The Iron Hunt (25 page)

His
mouth turned down. “Use your imagination.”

I
stared. Behind me I heard a familiar clicking sound, faint and careful. I
turned. Grant stood in the doorway of a room just down the long hall.
Everything in me stilled, hungry. He was wearing jeans and a faded navy
sweatshirt. His hair was rumpled. He leaned hard on his cane and stared from me
to Tracker.

Everything
about him went sharp when he looked at the man—sharp as teeth—and he studied
the crown of Tracker’s head with an intensity that felt like a wolf before some
hard kill. Both men, wolves. The nurses stopped talking and were watching us.

I
walked toward Grant, fast, and his gaze flickered to the crown of my head; my
aura, my heart, exposed. By the time I reached him my knees were wobbly. His
arm slid around my waist, and he hauled me so tight against his chest I could
not breathe. I closed my eyes, heart pounding. His lips pressed against my
hair.

I
only let him hold me a moment. No time, no place, not the right people
watching. I met his gaze, briefly, long enough to see new lines around his
eyes, and he backed up to let me into the hospital room. I entered, then turned
to watch as Tracker followed. He glided like a shadow, passing close to Grant.
I felt a moment of fear, seeing them so close together. But neither man made a
move. Just stared at each other, unblinking—and the energy that poured from
them made the boys stir in their sleep.

It
was a private room, lights dimmed, curtains half-closed. Byron lay in the bed,
seemingly asleep. His cuts had been cleaned, but the swelling was worse. I
could hardly recognize his face.

Grant
limped into the room and shut the door softly behind him.

“Maxine,”
he rumbled, not taking his gaze off the other man. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,”
I lied.

“And
if she wasn’t?” Tracker’s gaze was hooded, almost lost behind his long hair and
nose. “Think you could fight me? With just one leg?”

The
corner of Grant’s mouth curled. “I would make you sorry you were ever born.”

Tracker
smiled—bitter, ugly—dazzling and awful—and gave me a look so filled with
disgust, loathing, my skin crawled. Grant took a step toward him. I reached
out, grabbing his arm.

“Not
worth it,” I said, staring at Tracker. “Not even worth the thought.”

I saw
it only because I was looking in his eyes—a flicker, a moment so brief I
thought I might have imagined it.

Hurt.
I had hurt him.

And
then a mask fell over his face, that same old anger, and I looked away from
him, to Byron. I moved close to the bed and took off my glove. Touched the
boy’s hand. Raw stirred, restless. Grant moved close to my shoulder, solid and
warm. His flute case hung from his shoulder, a long, narrow padded pouch of midnight
velvet, a hint of his twenty-four-karat gold Muramatsu peeking from beneath the
flap. His most prized instrument, custom-made. He rarely used it in public,
especially at the Coop. Too flashy; too much temptation for thieves.

“They
did an MRI,” Grant said. “Finished about thirty minutes ago. You just missed
the doctor. No swelling. His brain looks fine. They gave him a sedative,
though. He refused to sit still. Started fighting to get out of here before
they cleaned even one cut.”

I
leaned into his shoulder. “You didn’t answer your cell phone. I was worried.”

“Doctor
made me turn my phone off.”

“And
the police? You should have called them.”

A
faint, wry smile touched his mouth. “I knew you would come. Even if the police
were here, you would still have come. And you did.”

“If I
hadn’t?”

“The
thought didn’t cross my mind. I know you, Maxine Kiss. I know what you’re made
of.”

His
words echoed too closely what Sarai had said to make me entirely comfortable. I
did not feel like a good person. I had never felt good. Not even righteous.
Just… dedicated. Girl with a job to do. Girl on a mission. My mother had
discouraged thoughts of anything else. She said it would lead to mixed
priorities. A big head. Glory over the right thing. And the right thing, she
said, always took precedence. No matter what.

“There’s
something you need to know,” Grant said.

“About
Byron?”

He
hesitated. “No. Maybe.”

I
looked at him. Behind us, the room door rattled. I expected to see a nurse, but
what I got instead made me wobbly, insane.

It
was Jack. His clothes were rumpled, his white hair wild. His arms were full of
sandwiches and drinks. He did not seem entirely surprised to see me, but his
gaze slid to Tracker and stayed there.

“Old
Wolf,” said the man. “Still causing trouble?”

“Oh,
dear,” said Jack.

“MR.
Meddle showed up twenty minutes after you called,” Grant told me grimly. “I
tried
your
cell phone, too. Couldn’t even get voice mail.”

I had
no record of a missed call. I gave Tracker a dirty look. Then, to Jack: “What
happened? Why are you here?”

The
old man set down the food he carried. “Some things require personal attention.
And I knew you would come. Eventually.”

“Personal
attention?
Eventually?
You
ran
. Sarai is dead.”
And I was
worried about you. I was so afraid.

Jack
made a small sound, arranging plastic-wrapped sandwiches into a heaping pile.
He would not look at me. His hands shook, slightly. “Sarai would have run, too,
had our positions been reversed. I can assure you of that. One of us needed to
survive. The alternative would have been… unfortunate.”

Unfortunate
did not cut it. I could still smell Sarai’s blood,
feel the force of her grip on my wrist. Her pain and determination. Fighting to
help me, even in the end. Anger rocked. “You don’t sound too broken up.”

Tracker
folded his arms over his chest. “Why would he? He’s a skin, Hunter. An Avatar.
Mortality doesn’t rattle his kind.”

Hearing
those words sent heat through me, made my stomach feel weak. Again, like I was
drowning. I glanced between both men, then at Grant. I expected to find
confusion on his face, and there was some—but mostly, a pained resignation that
made me think he had already heard this story.

He
met my gaze, shoulders tilting in a mild shrug. I gritted my teeth. “Someone.
Explain. Now.”

