The Iron Hunt (15 page)

“Listen,”
he said quietly. “This is not you, alone.”

“Okay,”
I whispered. “But we had this conversation.”

He
leaned his forehead against mine. “I mean it, Maxine. Please.”

“I
know.” I kissed the corner of his mouth. “Go figure.”

He
smiled, though it was strained. I could not see his eyes. Made me flash back to
the demon, Oturu, and I forced Grant away just enough so that I could look at
him fully.

He
hid nothing from me. Not one tremor. Not the heat, or the full beat of his
strength, which was steady, calm. I did not know what he saw in my eyes, but I
knew what I felt. It scared me.

“Don’t,”
he said.

“People
get hurt because of me.”

“Faith,
endurance.” Grant held up the stone. “Listen to your mother.”

I
laughed at the irony. “If I listened to my mother, I wouldn’t be here right
now. And you would probably be dead.”

Grant
made a face and rolled out of bed. I sat up, tossing aside covers. My body was
dark with tattoos, even down to my toenails: the color of claws. No nail polish
for me. Never stuck.

I
thought about Byron and grabbed my jeans and boots, dragging a navy cashmere
turtleneck from the closet. Grant yanked on a pair of jogging pants that slung
low across his lean hips. I tossed him the cane. His eyes were sharp, his jaw
set. Sexy beast.

I
swiped the stone disc from the bed and shoved it into the back pocket of my
jeans. The floors in the living room were slippery with sunlight. I glimpsed
blue sky through the windows and grabbed a pair of gloves from the coffee
table.

Byron
was not in the spare bedroom. The bed was made.

I
stood there, disappointed. Grant placed his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we
should check downstairs. He might be eating breakfast.”

Or
maybe he had run like hell. Not that I would blame him. I was the reason he had
gotten hurt. He probably figured I was also the reason Badelt had been
murdered.

I
left Grant to finish getting dressed. There was no direct access to the shelter
from his apartment. I had to go outside, and the morning air was crisp and
damp, with only a faint scent from the docks to mar the breeze. Made me miss
Wisconsin winter sunrises, with air so cold it cut the lungs like a knife.
During the day, the only temperature I could feel was in my lungs. Gave a place
some texture.

I
entered the shelter near the kitchen and smelled bacon grease and coffee. Past
the swinging doors, pots banged and the dishwasher rattled, competing with
sounds of laughter. Smokey Robinson blared from the intercom that fed into the
cafeteria. Folks liked some Motown with their cereal.

One
of the volunteers staggered in from the loading bay, holding a trough of
day-old glazed doughnuts, donated from a local bakery. I snagged one. “Don’t
suppose you’ve seen a kid around, have you? Teen, pierced, black spiked hair
and sweatshirt?”

“There’s
a dozen of them out there this morning,” grumbled the woman. “Take your pick.”

I
pushed open the swinging doors, peering into the cafeteria. Long tables filled
the room, most of them packed. My gaze slipped over tired, worn faces, some
cheerful smiles, and several tense men and women with quiet children sitting
between them. I saw a group of teens, trying to be small over by the wall. But
not Byron.

No
zombies this morning, either. That was some relief. Too much tension when they
were around. And when new-comers showed up, initial interactions were always
unpredictable. Especially if the zombie encountered me before Grant.

I
finished off the doughnut, made a quick pass through the main halls, then went
back outside. Took a walk through the garden. Smelled the sharp tang of cedar
sap and grass. Felt the boys doing the same, in their sleep. Raw tugged on my
arm. I paused, then started walking in that direction. My eyes ached.

On
the edge of the shelter’s grounds, near a battered chain-link fence, I saw a
tiny figure standing by a tree. A little girl, alone. I could not see her face
because she was staring away from me, at the road, but her hair was dark, and
she was dressed in denim overalls and red boots. Cute outfit. I remembered
having one just like it.

