The Iron Hunt (26 page)

Beside
me, Grant made an odd small movement. I found him looking between Byron and
Jack with a faint frown. Tracker was also studying the boy—surreptitiously—as
though something bothered him.

“Jack,”
I said slowly, “you put Ahsen in the prison. Locked her up with the demons. You
did that to one of your own.”

Tracker
tore his gaze from the teen. “Old Wolf. You
are
cold.”

I
ignored him, focusing on Jack. “I want to know why. What did she do?”

The
old man looked away, a faint flush staining his cheeks. “What she did to
deserve imprisonment doesn’t matter anymore. You cannot fight her. She has no
body to harm, no physical link in this world to tether her.”

“You
must be wrong.”

“My
dear,” he said slowly, “I wish.”

I
steadied myself and looked at Tracker. “Could Oturu do it?”

His
dark eyebrow twitched. “You should ask him yourself. ”

“I’m
asking you. You’re one of them, aren’t you? An Avatar?”

“Never,”
Tracker said coldly. “As for Oturu, it takes a killer to know one. You don’t
need my help to figure it out.”

I
stared at him, cold anger settling hard in my gut. Tracker met my stare—bold,
defiant—but there was never a question in my mind, not a doubt. No way in hell
I was going to back down.

Tracker
could not hold my gaze. He blinked first and looked away. I did not feel
particularly triumphant. Just tired. Grant sidled close enough that his
shoulder rubbed against mine. Subtle, brief, but solid. I was grateful. He was
my only real friend here. The only person I knew I could count on.

“Jack,”
I said. “I can’t let Ahsen return to the veil. And she can’t be allowed to roam
free. That leaves only one option. ”

“You
have no means to capture her, my dear.”

“Prison
builders. That’s what your kind are.”

“A
long time ago. That power is gone.”

Grant
leaned hard on his cane. “Sounds as though you want to give up.”

Jack
shot him a chilling look. “Lad, if surrender was in my nature, I would have
abandoned this world ten thousand years ago.”

Grant
did not appear impressed. He glanced down at me, and I knew in a heartbeat what
he was thinking.

“Too
dangerous,” I said.

“Is
there another option?” His mouth tilted into a grim smile. “Blood Mama was
scared enough to try to possess me. And if this Ahsen is structured like Jack,
then the same principles should apply. Energy is energy, Maxine.”

The
idea of his being anywhere near Ahsen terrified me. I had seen little of her
capabilities, but a taste was enough. She was lethal, merciless. She might kill
Grant before he got the flute to his mouth. I shook my head. “Last option.”

“No,”
he said. “I’ll take the opportunity if I can get it. We might be able to get
through this without more violence. ”

I
doubted it, but this was not the place to argue. We had witnesses—two men who
were suddenly staring at Grant as though he were some foreign beast, replete
with horns, tail, and an army of singing ladybugs perched like a crown atop his
head. I did not like it. Not one bit.

Byron
stirred. Maybe we were talking too loud. I held my breath as his right eye,
which had escaped swelling, cracked open. He looked at me—made a sound, low in
his throat—and then his eye closed again. His breathing settled. I exhaled,
slowly.

“We
need to get him out of here,” I murmured to Grant. “It’s not safe.”

Not
safe. And not simply because Byron had proven himself a target, temporary or
not. The need to spirit the boy away went deeper, a primitive urgency that felt
the same as my need to breathe.

Grant’s
gaze was dark, knowing. “I already asked. They won’t discharge Byron until
they’re certain the danger from his concussion has passed. In this case, I have
to agree with the doctors.”

Jack
softly cleared his throat. “The circumstances have changed. When I… first
arrived here, I took the liberty of healing the physical injury to the boy’s
brain. He
can
be moved… if that’s what you wish.”

Grant
and I stared at the old man. Tracker smiled dourly, studying his boots as
though black leather held some infinite fascination for him, perhaps lessons in
how to hold a grudge.