Silence
was heavy. I touched Byron’s hand, again. Jack said, “The child is resilient.
He will recover.”

I
gave him a hard look. “I want to know what you are.”

Jack
picked at the plastic on the sandwiches. He seemed normal as an old man could
be—dapper in slacks and tweed, his once-handsome face still rugged and deep. If
I had not seen, or heard, or known what I did, I would have thought myself
insane for asking these questions, imagining this man could be anything but
what he appeared: sweet, brilliant, bumbling, and shy; a man I would delight in
calling my grandfather; a man I still wanted to be mine, in blood. Grandfather.
Family.

But
appearances deceived. Zombies did it all the time. Now I was the one being
duped. On the receiving end.

Jack
studied his hands as Sarai had, as though they were new and unfamiliar, a
burden or wonder. “I am human. In this life, human. I have been human many
times, over many years. I have been other creatures, too. But right now, here,
I am Jack Meddle. I am this skin.”

My
heart skipped a beat. “And beneath the skin?”

His
jaw tightened. “I am… something else.”

Grant
bowed his head close to mine. “His aura is multitonal. Two layers, one over the
other. I thought I was seeing things.”

Jack
made a small sound of protest. “Lad, you shouldn’t have been able to see that
much. Your eyes are too open.”

“My
eyes are just fine. Nothing wrong with seeing the truth.”

“That
depends,” said the old man, giving him a speculative look that made me uneasy.
But he glanced away, meeting my gaze square and true. “This body is my avatar.
My shell. Just as every human on this planet, or any other, is nothing but a
shell. A home for the soul.”

“The
soul,” I echoed.

“The
soul, which is energy with a purpose. Energy with a mind. And my kind, long
ago, learned to live as nothing
but
that energy.”

His
words bounced. I struggled to focus, my thoughts skittish, wild; as though Jack
had become fire, and I was some horse trapped in a barn, smelling smoke. No way
out. I wanted to tell him he was full of shit but could not. Too much truth in
his eyes. Too much in my gut that said,
Yes, I know this.

It
terrified me. I felt like I was being swallowed by the world, and I scrunched
my toes in my boots, wiggling them until they hurt. Reminding myself that my
feet were on the ground. Solid. Here. Now.

I
exhaled, slowly. “Where did you get the body?”

Jack
blinked owlishly. Tracker laughed, but it was ugly. “Where do those demon
parasites get theirs, Hunter?”

Grant’s
hand brushed against my back. I did not look at him. Chills settled in my gut.
“You possessed that man?”

“No.”
Jack gave Tracker a hard look. “I was born into him.”

“Born.”

“In
the womb. I entered his body months before birth. To preclude a conflict of
personality.”

I
wanted to sit down. I squeezed Byron’s warm, limp hand, then let go and
squeezed the bars of his bed instead. My head ached. It had been sore since
yesterday, when I felt the veil open. A quiet pain, simmering behind my eyes.
As though my brain wanted me to see something—straining so hard it hurt.

I
closed my eyes. “Sarai?”

“Alive.
Somewhere.”

Somewhere
. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. “And Byron?
The zombie who beat the boy called him a skin.”

Jack
hesitated. “He was mistaken. The boy was a candidate, briefly, but was
abandoned. The demon would have tasted the echo of that contact.”

“Some
coincidence. Byron, friends with Sarai’s ex-husband? ” I leaned in, anger
swelling in my throat. “What games are you playing, Meddling Man?”

“None,”
he said heavily. “I promise you.”

“And
Ahsen?”

He
flinched. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Is
she one of you?”

“The
name
.
Tell me.”

“Blood
Mama.”

Jack
looked ill. “Yes, my dear. The little
skinner
is one of us.”

“She
wants you dead.”

“Does
she now? How civil.”

I
stepped toward him. “Don’t. Don’t be flippant. People have died. People are
going
to die. And you… you’re no better than the demons. Stealing bodies.” My voice
was low, harsh—sour disappointment tying knots in my gut. “What do I do, Jack?”

I did
not mean to ask that question. What I meant to say was
How do I stop her?
or
What are her weaknesses?
but the words came out hard and plaintive,
and I felt like a kid at the foot of the proverbial rocking chair, seeking
advice from the village elder. Made my cheeks flush in shame, but I could not
take it back. I could not hide how weak that one question made me feel. Or how
lonely.

Jack
regarded me silently, shadows gathering around his eyes. “You must take care,
my dear. Tread lightly. Our
skinner
was formidable once, and that has
not changed.”

“Why
didn’t she kill you last night? When we first felt her in the gallery?”

The
old man hesitated. “Flesh holds no dominion. Kill this body, and I will simply
retreat and be born again. Extinguishing
me
, what rests beneath, is a
great deal more difficult.”

If
you know what Ahsen wants,
Blood Mama
had said,
you can use it against her.

Like
killing Sarai. Her death nothing but a distraction. A means of keeping Ahsen
hungry, here, hunting. Buying time so I could figure out what to do.

“How
would she kill you?” I asked Jack. “If it’s so difficult? ”

The
old man said nothing. Tracker laughed, quietly. “He doesn’t trust you, Hunter.”

“Or
maybe it’s you,” I snapped, though I still felt the sting. “Jack. I need to
know how to keep you safe.”

“Don’t
worry yourself,” he muttered, glancing at Byron. “I have the ability to hide
from the
skinner
. Now that I know she’s looking for me.”

“Why
didn’t you do that earlier?” I asked him. “When Sarai was still alive?”

“Arrogance,”
he replied. “Nor did we expect outside… interference.”

Which
was all well and good, but if Ahsen could not find Jack, then I would likely
become her next focus—and splitting town and running was not an attractive
option. I had no way of knowing how much of my life Ahsen had seen. She might
try to use the others against me.