The Iron Hunt (31 page)

“You
learn things by the time you’re old,” Jack said gently.

The
water tasted good but not as sweet as what I had drunk in the Labyrinth. I shut
my eyes, needing the darkness. I missed being blind. I thought about Zee again,
but it was too difficult to ask. My brain stopped working.

I
fell asleep.

I
fell upon paths of stone and night, hunting dreams along the Labyrinth walls. I
dreamed I held the sword. I dreamed I was blind and had to stop along my
journey. Sword in my lap, the flat of the blade pressed against my thighs.
Rocking, pressing a fist against my throat to stifle some grief I could not
name. I dreamed a slither, silent, beneath my heart. Darkness, whispering.

Monsters,
in the deep. Monsters, in the blood.

I
dreamed my way into a forest, winding blind through a grove of trees, trunks
smooth beneath my searching fingers. A scent of snow and ice came upon me. My
foot caught something large and soft. I fell hard, my leg hooked. Sword still
in hand.

My
leg pressed against warm, smooth fur, a slender flank. Ribs expanded and
contracted, and my fingers touched a coarse mane twined with leaves and small,
round stones.

“Greetings,”
whispered a familiar voice. “Greetings again, Hunter.”

I
went still, breathless, and the voice said, “Take your time. I know what it is
to be lost in the darkness.”

So I
sat and dreamed, and my hand remained tangled in long hair. After a while, I
scooted closer. A broad nose brushed my arm, and the tip of something hard and
cold pressed against my brow. I touched it and found a horn, long and spiraled.

“Do
you know me?” asked the voice, quiet as winter.

“Yes,
Sarai,” I breathed, heart thundering. “You’re the unicorn.”

She
remained silent; until, in a whisper: “It is good to hear that name.”

“Good,”
I echoed. “You died. So I’m dreaming. Or insane. ”

“Insane
people,” said Sarai, “do not have polite conversations with unicorns.”

“Maybe
not in your world. Whatever that is.”

“My
world…” Her voice drifted, thoughtful. “My kind, we have many worlds. We are…
travelers of them. Wayfarers, if you will. The Labyrinth is the crossroads, the
old tree with its branches in the stars. From the Labyrinth, you may see every
world, you may walk through the dreams of worlds and find rare islands adrift
in the dark.”

“Jack
explained a little,” I told her. “Nothing about unicorns. But then, this isn’t
your body, is it?”

“What
you feel is only flesh,” she replied simply. “And in the Labyrinth, my kind can
exist as we desire, no matter how odd the shape or form. Though I admit a
particular fondness for this skin. My last echo of a race that perished eons
ago.”

I
dreamed her spiral horn touched my brow. I said, “I can’t stay here. I need to
wake up.”

“Then
wake,” Sarai said softly from the darkness. “But you are of the Labyrinth now,
Hunter. It is in your blood.”

My
body felt heavy. For a dream, far too heavy. I struggled to stand, blind. My
palm was sweaty around the sword hilt.

“Good-bye,”
I heard Sarai whisper. “Thank you for sitting with me, in the end. Thank you
for caring about Brian.”

I
tried to say something to her—anything, everything— but I felt a great sucking
sensation upon my brain, as though a vacuum had been shoved inside a hole in my
skull, and quite suddenly my eyes fluttered open.

Awake.
I saw Jack standing near my bed. Another man was with him.

“Grant,”
I whispered. My skin felt prickly, hot.

“No,”
said the man, leaning in. It was Tracker. Cuts covered his throat, above the
iron collar. His eyes were sharp and hot. Dek and Mal raised their heads.

“We
need to move you,” Tracker said, his voice low, hoarse. “It’s almost dawn here.
We can’t let the boys sleep on your body. It’s too soon. You almost went into
shock from the first separation.”

I
tried to shake my head. Tracker placed his palm against my cheek—just for one
moment, before flinching away as though burned. “I will take care of you. You
have my word, Hunter.”