I bit
the inside of my cheek. I had questions, but they could wait. “Grant, can you
handle the doctor? Convince him that Byron should be discharged?”

He
hesitated, still staring at Jack. “Give me ten minutes. ”

Grant
limped from the room. I waited for him, caught in awkward, uncomfortable
silence, surreal as a bad dream, in the company of strangers, and strangeness.
Jack stared at the wall, a furrow between his eyes; his lips moved in silent
conversation.

Tracker
managed to make sitting in a chair seem like an act of aggression; and when he
looked at me, there was too much in his eyes, a heaviness that felt like a
scar. I had no sense of the man, and I felt trapped by that ignorance—and his
hate. It hurt me, in ways I could not explain. No words. No courage.

The
boys helped, dreaming on my skin. My little friends.

But
inside my heart I was alone. I had never felt so alone.

I
held Byron’s hand, and with my other, reached into my back pocket and pulled
out the stone disc. It was warm against my hand. Shimmers of pearl seemed to
push up through the soft dark surface, those veins of silver glittering inside
the engraved concentric lines. I placed the stone in my lap and traced my
finger through the lines. Felt light-headed.

A
large, wrinkled hand engulfed my wrist. Jack. I had not heard him move. He held
my gaze, a hint of urgency in his eyes. “Not here, my dear.”

I
blinked. “Not here, what?”

“Exploring
that.” He inclined his head toward the stone. “Your mother’s gift is more than
it appears to be.”

“Ahsen
certainly thought so,” I mumbled.

Jack
flinched. “She saw it?”

“She
touched it.”

I
thought my words were going to kill him. A great and terrible strain filled his
face, as though he were struggling with all his might not to shatter. My mouth
went dry. I sensed Tracker standing, staring, but I did not dare look at him. I
could not. I thought if I did, Jack might disappear. Fall to pieces, like
glass.

“Oh,
dear,” he breathed. “How unfortunate.”

“Jack,”
I whispered, and felt the boys stirring against my skin. I held up the stone
disc, staring hard. Thinking of my mother. I traced the lines with my gaze,
searching deep into the silver veins—pretending I was on the path, enduring.
The warrior and the maze. A message after death. I felt dizzy again, but
refused to look away. I kept seeing my mother’s face. Jack said something. So
did Tracker.

And
then, quite suddenly, I was no longer at the hospital.

I was
standing on an empty street. It was night. Cool breeze on my skin.

My
mother stood beside me.

MY
mother.

I
called out to her, but she did not hear me. Her gaze was fixed on some distant
point, sharp, focused. I tried to touch her shoulder, and my hand passed
through her body. I tried again, feeling like some bird throwing herself
against a window, breaking bones on glass. Dumb as dirt. Desperate to get
through.

Nothing.
I did not exist. I was a ghost. Or maybe she was. Not that it mattered.

We
were together.

She
was younger than I remembered, with a glow in her face that was exhilarating
and vital, full of a raw vigor that I had never seen in my own reflection. She
was beautiful. I could not imagine a person who would not love her. I could not
imagine a power on earth or in the prison veil that could stand against her.
She was a force of nature. Bigger than life.

She
was also pregnant.

Huge,
ready to burst. Dressed in a thick sweater, a shapeless muumuu and cowboy
boots. Dek and Mal were coiled low over her shoulders, with Zee and the others
ranged around her like demon wolves. She held a twelve-gauge across her stomach
as though it were a holy relic.

“Come
any closer and I’ll blow your brains out,” she said to the shadows.

“Hunter,”
said a softly chiding female voice. “You know better.”

My
mother narrowed her eyes. “I know you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted to
deal.”

“Merely
to pass along a message. Personally, as I like you so.” A figure emerged from
the shadows; a redheaded woman dressed in a long, crimson coat. Surrounded by
an aura so thunderous I could hardly see the possessed human beneath the miasma
of demonic energy.

