Free I Hunt Killers Blood Boy by Barry Lyga Page A

warming; at least let me enjoy it before I drown when the oceans rise."
    "Will Jasper be there?" Mom asked.
    Howie had anticipated this question. Truth be told, it did not require Cassandra-level foresight to predict it; Mom asked if Jazz would be present every chance she got. Hell, when Howie went to the bathroom, she wanted to know if Jasper (at least she'd stopped calling him "the Dent boy") would be there.
    "I don't think so," he lied smoothly. "He's busy with that new girlfriend of his."
    Dad clucked his tongue from somewhere within earshot. Howie couldn't tell if it was disbelief that Jazz was macking on a lady or disappointment that Howie was currently -- and perpetually -- unattached.
    "I know what I don't think so means," Mom said shrewdly, eyes narrowing. "I don't want you riding around in that Jeep of his."
    Jazz's Jeep was no more dangerous than any other vehicle, and Jazz was actually a pretty decent driver.
    But the Jeep was a hand-me-down from Jazz's father, Billy Dent. Also known as Hand-in-Glove, the Artist, Green Jack, and a billion other of the absolute worst super-hero names in the known universe. Butcher Billy was the leading favorite these days, mainly because Billy had, indeed, butchered many, many people in his serial killing career.
    "There are no ghosts in the Jeep," Howie told her.
    "Still."
    "I won't ride in the Jeep," Howie swore, knowing he would break this promise in the next twenty minutes.
    Mom always looked worried and nervous, but for some reason, she seemed even more so this night. Maybe it was Halloween, giving her the spooks.
    Propelled by some instinct that he hated and tried to ignore — but couldn’t —   Howie bent down to kiss her on the top of her head. "I'll be fine, Mom. It's just a party. I've heard the odds are, like, four or five to one that no one will die."
    "Those are pretty good odds," she admitted, finally grinning. "Have fun."
    And then, because things were going too well, he pretended to bang his head on the top of the doorframe on his way out.
    *****
    J AZZ DIDN ’ T LIVE FAR away, his crazy grandmother's house being close enough that you could almost walk it. Almost, but not quite. Very little was in walking distance in Lobo’s Nod. It was a small town, but for some reason, the smaller the town, the more badly you needed a car to get anywhere.
    Howie pulled into the Dent driveway and parked. Jazz was just coming out the front door, locking it carefully behind him. With a groan and a moan, Howie pushed open his car door and spilled out of the car. When Jazz did nothing, Howie picked himself up and stumbled over to his best friend, limping, lurching from side to side. "Jazz... Stopped too fast... Hit my head..."
    Jazz coolly looked him up and down in roughly half a second and said, "Nice makeup.” He strode to where the Jeep waited, silent and bland.
    "Not...makeup..." Howie groaned, following him. "Hurts so bad... Call 911..."
    "I'm sure," Jazz said, and yawned. "What are you supposed to be?"
    "I'm Victim number one hundred. Billy's diamond anniversary."
    Jazz didn't so much as twitch. "Number one hundred was a sixteen year old girl named Patricia--"
    "You're less fun than my parents," Howie complained. "How is that even possible? "
    "Lots of hard work and Billy’s version of Take Your Son to Work Day."
    "Touché!" Leaning against the Jeep, he noticed that Jazz was wearing a pair of old-ish jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a pair of shoes that could charitably be described as "unfashionable, boring, out-of-date, and lame." "You do realize this is a costume party, right? And that we humans dress in costume for costume parties."
    Jazz shrugged. "I'm going as a normal person."
    "And you do an admirable impression of one, I must say. Almost had me convinced.” He jerked his chin toward the dark house. "How's Gramma Dearest?"
    Jazz's grandmother was a nice old lady. She was also a raging bitch-demon from the lowest pits of hell. Which one surfaced at any point