The Iron Hunt (30 page)

Power
beneath my skin. Sleeping in darkness. Resting against my bones, sunk into
muscle, sharing blood. Another body dreaming inside my own, sleek as moonlight
on dark water, or the edge of a blade.

I
felt like a blade.

You
are
the blade,
whispered a voice inside my
head, and the darkness turned inside my skin, reaching out, just so. I felt it,
a delicate touch, as though spirit arms were stretching like coarse silk
threads, spun and woven, searching. I did not engage, nor did I think; merely,
I drifted in my cocoon, waiting, waiting, to see what would return.

But
nothing did except an impulse—sudden crazy desire—to buck down deep and writhe
my way through the water like an eel, shot by the current.

I
obeyed. I had not worked my legs and arms in a long time, but I kicked, and my
body turned, and I kicked again harder, cupping my hands against the water. The
boys worked, too, helping me gather strength as I followed instinct and swam
deep, searching for the river’s bottom.

I had
not found it before—and I almost did not, again. But the darkness surged inside
my chest, goading me, and I pushed harder—until, to my shock, my hand touched
sand—and then, a moment later, metal.

I
clung. I gripped. I held on with all my strength as the current raged around
me. My fingers tightened, cutting into a hard, curving sheet of armor, and my
other hand grappled with rocks, turning them aside. I touched chain link, small
and delicate, and beneath, the long hard surface of bone. I did not let go. I
kept searching, driven, following that arm until I reached a hand.

And
in that hand, a sword.

The
metal was serrated, engraved, and very sharp. The hand holding it, however long
dead it might have been, did not want to let go. I broke finger bones in the
process, but felt as little guilt as if I were stealing from myself.

The
darkness inside me approved. The moment I held the weapon in my hands, I felt
no more need to stay at the bottom of the river. I let go of the armor, and
though I held a sword against my chest, I floated upward, the current chasing
me.

I ran
my hands down the blade. The weapon was slender, but long, the guard delicately
wrought; resembling, in my imagination, stiff, extended claws. The grip was
smooth, and fit my hand as though made for it.

As
though
I
had been made for it.

Home,
whispered the voice in my head.

The
world fell away from me. Water, gone. Walls, gone. No floor to catch me. I
fell. And I continued to fall.

Anticipation
was a thing of terror.

But
this time, I pretended I was flying.

FROM
the Labyrinth to city lights, dazzling as a heart full of stars.

I hit
concrete, and even though I had recaptured my sight through memory and
dream—such astounding dreams— the use of my physical eyes was shocking,
stupefying.

I was
in my own skin. I had a mouth and nose. I could see.

I
also had no time to accustom myself. It was night. The boys woke—Zee and the
others, peeling off my body—and every inch, from my toenails to my eyelids,
felt as though it left with them: like I was being pulled apart, inch by quick
inch; or bathed in fire, acid; rubbed in salt, my body some skinned raw nerve.

I
thought the separation would kill me. I did not think I could live without the
boys on my body. It had been too long. We were part of each other. They were
me.

“Maxine,”
Zee rasped. Raw and Aaz gathered near, Dek and Mal curling warm over my
shoulders. They stared, eyes huge, but I could not answer. The pain was too
much.

Zee
winked out. I heard voices nearby, and coarse laughter. I was suddenly
terrified of being seen and bit my hand, trying not to cry out. I did not know
if I was on a sidewalk or in an alley. I smelled trash.

Zee
reappeared. Behind him a large shadow blocked out the city lights. Arms folded
around my body. I screamed, too much in agony to fight for silence.

“Hush.”
I recognized Jack’s voice. “Hush now, sweet girl.”

I
could not breathe. My body shook. I was having a seizure. Dying.

Jack
touched my neck.

I
passed out.

I
woke up in Hell. There was a sign above my head that said so, which meant it
must be true. I was in a narrow bed, sunk deep into a thick mattress beneath
heavy covers that smelled like pipe smoke. I was naked. I saw a mirror in the
ceiling. Written on the glass in red ink: YOU ARE IN HELL.

Story
of my life. I lay very still, hardly able to breathe. Afraid. Desperately
afraid. Full of memory, full of terrible things, building and burning. I wanted
to scream, but bottled it in. If I started, I would not stop. I would make
myself sick on tears, and it would never be enough.

I
exhaled slowly, and little bodies uncurled around my throat. Dek and Mal peered
into my face, red eyes wide, little jaws slack as their black tongues tasted
the air. I wanted to scratch behind their ears, but when I tried to lift my
arm, my muscles were too weak. Paralyzed, all over again.

“You’re
awake.” Jack stepped near, peering at me. He was as I remembered, wearing tweed
and slacks. Trickster. Avatar. Whatever that was.

“Old
Wolf,” I murmured, feeling faint at the crusty sound of my voice. “I had a wild
ride.”

Tears
bristled his eyes. “Just like my Jeannie.”

It
was too much. I started crying. I cried like a baby, but quietly, shaking—so
weak I could hardly afford to shake, but the sobs were involuntary, and my body
burned with them. Jack wrung his hands, then ran out of sight. I heard objects
falling, then he reappeared with a wad of tissues in his hand. He dabbed at my
nose, then held a tissue over my nostrils, and said, “Blow.”

I
did, feeling ridiculous—grimacing as I watched Jack try in vain to be gallant
about the snot that got on his fingers.

“Thank
you,” I mumbled, hardly able to breathe. Jack wiped his hands on his trousers,
leaned forward, and planted a heavy kiss on my brow. Dek and Mal licked my
face. I wondered where Zee and the others were, but Jack left the room before I
could ask.

