The Iron Hunt (20 page)

“That
demon who came through the veil called you a friend. Care to explain that?”

“The
little skinner,” Jack said grimly, pronouncing each word with cold, crisp disgust.
“No friend of ours. Or demon. Certainly not like those she was imprisoned with.
Frankly, I’m surprised she’s still alive. I thought for certain the others
would have killed her by now.”

I
stared. “Is this supposed to be answering my questions? ”

Sarai
reappeared. I still held the stone disc in my other hand and set it down in
time to catch the dish towel she tossed at my head. I dumped the glass into the
cloth. As I was bundling it up, Jack shocked me by gently pushing my hair from
my face—exposing the edge of my jaw, below my ear.

“Clever,”
he murmured, and stood back so Sarai could see. “The evidence has been
obscured, but I saw it myself last night. He marked her.”

“Oturu,”
I said.

Sarai
faltered, gazing up at Jack. There was so much history in that brief stare, I
felt like an interloper merely by breathing the same air.

“So,”
she finally said. “Again.”

“Again,”
he said, just as carefully. “Maybe.”

“She
was marked. No maybes.”

“I
was speaking of interpretation. Nothing is ever what it seems.”

I
battled a chill. “What are you talking about?”

“Everything,”
Jack said heavily, and tapped the book by his elbow; the same text I had been
looking at the night before. “An old bargain coming to fruition. Always
coinciding with a weakening in the veil. Which I suppose would explain why, in
ancient times, it was seen as a portent of dark events. War, plague, famine.”

“It,”
I echoed.

“The
Hunt,” Jack said. “The Wild Hunt.”

It
was too random, too out of place. My head hurt. I glanced at the book beside
him. “That’s just a story. Myth.”

“And
where do myths come from, that live so deep in blood? They do not spring,
magically, from thin air. There is always a root.” His voice dropped to a
whisper, and his eyes grew distant. “Always.”

“And
Oturu?”

Sarai
made a low sound. “Oturu is the hand of the Hunt. And the hand… always serves
the heart.”

I
studied their faces, fighting the urge to back up and put space between our
bodies. “How do you know all this? My grandmother, my mother, couldn’t have
told you everything. Not enough to make you say these things.”

“You
thought you were the only one who knew about the demons?” Sarai raised her
brow, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Or the veil?”

“Enough.”
Jack waved his hand at her. “Be gentle. We haven’t made this easy on the girl.”

“So
make it easy. I’m here. I found you. What was my mother hiding that she was so
afraid to tell me?”

“That,
my dear, we can’t say.”

Swearing
in front of old people and possible relatives limited my choice of responses.
So I fumed, silently. Sarai said, “It was her decision, Maxine. She felt words
would be inadequate. She wanted you to be
shown
.”

“Shown
what
?”

“Shown
you
,” said the woman softly. “Just you.”

“What
you’re made of,” added Jack. “Beneath the skin.”

I
pressed my knuckles against my brow and tried to keep my voice steady.
“Meddling Man. What are you hiding beneath
your
skin?”

Jack
stilled, and for a moment I saw something ancient peer out from behind those
blue eyes; something so old and tired and hard, I had to look away—only for a
moment. But when I met his gaze again, seconds later, there was nothing to be
afraid of, nothing but the eyes of an old human man, intelligent and warm.

Sarai
said, very quietly, “None of us are what we seem, Hunter. We walk as
reflections, only.”

“That’s
riddle talk.”

“Sometimes
riddles are the only way to tell the truth.”

“And
your… skinner? Blood Mama?”

“Other
riddles,” Sarai said. “Yet more players in the game.”

Chills
rode up my spine. “You’re not demon. But you’re not human, either, are you?”

Sarai
never answered. Zee tugged against my stomach; all the boys, stirring on my
skin. A warning. I looked behind, at the open door. Listening hard. Jack began
to say something. I held up my hand, silencing him.

I
stepped toward the door. I heard nothing, but the boys were pulsing against my
body, struggling from their dreams, and the silence I strained to hear beyond
was full and heavy, drawn upon itself as though cloaked, in hiding.

Something,
hiding.

Dread
filled me. Cold certainty. I thought about that little demon wearing my face,
or Oturu, but this felt different. I tried to remember the layout of the
stairs, and recalled they went up another flight; but that here, on the second
floor, this was the only door.

I returned
to Jack and Sarai, stepping quickly down the narrow path between books. I
shoved the stone disc into my back pocket, and started waving my hands. “Go,
move. Is there another exit?”

Jack
shook his head. I pushed Sarai’s shoulder. She hesitated, then said, “Brian
gave me his gun. It’s upstairs.”

No
time. They took a couple steps, then looked back at me. Past me.

I
turned. And got shot in the chest.

MY
mother was shot to death. I stopped carrying a gun after that. I had not
touched one in five years.

It
was a fast attack. A man and woman swept into the cluttered room, one after the
other—so quick, little more than a blur in my eyes. I saw blond hair. Windbreakers
and jeans. Familiar ruddy faces.

Edik’s
Wonder Twins. Blood Mama’s long reach. Made no sense.

The
piles of books and paper did not slow their trigger fingers. They started
shooting as soon as they came into sight; precise hits, softened by silencers.
I got slammed with the first round—felt the impact, no pain. The Wonder Twins
seemed unbothered that I stayed on my feet. Their gazes never changed: sharp,
intensely focused.

Bullets
bounced off my body. One of them nicked the gun-woman in the arm, but she
barely faltered. She kept her weapon trained on me, reaching inside her jacket
for a second gun when the first ran out of bullets. Drowning me in metal.

It
took me less than five seconds to realize I was not their target. Five seconds
to get rained on and pounded. Five seconds before I gathered my wits and
reached inside my jacket for the knives.