The
face was different, but I knew that aura.

“Blood
Mama,” said my mother. “Get to the point.”

“Your
baby is the point,” replied the zombie queen. “The veil is falling, Hunter. She
will be the last.”

“Old
story. You told my mother the same thing.”

“But
you can feel it now. In your bones, in your heart. Your daughter will herald
the final breath of this world.”

A
cool smile touched my mother’s mouth. “Is that fear I see in your eyes?”

“You
know it is,” admitted the zombie queen. “The same fear in your eyes. We are
both mothers, Hunter. No matter how incompatible our interests.”

My
mother’s hands tightened around the gun. “And?”

“And
this world will survive or die based on the strength of your daughter. It is as
simple as that.”

“No
pressure, right?”

“How
you raise her—”

“—will
be
my
business and not yours.”

“And
if she’s not strong enough? If her heart cannot contain the beast?”

“Then
you’re fucked,” said my mother, “and I’ll be laughing my ass off in Heaven.”

Blood
Mama’s mouth tightened. “You cannot afford to make a mistake. She will
not
be like the others.”

“Thank
God,” shot back my mother, but I knew that look on her face. She was hiding
something. Blood Mama narrowed her eyes, swaying forward—her host body almost
completely devoured by her aura.

“Jolene,”
she whispered. “We have danced too long for secrets. What are you keeping from
me?”

“Something
you already know,” said my mother quietly. “Something you can’t ever tell the
others in the veil because you know what will happen. You know what they’ll
do.”

Blood
Mama went perfectly still; even her aura, like ice. “Who told you?”

“Doesn’t
matter. But I get it now.” My mother leaned forward, her mouth tilting into a
smile that was more like a snarl. “And
she’ll
get it. She’ll find out
what she is, and when she does, you start running. You pack your bags, and you
get the fuck off this world. Because it won’t be yours anymore. It’ll be
hers.
”

Blood
Mama reared back her head. Quivering. “And you, Zee? What do
you
have to
say about that?”

My
mother tensed. But Zee wrapped one arm around her legs and laid his other, ever
so gently, across her swollen belly. Raw and Aaz also hugged my mother’s knees,
while Dek’s and Mal’s purrs threatened to drown thunder.

“She
is ours,” Zee said, defiantly. “And we are hers. No matter what. No matter
who.”

The
zombie queen looked as though she wanted to puke. “Sentiment does not become
you, little man. It makes you weak.”

“Ah,”
said my mother cheerfully, “then let’s see who’s standing when the walls come
down, shall we? Because, honey, you’ll be dead… and my baby, my sweet beautiful
baby, will still be fighting.”

Then
she cocked the twelve-gauge—and shot Blood Mama’s host dead.

I
lost her. Unable to say good-bye. Just like when she died.

The
night bled into darkness, then light. I opened my eyes.

I was
on a couch, my feet dangling, head lolling. Drool dribbled from the corner of
my mouth. I had a good view of a ceiling, and the upper row of some
bookshelves. I recognized the sight. I was back in the apartment.

I was
not alone. The television was on. Tracker sat on the edge of the ottoman,
elbows braced on his knees, watching the news.

It
was such an unexpected sight—and I was already so addled—all I could do was
stare. I doubt he noticed I was awake. Like the nurses at the hospital, he
appeared intensely preoccupied by reports that southeastern Iran had been
devastated. Thousands dead, thousands more thought to be under the rubble.
Rescue operations were overwhelmed. It was night there, which was hindering
efforts to find people.

“This
is your fault,” Tracker said suddenly, and turned his head just enough to fix
me with a glare so harsh a shock of fear thrilled through me.

I did
not know how I had gotten here, or what, exactly, had just transpired, but I
was still full with my mother, lost on a dark road with her at my side, and I
looked Tracker dead in the eyes, and said, “Stop speaking to me in fucking
riddles.”