Free King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) by Joseph Nassise Page A

me to the door, so I was able to see the Expedition idling at the curb. A second vehicle waited behind it.
    I snagged the sleeve of Denise’s coat. “Are you sure about this?” I whispered. Agreeing to a meeting was one thing. Letting them take us to that meeting under their control was something else entirely.
    Denise shrugged off my concerns.
    “They’ve given their word under oath,” she said. “We’ll be perfectly safe.”
    I stared at her. Given their word? Hadn’t she ever heard of lying?
    Apparently not, it seemed, for she left me standing there alone and marched over to the lead vehicle. I looked over at Dmitri, but he simply stared blankly back at me. Was I the only one who saw a problem with this?
    I’m gonna regret this. I know it , I told myself and then followed her into the Expedition, Dmitri at my heels.
    The driver was cut from the same mold as the other three. He glanced up in the mirror as the three of us slid into the seat behind him, but he didn’t say anything. Goatee climbed into the passenger seat, riding shotgun, while the other two rode in the second vehicle behind us.
    No sooner had we buckled up than the driver pulled away from the curb and headed east, toward the Quarter. My connection with the fry cook faded, and I was left in the light, unable to see anything more for the time being.
    The ride passed in silence. I was burning with questions, but I didn’t want to ask any of them in front of Goatee and his companion for fear of revealing my ignorance. Knowledge is power, they say, and they were already quite a bit ahead of me in that department. No need to give them any more of an edge.
    We drove for something in the neighborhood of fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before the Expedition slowed and then pulled to a stop.
    “Wait here, please,” Goatee said, and then both he and the driver proceeded to get out of the vehicle, leaving the three of us alone.
    It seemed a good time to ask Denise what the hell was going on, something I did with more than a bit of fervency.
    “Want to fill me in?”
    She laughed. “You really are in the dark this time, aren’t you?”
    “And will continue to be unless you spill what the heck has been going on. We’ve probably got a minute, maybe two, so stick to the highlight reel, okay?”
    She thought for a moment. “Okay. I probably don’t have to tell you that cities like this attract all manner of creatures—Gifted and Preternaturals alike. They come for all the same reasons that normal folks do—better jobs, better opportunities, better chances to reach out and seize the American dream for themselves and their families.
    “At least, the good ones do. The others have different things in mind, like hunting and feeding off of the one thing they are strictly forbidden to hunt—the Mundanes.
    “To help prevent this, a system was set up to keep the overly aggressive species in check, complete with a means of imposing control over those who refused to abide by the rules. Around the turn of the century, a High Council was established in each of the major American cities, a group of elected officials who are in charge of making sure that those who choose to live and hunt and exist within its boundaries keep to the rules without violating them. Are you with me so far?”
    I nodded my understanding.
    “Each Council appoints someone to act as the Lord Marshal in the area under their control, a kind of mystical equivalent of the local sheriff in the Old West. It is the Marshal’s job to maintain order within the city limits, see that the Council’s edicts are obeyed, that kind of stuff. He has a team of wardens who carry out his requirements.”
    Now things were starting to make sense. It was the Marshal’s job to vet any newcomers to be certain that they weren’t involved in whatever mischief might be going on, hence our “invitation” to pay him a visit. It was the old “I’m the only sheriff in town” routine. He’d sent some of his wardens