My
mother had trained me to use her blades. I sparred with her every day, even
when I was hardly as tall as her knees—but it had been five years and all those
skills were gone to shit. I had played it easy. Let the boys do the dirty work.
And now one day of crap had hammered it home.

Dumb.
I was so damn dumb.

I
threw the knives. My aim was better with my right hand and the blade skimmed
the edge of the woman’s gun arm, shaving off flesh, making her drop the weapon.
The other man, victim of my left, was stabbed in the upper thigh. He got off a
shot before I reached him. The bullet hit my collarbone. I planted my fist in
his face. He fell hard and did not get up.

The
woman already had her hand on another gun. I body-slammed her, and we fell down
in a pile of books, rolling and grappling. She punched me and I let her; a
flamethrower or bazooka would have felt the same. The boys absorbed everything.

I
finally pinned her, books and paper cascading out of control. She tried to buck
me off, but I dug my fingers into her armpit, pinching a nerve, and she
screamed in pain. The boys rumbled in their dreams.

I
looked for Jack and Sarai. The old man was gone. No sign of him, though I did
not discount the possibility that he was hiding under the table.

Sarai
was on the ground, lost in a heap of books. Legs twitching. Covered in blood.

My
focus narrowed, my heart thundering in my throat. The woman beneath me started
fighting again. I punched her. I hit her so hard, bone crunched, leaving a dent
in her cheek the size of my fist. Blood spurted from her nose. She blacked out.
I checked her pulse. Still alive.

I
clambered off her body and stumbled to Sarai, falling on my knees at her side.
She was breathing, eyes fluttering. I thought of my mother, and wanted to be
sick.

“Sarai,”
I whispered, reaching into my pocket for the cell phone. “Sarai, hold on.”

She
grabbed my wrist. I did not know how. She looked too weak to breathe, but her
grip was strong. “Don’t call anyone.”

“You’ll
die.”

“Yes.”
She began to laugh; short-lived, painful. “But one more time won’t kill me.”

I
gritted my teeth, still struggling for my cell phone. Sarai whispered, “Listen,
Hunter. You, Hunter. The first Hunter. Like Athena and Inanna, Kali and Badb.
Queens of the blood and sword. Queens of war, born again.” Her fingers
squeezed. “You are born again.”

Chills
raced through me. “Sarai. Give me back my hand. You need help.”

“
You
need help,” she breathed, blood flecking her lips. “You are feared, Hunter. In
every way, you
should
be feared. For good reason. But times have come to
hand. The veil is falling.”

I
waited for her to say more, but she turned her head sharply, like she heard
something. I looked, but the shooters were still unconscious. We were alone.
Jack was still nowhere to be seen. I felt like a kid in a horror movie, trapped
in a nightmare. “Sarai.
Please
.”

“Please,”
she echoed softly, and her face contorted. “Oh, Brian. Brian, I’m so sorry.”

Her
grip was still too strong. I tried reaching into my pocket with my other hand,
but Sarai yanked me to her, so hard I almost fell across her wounds. I held
myself just above her body, breathless and desperate, and looked into her eyes.
Her endless eyes. Same ancient strength I had glimpsed in Jack’s gaze; only
deeper, more powerful. Inexorable.

“You
are a good person,” she whispered harshly, trembling. “Your mother wanted you
to stay a good person. What she did was for that reason only. Nothing else.”

Sarai
released me, holding my gaze—but her eyes dulled almost immediately, tension
draining from her body. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She made a
sound, breathless. I leaned in, tears burning.

“Labyrinth,”
she murmured.

“Sarai,”
I hissed, but it was too late. I watched her die.

I was
still sitting there when I heard the sirens. It might have been a minute, or
ten. My hearing was very good, and they were distant. I looked over my
shoulder. The Wonder Twins were still on the floor, covered in books, sprawled
and bleeding and broken. I stood and walked to their bodies, my boots rolling
over bullet casings.

The
air in the room tasted cold. I bent and yanked my knife out of the man’s thigh.
Except for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he did not move, or make a
sound. I found my other knife on the floor, and sheathed both blades.

Got
colder. Icy. I could not feel it on my skin, but when I breathed, the air held
an arctic flavor in my lungs. My breath puffed into a delicate white cloud. The
boys rumbled against my body, restless and dreaming.

I
walked past Sarai’s body, calling out Jack’s name, and checked the adjoining
room. I found only a rumpled bed and small bathroom. No sign of the old man. I
was scared for him. When I turned around, I had company.

The
little girl. Little me. Still dressed in denim and red cowboy boots, dark hair
sliding past her shoulders. She crouched by Sarai’s head. One tiny finger poked
the center of her brow.

“The
unicorn lost her horn,” murmured the child.

“Get
away from her.”

“This
is just a skin, Hunter. Nothing left to harm.” The child jabbed her index
finger into Sarai’s skull, right in the center of her brow. Bone cracked. Her
finger sank to its joint inside her head. I cried out, lunging, but books got
in my way, and I went down, sprawled just out of reach. I scrabbled forward,
but not before the girl removed her finger. It was covered in brain matter. She
stared, frowning. As though there were words in Sarai’s flesh.

I did
not care. I gripped a knife and threw it hard. The blade slid through her chest
and thudded into the wall behind her. Beneath my ear, Oturu’s mark burned.

“You
cannot take my life,” said the girl distractedly. “Not even the demons in their
prison could ruin me. Though they tried.”

I
crouched, sickened. “What are you, then?”

She
finally looked at me. She had never met my eyes. Her gaze was black as a shark,
black as a doll, black as oil rich from rock, slick and hot, and the ageless
intelligence of her gaze coated me in a miasma filled with such forebodings I
could hardly think straight.

“I am
an Avatar,” she whispered. “I am what rests beneath the skin.”