The Iron Hunt (36 page)

“You
will die,” I said, and it was not just my voice, but a chorus of voices,
echoing behind mine. “You will
all
die.”

Ahsen
faltered. “The veil is falling, Hunter. You have no concept of the army that
waits and burns.”

“They
have no concept of
me
,” I breathed, and slammed into her body—like a
bomb, I slammed. And though my flesh should have been vulnerable, I felt
nothing of the impact—nothing, not even when she tried to stab me with her
fingers. My skin did not break.

But
Ahsen’s fingers did—and she howled. I reached down and grabbed her hair,
yanking. Dek slithered down my arm, fire screaming from his mouth, enveloping
that sharp silver head.

She
shimmered—breaking her word, trying to escape— but I tightened my grip and felt
the power inside me reach out and surround the Avatar, binding it, as though in
a cage. Her skin shriveled, flaking in strips. Hunger roared through me. Endless,
violent. Sucking her dry.

So
easy. Like breathing. Death passed through me. I felt no pity, no mercy. The
creature inside me eased into my heart like a missing key from a piano, sliding
home to make a perfect sound. One clear tone that shivered.

It was
the music that brought me back. I remembered Grant. And when I remembered him,
I recalled my mother, too. I heard her voice.

Nothing
so bad you need to be cruel. Tough, yes. You’ll have to kill, yes. But there’s
a difference in the heart. One makes you mean. The other keeps you going.

Ahsen
screamed. I let go of her, but it was too late. She grabbed my arm, and her
bones fractured, her skin disappearing entirely from the dried strips of her
muscle. Zee pulled her from me, and the remains of her flesh turned to dust in
his claws.

I
stood back. In that moment I did not know myself. All I felt was hunger. All I
could remember was that backwoods Wisconsin bar, the memory of a body turning
beneath my skin, a creature that I felt now, again.

A
creature that wanted free. And I suddenly knew exactly what my mother had been
afraid of, what she could not tell me. What my grandmother had tried to
explain.

Veil
gets weak, so do parts of us,
I heard
my grandmother say.
Walls around our hearts that were never supposed to come
down.

And
then:
Stay true
.

“We’re
done,” I whispered, and the dark creature inside me protested. I pushed it
down, gently, and the gentleness seemed to surprise it. The darkness faltered,
then retreated, softly, with a hush. Sinking into the roots of my heart; the
shadow, waiting.

I
tried to drop the sword. I tried to shake it loose, but it was bound to the
ring, and the ring would not come off my finger. I thought—
Do it now; be
small
—and the sword flashed, once, and when my vision cleared, there was
nothing but the ring—larger now, encasing more of my finger, with a curious
little hinge for my joint. I looked at the rest of my hands, turning them,
aching. My body hardly felt real. Nothing felt real. I heard gulls. Cars
honking. Around us the night was calm.

“What
am I?” I breathed.

“You
are the Hunter,” whispered Oturu. “You are the last.”

I
stared at him. I could not hear my heart. I could not hear my thoughts.

“Hunter,”
whispered Oturu, his cloak extending around me. I leaned into him. I could not
help myself. His hair caught my shoulders, and the abyss of his body—however
briefly it touched my skin—was an odd comfort. Tracker crouched, trailing a
finger through the dust of Ahsen’s corpse. Zee and the others crowded close,
pushing him aside. Licking the ground. Queasy, I had to look away.

“So,”
Oturu murmured, “you are awake now. You have released the promise captured in
your heart.”

I
felt Ahsen dying. I felt the taste of her life in my veins. I closed my eyes
and saw her withered face—but when I opened my eyes, I found Tracker, staring.
Searching.

I was
afraid of his scrutiny. Afraid of myself. I turned to look at Oturu. “Was this
the Hunt? Was this what it was all about?”