My
word.
Once, I could trust his word.
Once, he could trust mine. I remembered that. Maybe.

Something
came over me. Delirium. I wanted to hold Tracker’s hand, I wanted to touch him,
so badly it felt like I had been waiting five thousand years for that one
gesture. Like it would fix something. Make things better.

I
struggled to pull my arm from under the covers, but my body seemed to be made
of concrete, and something as simple as freeing myself from a comforter felt
like having that block of stone over my head in the Wasteland river. Drowning,
again.

I struggled
harder, swallowing a whimper that made my cheeks flush hot with shame. My heart
pounded, out of control. I needed to move. I needed to be free. I needed to
scream.

Maybe
it showed on my face. Tracker leaned in, pulling back the blankets. The pressure
eased. I could breathe. But the moment was gone, and my hand stayed glued to my
side. I looked at the cuts on his face. “Did Oturu hurt you?”

He
kept silent. Jack said, “Quick. The sun will be up in less than a minute.”

Tracker
pulled back the remainder of the covers, leaving one sheet over my body. He
scooped me into his arms. My head lolled. I had no strength to hold it up. Dek
and Mal curled down my chest between my breasts.

We
blinked out of the world into utter darkness. It was a relief on my eyes.

It
did not last. A room appeared around us. Hardwood floors, brick walls, large
windows. A big, soft white bed with the covers pulled back. And a pacing man,
leaning hard on a cane, a gold flute held white-knuckled in his other hand.

Grant.
He reached for my face as Tracker settled me on the bed, soothing back my hair,
the palm of his trembling hand lingering on my brow. There were new wrinkles
around his eyes, his jaw thick with stubble, and though he was still in his
thirties, I swore I saw glints of gray. His gaze was impossibly grave. Zee,
Raw, and Aaz appeared on the bed, pressing close, crawling under the covers to
lie against my skin.

Grant
did the same. I was dimly aware of Tracker backing out of the room. Jack, as
well, though I had no sense of how he had gotten there. The old man turned off
the lights. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Okay,”
Grant breathed, kissing my cheek, holding me. “It’s okay, Maxine. It’s just me
now.”

I
closed my eyes. I had already cried with Jack, but this was Grant.

I’ve
been waiting a long time for this,
I
thought, and found enough strength in my finger to scratch Zee’s head.

I
talked to Grant. I talked to him like my life depended on it, even when I was
too groggy to pronounce my words. I told him what happened to me in the
Wasteland. I told him everything. All the dirt and ugliness and terror that
still clawed up my throat with panic. Buried alive. Running to stay sane.
Losing sanity. The sword and ring.

Grant
listened. He gave me water when my throat ran dry. He helped me when I had to
use the bathroom. He dressed me in soft clothes and did not leave me alone. He
held me in the dark.

He
held me tight.

AN
hour before dawn, Zee said, “Can’t stay, Maxine. Gotta go where the sun don’t
shine.”

“I’ll
be fine here,” I told him. “I’m better already.”

Grant
made a low rumbling sound and brushed his lips against the back of my neck.
“Turn over and kiss me.”

I
gave it my best shot. I managed to roll all the way to my back before I ran out
of steam. The covers, all two of them, felt like they weighed a hundred pounds.
I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, dizzy. Grant was very still beside me.
Dek and Mal began humming Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.”

“Right,”
Grant said, turning on the light by the bed. “I’ve got a sumo wrestler out in
the living room you can tackle after breakfast.”

I
tried to bat his arm, but my hand flopped uselessly on the covers. Aaz picked
up my wrist for me and smacked my palm against Grant’s shoulder.

“Ow,”
he said.

“Thank
you,” I muttered, and the little demon gave me a toothy grin.

Across
the room, someone knocked on the door. Jack peered inside, his hair rumpled,
clothes wrinkled, silver bristles covering his face. He looked like a frazzled
professor who had become obsessed over some obscure text and spent the night
making coffee rings on student papers and library pages. I wanted to imagine
him surrounded by cups of chewed-down pencils and stale muffins, and a framed
picture of my grandmother, hidden away behind stacks of books—except for those special
moments when he uncovered her, like a magic treasure. I wanted to see him look
at her with a smile on his face. I wanted it so badly, and I realized, with a
startled pang, that I was one messed-up girl.

