Darkness Calls (31 page)

Minutes later, though, I found the owner of the shoes. It was Mary, crouched in a small clearing, drinking from a trickling vein of water. She was alone. Starlight cast a faint glow on her white hair and limbs, and for one moment she did not look human to me—so far removed, I had to stand still and remind myself that I knew the old woman.

She straightened as I approached, water trickling from her chin. Loose-limbed and graceful, some wild creature of the wood. Even her dress and sweater looked different in the shadows—as though she wore nothing but the night. Her breath puffed silver. She did not seem to notice the cold.

At first I thought she held a knife in her hand, but it was only a stone, sharp on one edge. Shallow cuts lined her sinewy arm. Her gaze was ferocious, the whites of her eyes brilliant as snow. Blood dripped and flowed down her skin to the ground. The hard line of the old woman’s mouth was thin as a blade.

“Mary,” I said.

“Failed him again,” she whispered unsteadily. “A haze I was in. I let it happen, again and again.”

“No,” I told her firmly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Her face crumpled, and she dug the heel of her palm against her brow—still holding the stone knife, so that the blade came dangerously close to her eye. I took another step, watching despair melt her features, and it made me want to weep—for her, for me.

“Locked in,” she breathed. “Can’t help him. Can’t help him, and he needs me, and this body . . . this body is not what I had. It’s
not
”—she cut herself, viciously—“
what
”—she did it again, a shallow strike that glowed red before spilling over with blood—“
I had.
”

I did not let her finish the last blow. I grabbed the hand holding the stone, expecting her to let go—but instead she fought me for its possession. She fought hard. Mary was surprisingly strong—shockingly quick—and she stepped backward and did something with her foot and free hand that sent me to the ground. Dek and Mal squeaked in my ears with surprise.

I lay on my back for one stunned moment—saw the knife flash again toward her arm—and grabbed her ankle, yanking hard. Not enough to make her fall, but a strong enough pull to cause a stumble. I rolled to my feet while she was catching her balance, sensing Zee and the others watching from the shadows. I signaled them to keep away, and tried again to take the stone knife. She kicked at my face with all the agility of a ballerina, joints moving like greased lightning. Her eyes were wild, thick white hair standing off her head—teeth bared in a snarl.

“Mary!” I shouted, grappling with her. “Mary, listen to me!”

Something finally seemed to sink through. She stopped struggling—but with so much tension left in her body, I didn’t dare relax. We stared at each other, caught in a stalemate, and I saw something in the old woman’s eyes that was clear and strong, and frighteningly purposeful.

“Grant,” she said hoarsely, bleeding all over me. “He’s in trouble.”

“I know,” I said. “We need to find him.”

Mary stared up at the sky. Her lips moved in silent conversation, but her body was limp—and a bloody mess. I started to step back, and her hand shot out, grabbing me. I jumped, but Mary did not start fighting again. All she did was stare at the stars, her face filling with startling vitality.

“Can hear his song,” she whispered—and then grabbed the back of my neck, her grip strong and sticky with blood. I could not see her eyes—we were too close—but her words were whispered soft inside my ear. “Grant’s woman. Lightbringers never stand alone.”

“Tell me,” I said, hearing the urgency in her voice, sensing there was more I needed to understand. “Tell me what that means.”

“One heart burns out,” she breathed. “Two hearts live.”

I felt those words coil in me like a charm. Dek and Mal, deep in the shadows of my hair, began to hum—and against my legs, Zee brushed close. Mary pulled back, looking at them without fear. She had never been afraid of the boys.

“Found them,” Zee rasped, and Mary bared her teeth in a smile or a snarl. I felt like doing the same, and the darkness stirred within my heart: quiet, thoughtful. I should have been terrified—and I was—but not enough to hide from myself. I was ready for a little faith.

I extended my right hand to Zee, but he ignored the armor. His red eyes glowed, and his claws flexed and dug into the ground. “We run. We hunt, sweet Maxine.”

“We hunt,” I agreed, flexing my hands. “Mary?”

Fierce laughter rolled from the old woman’s throat, and she took off: the ghost of a lioness, racing amongst the trees. I followed, and found running easier than walking. I flew.