The
demon bowed his head. “There are many kinds of Hunts. It is what defines us,
renews us. It is the same for you, Hunter. We are born in blood, and we will
die in blood, but in the interim, we must put fire to our veins and find new
paths to tread upon.” Tendrils of hair tapped his head. “Paths, up here. It is
what your mother wanted.”

Tracker
stepped close and held out his hand. I took it. He rubbed his thumb over my
palm, his gaze inscrutable. Zee wrapped his arms around my legs, as did Raw and
Aaz. Purrs sank into my bones.

We went
home.

TWO
days later I found myself in Jack Meddle’s down-town office, buried in a stack
of books. Grant and I were there, helping him clean up.

Just
that morning, Suwanai and McCowan had stopped by the Coop—but oddly enough, not
for anything to do with Sarai’s murder. As far as anyone was concerned, the
woman was still alive. Off… traveling.

Badelt’s
killer, they had informed us, was at large. But I was off the hook. No
evidence. A good alibi.

I was
not comforted. A man was still dead. Sarai, though Jack assured me otherwise,
was also dead. At least on this plane of existence. Which made me think of my
dream. Sarai, as the unicorn, in flesh. I could almost believe it. Almost.

“Cops
were called to the art gallery,” I told Jack. “I was here. I left her body.”

He
held up a piece of broken pottery, peering at its underside. “Don’t ask too
many questions, my dear. Suffice it to say, the situation has been handled.”

“That
seems vaguely menacing,” Grant said, struggling to keep a three-foot pile of
texts on Mesopotamia from falling over. He pushed them once, then again,
harder, but they kept tilting. I nudged him aside and started unloading the
pile.

“I
did warn you book stacking is an art,” Jack said to him. “You have yours; I
have mine, lad.”

Grant
grunted, giving him a suspicious look. As did I.

I
sensed movement on my right, and found Byron hovering in the doorway. The teen
had tagged along, without much prodding. Another surprise, another surreal stitch
in my life. He was living at the shelter, in his small studio. Grant had
managed to divert Social Services. For now.

The
eternal child. Your greatest mistake in the divine organic. Doomed to live as a
boy for eternity, forever forgetting, forever wandering.

I did
not know what that meant, but it haunted me every time I saw the boy. I could
hear Ahsen’s voice.

I
stood, rubbing my hands on my jeans, and made my way to Byron. He did not leave
the doorway. He held a pink box in his hands. Snack run. There was a bakery
down the street. His face was still cut and bruised, his eyes hollow. But for a
boy with broken ribs, he was moving around well—perhaps too well—and he was
here. He had not run, despite everything.

He
was more than human. And he did not realize it.

“Um.
I got doughnuts.” Byron shoved the box at me and reached into his pocket. He
dropped a crumpled wad of change on top.

“Thanks,”
I said.

“It’s
all there,” he replied, distinctly uncomfortable. “I have a receipt if you want
to count it.”

“I
believe you.” I punched his shoulder, very gently. “Relax, kid.”

Byron
shrugged, glancing at Grant, then Jack.

I
said, “I appreciate your helping out today.”

He
shuffled his feet. Shy, pained, thoughtful. “You helped me.”

“I
got you hurt.”

“You
helped me.” Byron looked into my eyes, then faltered, swallowing hard. “I… saw
some things I don’t understand. But it wasn’t you who hurt me. Not you.”

It
was my turn to feel awkward.

Byron
said, “The old man knew Brian?”

“Jack’s
business partner was married to him.”

The
boy nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “He’s familiar to me. I don’t know why.”

I
hardly knew why. Jack had explained nothing.

I
stepped aside, glancing deeper into the room, where Grant and Jack were stooped
over a growing stack of books. Arguing softly with each other.

“You
want to talk to Jack?” I asked Byron.

“No,”
he said, already backing away. “I think I’ll go downstairs and look at the
paintings.”