“I
have tea,” Jack said, blushing when he saw us still in bed together—clothed, no
less.

Grant
pushed back the covers and sat up, running his hands through his hair. Jack
pushed deeper into the room, a cutting board in his hands doubling as a tray. I
tried to sit up, and did a little better though Zee and Raw had to help me. Aaz
stuffed pillows behind my back. Dek and Mal gave my neck support.

Grant
bit back a smile. “How do you think they’d look in little white nursing
outfits?”

“Hot,”
Zee said, and the others snickered.

I
glimpsed a shadow in the bedroom doorway—Tracker, hovering, staring at the boys
like he had just seen a rock sprout legs and do a pole dance. He caught me
watching and backed away, out of sight.

Jack
set down the cutting board, and perched on the edge of the bed. He held the cup
to my lips. The tea was hot and sweet. I tried to hold it myself, but my arm
would not lift that high. Jack caught my hand and pressed it against his
wrinkled shirt, above his heart. He set down the teacup.

“Lad,”
he said to Grant. “Watch this and learn something. ”

I
frowned. So did Grant. Jack closed his eyes. The ring tingled against my
finger, glinting in the shadows of the bedroom; heavy, but comfortable; pressed
so close to my skin I imagined silver roots spreading from the metal into
flesh, binding with bone: quicksilver for marrow.

I did
not notice anything different at first—nothing except the expression on Grant’s
face as he sat on the bed, staring between me and Jack, a deep line furrowed
between his eyes, his fingers dancing a melody in the air above his stomach.
Like taking music lessons for the soul.

Until,
suddenly, I noticed incredible heat in my hand. A pulsing warmth that spread
from Jack’s touch, into my skin. Sweat broke out over my back, against my neck,
and the boys gathered close, sniffing the air. Zee licked his claw, then ran a
line through the air above Jack’s body.

“Meddling
Man,” he said, and Jack cracked open one eye.

“What
are you doing?” I asked him.

His
smile was strained. “Try lifting your arm, my dear.”

I
did. And I could. I was stronger.

“Lad,”
Jack said, faint lines forming around his eyes, “go fetch your flute.”

The
instrument was on the nightstand. Grant reached back with his long arm and, in
one smooth motion, picked up the golden flute, brought it to his mouth, and
released a lilting trill of notes. I felt the music pass through me; I felt the
power of it—but even as I remembered that Grant’s music had never affected me
or the boys, I realized he was playing for Jack. Bolstering
him
. And I
could see it in the old man as his spine straightened, and the strain faded
from his face. I could feel it, too, as the heat between us intensified, as
though a baby sun were bouncing between our hands.

“Oh,
dear,” Jack murmured, as Grant’s playing intensified. “You
are
strong.”

And
so was I. I leaned forward, testing myself, and found that I could move easily,
without feeling tired. Zee tugged on my hand and pointed at Grant. I looked at
him, a smile bubbling up my throat. I had never heard him play so wildly, his
fingers moving so fast it seemed he hardly needed to breathe. Notes rippled
through the air. I could taste them in my mouth. I could almost see the light.
He caught me looking, and his eyes crinkled, warm and sweet.

But
even though Jack had asked him to play, there was suddenly very little
amusement on the old man’s face. He turned quite pale as he stared at Grant. I
heard movement at the door and found Tracker again, also staring. But not at
Grant. At me. A look in his eyes that was somber and grave.

Somewhere
distant, I thought I heard pounding. Fists.

Jack
let go of my hands. It was difficult; our skins seemed to stick together,
peeling apart with a pop. A bang came from the other room, a low shout. Tracker
disappeared for a moment, and I heard him grunt. Grant stopped playing, and the
silence was so profound it felt almost like death.