I
looked for a parent—any kind of adult—but except for some lone figures standing
outside the main shelter doors, I seemed to be it. Made my heart squeeze in a
bad way. Sometimes people abandoned their children at the Coop. I had only seen
it happen once, but Grant assured me that by the summer, we would probably have
several more. Folks got tired, desperate. Thought it was the only way to take
care of their kids and offer them a better life.

The
boys started tugging on my skin as I approached the child. I rubbed my arms and
slowed down, keeping some distance between the girl and myself.

“Hello,”
I said.

“Greetings,”
replied the girl, unmoving. I waited a beat, then walked a wide circle, unable
to take my gaze off her face. My stomach dropped. Dizziness cut. It was hard
for me to stand. Cold fear rode over conscious thought.

The
girl was me. At eight years old.

I
stared at her. Cars passed behind me. I heard seagulls and the bellow of a
distant ship horn; coarse laughter by the shelter; the faint creak of leather
as my gloved hands clenched into fists. Trying not to let them shake.

The
girl did not look at me, but I saw the edge of her eyes: mine in shape and
color, but cold, empty. “I heard things, even in the darkness. Within the veil.
Great tales of this world, sprung to life after our passage. Humanity, risen
into an empire of enlightenment, unlike any other beyond the Labyrinth. Such
wonders,” she whispered, her voice adult. “Such desperate, terrible wonders.”

“And
now you’re here,” I said. “Now you see.”

“I
see,” she said. “I am full of seeing, and still I hunger. You would not
understand such hunger. For immortals trapped behind eternity, in the
interminable prison dark, stories are currency. Stories are life. Stories are
to be bartered, to become blood.”

Her
appearance was an affront, no doubt meant to put me off balance. But it was her
words that twisted me. “You didn’t cross the veil to hunt stories.”

The
girl smiled, looking far away. “On the contrary. I have come for nothing but.
And oh, the tales I will tell. No Wardens. No Avatars. Humans, ignorant and
squealing in their misery. Nothing protecting this world. This world, that is
nothing
as we believed. Empires squandered. Gold and iron, and no soul.”

“You
sound disappointed.”

The
girl’s little hand slid from her pocket. Twine dangled. Or maybe it was hair,
braided into a string. “Memories compete. I am older than some. I remember
other worlds. Dazzling worlds. I had hoped this one would earn its place in the
pantheon. But what am I, except old-fashioned in desire? After we are done
here, there will be other empires to admire. An infinity, beyond the
Labyrinth.”

She
was talking to herself. Riddles. “You came here to see me. You know what I am.”

“You,
Hunter,” said the girl disdainfully. “Prison guard. Host to an army of runts. I
have heard stories of your bloodline, as well, but you are not so much to
reckon. Ten thousand years thins the spirit. And human flesh was ever so easy
to carve.”

“Then
you
don’t
know me,” I said quietly, stepping close. “And you’re welcome
to get in line.”

The
girl smiled. “One thing first, Hunter. Before we scrabble in the grass. Tell me
of Jack. Jack and his Sarai Soars. The wolf and the unicorn.”

Expect
the unexpected.
But that question
still clubbed my heart. I fought to keep my expression smooth, cold. “How do
you know them?”

The
girl held up her hand. Skin shimmered, becoming so translucent I could look
through her palm at her face. Like smoke. Or a ghost. Around us, the air cooled
as though shaved by ice.

I
gritted my teeth. “That was you last night.”

Her
hand solidified. “My eyes are everywhere. And Jack and Sarai, no matter what
they call themselves, are… old friends. Imagine my surprise to see you with
them. Just imagine. If you had not been there, we would not be having this
conversation. I would have… ignored you.”

“And
now?”

“Now
you are part of the game. Now, while I have been given a reprieve from my
masters, I will seize the moment to settle old stories.”

“No,”
I breathed coldly. “You stay away from them.”