He
fled. I let him go without a word, noting his speed, the stiffness of his
shoulders. Something in him, an instinct. Made me afraid to tell the boy who
Jack was to me. As proud as I was, it felt like it should stay a secret. Even
more than my boys, my purpose, the prison surrounding the world. Jack Meddle: a
grave and deadly riddle.

I
carried the doughnut box back to the men, sliding the change into my pocket
along the way. I felt the outline of my knives beneath my jacket. My mother’s
jacket. Oturu had left it behind, on the apartment roof, along with the
weapons. Small things.

He
had not done the same with the seed ring. I had let him take it into his
keeping while Ahsen lived, but now that she was dead, I wanted it back. I
needed it, even just to hold. My mother lived in the seed ring. Her ghost. Her
thoughts. Her memories of my grandmother.

But
Tracker and Oturu were gone. I had not seen them since that night.

“Byron,”
Grant said, digging into the doughnut box. “He slipped away again?”

“Downstairs.”
I shot Jack a long look. “Ready yet to explain who he is, how he’s connected to
you?”

The
old man’s jaw tightened. He gave Grant a gruff gesture. “Into the kitchen with
you, lad. I won’t have your crumbs or sticky fingers around my books.”

Grant’s
gaze flicked to Jack’s aura. I thought he would say something—and there was
plenty to remark on, from Byron to Mary—but his shoulders settled, and he bent
down and kissed my mouth. He tasted like sugary glaze. I hung on. Grant sighed
against my mouth, pulling away with a solemn expression ruined by the warmth in
his eyes. He jammed the half-eaten doughnut into his mouth, gave Jack a hard
look, and took the pink bakery box in one hand. He limped away toward the
kitchen, his cane clicking loudly.

I
watched him go. When he was out of sight, I very quietly said, “Jack, why was
Ahsen afraid of Grant?”

“Why
are you?” replied the old man carefully.

I
flashed him a scathing look. “I’m not.”

“But
you’re wary. You think about possibilities.”

I
took a deep breath and counted to three. “She called him something.”

“Names
are meaningless,” Jack replied brusquely, and shoved a book at me. “Here. I
believe you admired this before.”

I
wanted to keep arguing with him, but I looked down and found the text on the
Wild Hunt. I almost laughed when I read the title. It felt like a lifetime
since I had seen it, another Maxine Kiss.

I
rolled up my sleeves, getting an eyeful of Zee’s tattooed backside as I sat
down on a stack of encyclopedias. I opened up the book, inhaling the scent of
old leather, and within moments found the handwritten note I had started
reading only days before.

It
is of us,
I read,
this hunt, this
wild raging hunt that takes upon itself the nature of an Age, and destroys so
that others may be reborn. It is why, I think, the leader of the hunt must so
frequently change, because Ages change, and what defines one era cannot be
relied upon to characterize the next. A new voice is required, a new heart.

The
hunt is defined by hearts, for good or ill. We have learned that lesson in the
most brutal ways imaginable, and we will learn it once more. We have no choice.
This fearful omen, so deep in our memory it has become sunk in human blood, has
opened and closed, again and again. Faster now, like the hum of wings. And when
it stops, we shall fall.

We
cannot begin again. Risks will be involved. But it is as Tacitus said, “No
enemy can withstand a vision that is strange and, so to speak, diabolical; for
in all battles, the eyes are overcome first.”

The
eyes are overcome first. Yes. Or perhaps… just maybe… the eyes will be opened
first. And with them opened… hope. We must have hope, and faith. We must. No
one is more terrible than the leader of the hunt. No one is more feared. Her
desire is her outcome. Her wish is the command.

And
so her heart must be strong. The end of the world sleeps within her breast. The
wyrms who will devour themselves in darkness.

I
read the page twice, unable to help myself, those words sinking into me like
each letter was made of heat. I felt terrified, exhilarated. Lost.

I
looked up and found Jack watching me. Grant was still in the kitchen, out of
sight.

“I’m
scared,” I confessed to the old man. “Where do I go from here?”