote down. Finally.
I chewed my bottom lip as I considered it. “Ifrits burn people out from the inside. They're primarily beings of fire. It's their calling card. Iron weapons tend to be more of a mortal thing.”
“Initially, we looked into all of the proficient marksmen in the compound, but all of them had an alibi.” Davenport took another sip of water. “How could someone use enough iron to kill a Fae, without wounding them?”
“Spinach?” Jae wiped his face on his sleeve and leaned back, full and sleepy.
Davenport rocked his head from side to side as he considered. “Feeding someone iron would be an effective poison and could take a few hours before it became fatal.”
“Gary.” I sat up. “It has to be Gary.”
Davenport gave me his signature chiding look, and Hugo put his head over his hand and slumped down in his seat.
“It’s not Gary,” Hart stated plainly.
“It could be Gary,” I argued.
“It’s not.”
I growled, sitting back on the couch with my arms crossed and my lip pushed out to form a petulant pouting lip.
Remi stood up, his food was untouched. He offered no apology as he moved towards the spare bedroom like a specter and closed the door behind him.
“I’m worried,” I said, eying Remi's plate of Chow Mein. He hadn’t even picked up his chopsticks.
“He'll be okay.” Hugo smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
“You don't get it.” I shook my head. “I’m a Demon. I don't worry. It’s a pointless and tedious exercise. I am worried about Remi.”
Each man looked at each other as they tried to decipher my words. When they failed, they turned back to me.
“He can't marry her.” I hissed, lowering my voice to barely a breath. “She’s a tyrant.”