“Or
what?” The girl regarded me with distant, imperious condescension. “You are
only
one
, and alone. The Wardens are dead, Hunter. And you will be the
blood I use as ink, as I write
the end
upon my skin.”

I walked
to the little girl, that demon wearing my baby face, and leaned down with ice
in my veins. “I never liked wasting time.”

“Nothing
is ever wasted.” The demon grabbed my throat. She had a strong grip. Might have
pulverized regular human flesh, crushed it into mush, but I just stood there
while she strained, and silently stripped off my gloves.

I
grabbed her wrist. Aaz dug in. I watched my own face—eight years old, demon
me—slacken with surprise. Hardened my heart and held tight, kneeling as all the
boys got in on the act of absorbing her life into their bodies— using Aaz as
the direct conduit. The demon’s grip on my throat loosened, mouth twisting in
agony. Her eyes shut.

“Thank
you for not ignoring me,” I whispered.

The
child snarled, facial features contorting, losing solidity. And then, with a
snap like bones cracking, she dissolved completely—and disappeared into smoke.

Aaz
could not hold on. Neither could I. In seconds, the demon was gone. But she
reappeared just out of reach, a shadow of me—colors faded, washed out, as
though standing on the other side of a black-and-white television screen.

“This
is my world,” I said hoarsely.

“Mine
first,” she breathed. “Mine, again. You cannot stop that. The veil is falling,
Hunter. And when the others learn what I have discovered—”

She
stopped, a shudder ripping through her frame—and the face she wore, mine,
trembled briefly into something older and far more expressive. Oturu’s mark
burned, throbbing to my heartbeat. I wanted to touch it, but dug my fingers
into my thighs.

“Go
home, demon,” I told her. “Go back inside the prison. Or I
will
kill
you.”

The
girl’s face stopped shifting, and she looked at me with glittering endless
eyes, ancient and terrifying. “That is not my home, Hunter. And I am
not
a demon.”

I lunged
toward her. She disappeared again. Only this time, she did not come back.

I
pushed myself up to my knees, staring at the spot. Boys restless on my skin. It
took me ten minutes before I was strong enough to stand. Ten minutes before my
thoughts settled into some echo of rational calm.

But
my legs wobbled. My heart thundered.

I was
scared. Really scared.

Just
not for me.

WHEN
I was twelve years old, I watched my mother pull a man from a burning car.
Freak accident on a stretch of Oklahoma highway. Not many other vehicles
involved, but a semi changed lanes, colliding with a sedan, and things got
ugly. Big fire, unconscious driver.

My
mother never hesitated. She disappeared into the blaze and came back, clothes
burning, hair on fire. A man draped across her shoulders; hurt, but breathing.
My mother, totally unharmed. Sporting a new haircut. She dumped the man, and
got back into the station wagon. Gunned the engine and pulled a hard U-turn on
the median. Drove us out of there.

Never
heard a peep on the radio, afterward—not even a segment on the news—though
nowadays there would probably be a cell-phone video making our lives hell on
You-Tube. Not that it would matter, given the alternative.

“Exceptions
to the rules,” my mother would say. “There are always exceptions.”

Drawing
attention for a good cause was one of them. Like fighting demons, even if it
was in broad daylight. Lost opportunities, after all, were like wasting air
while drowning a mile underwater. No matter who might be watching.

I
turned around and saw Byron.

I did
not know how long he had been standing there, but he was pale and skinny in his
oversized clothes, and his eyes belonged to a kid who had not only seen some
bad things, but might have just witnessed something downright crazy, like a
grown woman tussling with a child that could vanish into thin air.

“Hey,”
I said, awkwardly. “I was looking for you.”

“I
was on your roof,” he said, voice hollow, almost like he was talking on
automatic pilot. “Grant said you guys didn’t check there.”

I
nodded, then realized his gaze had dropped to my hands. I had shoved my gloves
into a pocket. Forgotten to put them back on. Too busy thinking about the end
of the world. And one old man who might be my grandfather.