We moved up the mountain, sprinting along a narrow dirt trail. Mary was a fast woman, and graceful. Years seemed to tumble from her in the starlight, and I had trouble keeping up as Zee bounded ahead of us, Aaz winking in and out of the shadows. I listened to the low drum of heartbeats in my head: deep, wild, like hearing the world breathe and toss while in the throes of some dreamless slumber. Felt old. Old as stone and dirt and blood. Old as thunder.

I lost track of time. When Zee finally slowed, it was at the crest of a knoll in the mountainside. Mary and I crept upon boulders, balanced like goats, and picked our way to the edge to peer down.

I had not stopped to wonder what part of the world we were in—and what I saw below gave me no answer—but in the distance, cradled in the heart of a deep valley, I witnessed lights burning; a town, a small city, maybe. Something undeniably warm in seeing civilization, especially tucked so deep in the mountain wilderness.

But closer—just below us—I glimpsed movement. Two men.

I stood up, and scrabbled down the rocky hill. Mary stayed close behind me, hair wild, her dress flowing in the cold air. We did not try to hide our approach.

Grant saw me first. He sat in the grass, leaning against a large rock. His legs were spread out, his arms folded tightly over his chest. He looked cold and tired, but when he saw me, the warmth of his slow smile was so intimate, and so kind, I wondered how I had ever deluded myself into believing that I could live my life alone, without regret.

Jack sat beside Grant. From a distance, he resembled a scarecrow instead of the big strong man I knew him to be. Close-up was little better. He looked rumpled and exhausted, far too frail for comfort. His hair was a mess. His cheeks were bony and gaunt. But his mouth softened for me, a glint in his eyes that was another kind of smile, and he held his hand up in a short wave.

I stopped, just in front of them. No falling on my knees, no tears or hugs. I stared into the faces of the two men I loved and forced myself to breathe.

“About time,” Grant said, gently wry. “You take a detour to Disneyland?”

“Crossed my mind,” I replied. “You’re a demanding man.”

He held out his hand. I grabbed it, and helped him stand. When he was on his feet, towering over me, he leaned in, and whispered, “But my demands are always manly.”

I bit back a quivery smile, hooked my thumb into the waist of his jeans, and stood on my toes to brush my lips over his cheek—too profoundly relieved by his safe presence to do more. What I needed to say required time and silence. Solitude.

Mary hovered nearby: a spectral figure, with stars in her eyes. Grant reached out, and she danced into his embrace on light feet, sagging against him, and not simply from exhaustion.

Zee and the others were scouting the borders of the clearing. Raw was still gone; with Byron, I hoped. I crouched beside Jack, who continued to rest, unmoving. His stillness worried me until he bent one of his legs and rested his arm on his knee: a careless movement, and only a little creaky. Zee loped near—disappeared—and reemerged seconds later with a fleece blanket in his claws. He handed it to me.

“Cribari,” I said, tucking the blanket around Jack.

His jaw tightened, hands very pale in the darkness as he pulled the blanket closer. “Down the hill.”

I hesitated, trying to read his eyes. Then, slowly, took the old man’s hand and pushed back his sleeve. Bone lines caught the starlight, inspiring a primordial, primitive emotion: fear and mystery, and possibility. I ran my fingers over the slight protrusion, which was less a tattoo than a natural growth: like the tusk of an elephant. Only, embedded in his flesh.

I pushed his sleeve even higher. Found other marks, in normal ink: short words, engraved in unintelligible languages against his biceps.

Jack pulled away his arm. I said, “Explain that.”

“I remind myself of what is important,” he replied gruffly. “I have been alive a great many years, and even my mind can forget the most essential truths.”

I touched my face, tracing the web of lines burned into my skin: a gift from the demon Oturu, who had marked me . . . just as he had marked another, five thousand years past. Two women. Two Hunters. Bound. Sharing something in our spirits I did not understand, but that others recognized: Oturu, Jack, Tracker. A demon, an Avatar, and a man—who had known my ancestor while she lived.

“Only one other Hunter ever carried this mark,” I said to Jack. “And her memory terrifies you.”

“She’s dead,” replied the old man shortly.