His
face was red and mottled when he returned, holding a porcelain cup so tiny it
looked like a thimble in his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed. Very
carefully, he slid his hand under my head and lifted me. He pressed the tiny
cup to my lips. I smelled chicken broth.

I
took a sip. The broth tasted hot and salty, and each swallow seemed to bypass
my stomach for the bloodstream. It tasted so good. Best meal of my life. My
heart pounded harder.

I
murmured, “Smile, Meddling Man.”

Jack
remained impossibly grim. “When I was told what happened, I tried to track you.
But I couldn’t. Not even Enkidu—Tracker—could follow you. Or Oturu. And we
tried, my dear. We tried so hard.” His eyes were very red. “You entered the
Wasteland. Do you have any idea what that place is?”

I
simply looked at him. I had lived through it. I probably knew better than he.
Jack flushed, ducking his head, waving an apologetic hand. “Of course. But you
shouldn’t have escaped. No one does. There are no doors. We thought… we thought
we had lost you.”

I
tried sitting up, but nausea surged in my throat and my vision blurred. Jack
placed a strong hand on my ankle. For a moment, he seemed to transform. His
appearance, his body… less
him
. His eyes did not match his skin. I saw a
wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I
needed to say something. Anything, to fill the silence. I fumbled for words.
“Where’s the seed ring? Did Ahsen get it?”

“Oturu
managed to retrieve it. He is keeping it for you.”

“You
trust him?”

“I
had no choice. But it
is
safe. She will not be able to fetch it from
him.”

“You
call her
skinner
or
she
, but never her name. Never Ahsen. Why is
that?”

Jack
looked down, at his hands. “It is… painful. She was the greatest of our minds,
our most adept at organic divination. But she went too far. She had… no
conscience. ”

“She
hurt humans.”

“No,”
he said. “She brokered deals for demon flesh. And it was those… transactions…
that led the Reaper army to earth.”

“She
caused the war?”

“The
war had already begun. We were simply trying to escape fighting it.” The old
man met my gaze, a bitter smile touching his mouth. “You must understand, we
had never encountered anything like the creatures you call demons. They were…
scavengers, hunters, creatures made only for death. My kind would retreat,
again and again. We left millions to die. Humans, and others. We brought some
survivors to this world, thinking it was too distant, that the demons would not
be able to follow. But then
she
took matters into her own hands.
Justified herself by saying that if we could only develop more powerful skins,
we would be able to defend ourselves more easily.”

“You
tossed her in jail for that.”

“Not
in the beginning. Some defended her decision. It was not until the war began to
go badly that she was… turned against.”

“You
and Sarai?”

“We
always opposed her. And we locked her into the prison veil when it was time.”

“And
now she’s loose.” I closed my eyes, briefly. “Will your kind help us?”

Jack
sighed, rising to his feet. “Enough, enough. You need to rest.”

“Why
don’t you want to answer the question?”

“Why
must you ask so many?”

“Because
I’m like my grandmother,” I replied. “I’m like my mother.”

“That,”
he said, “is a dirty tactic.”

“Old
Wolf,” I said. “Will they help us?”

“No,”
he replied solemnly. “The war destroyed the backbone of my kind. You cannot
imagine. We, who were supposed to be immortal,
dying
in battle. After
the war, only a handful remained on this world. Most left through the Labyrinth
to heal, and forget.”

“They
aren’t concerned about retribution? Or that everything they sacrificed for will
be destroyed?”

Disgust
twisted his face. “They think the demons will have learned their lesson, that
they will avoid our worlds. It is the great bluff, with their heads in the
sand. Once the demons are loose, once they have taken this world, they will
enter the Labyrinth,
again
, and no one will be safe.”

“That’s
why you’re fighting so hard. That’s why you stayed.”

Jack
hesitated. “This world is not the most beautiful, my dear, nor is it the
kindest. But it wears its flaws with depth, and hard beauty, and even I, at my
great age, find myself constantly surprised.”

“Ah,”
I said gently. “I know why my grandmother liked you.”

“She
was a lovely woman,” he replied, with reverence. “She would be proud of you.”

A
flush touched my cheeks. I swallowed hard, casting about, and saw a dirty clock
on the wall. Another kind of fear filled me. “How long was I in the Labyrinth?”

Jack
followed my gaze. “Time passes differently there. To you, perhaps months. Out
here, only one day.”

Months.
Felt like years. I was going to tell him that, but when I looked back at him,
he was staring at my right hand, utterly preoccupied. For the first time, I
noticed something heavy on my finger, and looked down.

I was
wearing a ring—a thick, heavy band that could have been made from iron or dull
silver, but that stretched from the base of my finger to the joint at the
center, entirely covering the skin. Runes had been engraved, etchings that
resembled odd roses; elegant, even deadly. When my finger twitched, I felt an
undercurrent, an electric burn between my skin and the ring.

The
sword.

I
knew they were the same. I knew it in an instant. Just not how. I kept my mouth
shut, though—as if to speak that knowledge out loud would be a violation of
some trust: not a secret, but not something to throw around.

Crazy,
maybe. But I had a sense. I had a feeling between my hand and the hilt, my hand
and the ring, like it had been waiting for me. Patient. In the dark. I was
afraid to abuse that.

Jack
still stared. I cleared my throat. “What about the others?”

“Fine,”
he said shortly. “You’ll see them soon.”

I
started to feel tired, my eyelids heavy. I looked past Jack for Zee, but all I
saw were dusty plastic curtains, a cheap plastic card table piled with
newspapers, and a golden shag carpet that looked like a roach motel. Jack
reached down by the bed and picked up a water bottle.

“Forgive
the accommodations,” he said, holding it to my mouth. “I had to make do with
breaking into a stranger’s flat.”

“Never
pegged you for a criminal,” I replied, drowsy.