“But what she was lives on,” I said grimly. “She almost destroyed the world while she lived. She became . . . something else. And now there’s me. Might as well have written ‘apocalypse’ on my forehead. That’s what this scar meant to Father Cribari. And to you, when Oturu first marked me.”

Jack pushed down his sleeve, refusing to look at me. “There are some truths that never die, my dear. And some that corrupt.”

I grabbed his arm. “Why do I share this mark with her, Jack? Does it have anything to do with this thing that lives inside me?”

“You know it does,” he said roughly.

I stood very still, hardly breathing. “What is it, then?”

Jack shook his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” Grant said quietly, joining the conversation. He leaned hard on his cane, with his other arm slung over Mary’s shoulders.

“No.” Jack shot him a look that might have been hateful had there not been so much fear in it, as well. “We were careful when we made her bloodline. We bound
demons
to a human, lad. Demons. And we did it only once, because it was too . . . unpredictable. Maybe this . . . maybe what is happening to her . . . is part of that.
I don’t know.
”

“But you’re responsible for this,” Grant replied. “Antony knew you by that mark on your arm. And you expected him to obey you because of it.”

“Old Wolf,” I muttered. “What have you done?”

Jack gave me a sharp look. “I tried to keep you safe. All you women, your bloodline. I had good intentions.”

“The Catholic Church is trying to
kill
me.”

“Just a handful, working in isolation.”

Zee spat, making the grass sizzle. “Grim watchers. Bad eggs, Meddling Man. Blood on their hands.”

I stood, weary. “Is Cribari dead?”

“No,” Grant said.

“But he will be soon,” Jack added.

“Yes,” I said, sharing a long look with Zee. “That’s right.”

CHAPTER 19

D
OWN the hill. I walked, and Grant came with me. Mary followed at a discreet distance, her transformation evolving, in fragments: she moved like hired muscle, the kind I sometimes saw down at the docks with their Russian Mafia bosses; a sinewy, hard-living woman, quick-draw, with that familiar crazed look in her eye that only enhanced the coiled power of her stride. She looked dangerous. She looked like a woman who had scrubbed blood off her hands.

I did not know what to make of her transformation. I did not know what was happening to her. Such a great distance between the woman I had known and the woman who strode behind me. But it felt, in an odd way, like I was watching someone come home to herself. Odd, strange home.

Grant walked carefully over the uneven ground, and the quiet air seemed to swallow the click of his cane on stone and the soft rasp of his strained breathing. I heard bubbling sounds, sometimes, and his coughs were wet and hacking. I tried not to think about what was coming out of his lungs and craned my neck, staring upward. Stars masked the night, and the ribbon of the Milky Way stretched behind the mountain. I felt very small beneath that vast sky. Everything I was, and could be, nothing but a moment lost in time.

“There’s life out there,” I said, as Zee and the others prowled through the shadows around our legs—red eyes glinting, claws cutting stone as they whispered to one another in their melodic, indecipherable tongue.

“There’s life here.” Grant stifled a cough, and pointed to the golden lights of civilization glittering in the distance. “Imagine that.”

“If Jack’s right—”

He shot me a hard look and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t.”

I almost pressed the issue. I found the possibilities immensely profound. If Jack had been truthful about the origins of humanity, then all of us were descended from a singular race, of which Grant, and perhaps Mary, were the sole survivors. Worlds, seeded. Worlds, left to gestate. Eons, passing in moments. Grant, tossed through time.

Until here, now. I felt as though there should be a reason for it—for all of this—that there should be a reason, even, for him and me. Because we were impossible. What we were, separately, was impossible. Nothing like us should have existed. Not demons, either, or Avatars; or worlds beyond some hidden labyrinth.

I did not believe in coincidence. But in this case, to
not
believe required belief in something else. And I was not ready for that.

Nor was I prepared to speak about these things with Grant. Because if true—if true—then all I could offer was, ultimately, a discussion about genocide and slavery—as well as how the family Grant had believed in was more or less a lie.

I scanned the hillside in front of us and saw nothing but large boulders and stone shelves jutting sharply from the long, grassy slope. Any farther, and the footing would start getting treacherous for Grant. “What happened after Cribari took you?”