The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Be more afraid of me.

  She was. I saw the shift when it happened: in her eyes, in her mouth. Her whole demeanor, small like a kitten in the jaws of a Rottweiler. Bitterness filled me. I hated this. I hated it all. Monster, me. Scaring little girls, little broken girls. All of us, lost little girls.

  I loosened my fingers. The teen broke away without a word. She turned, walked fast, and did not look back. Neither did I. I ran like hell, furious at myself. Sick at heart.

  I did not go far. I had burned that bridge thirty minutes ago by not returning to the Mustang and sitting in the parking garage, twiddling my thumbs over a book or talking to Grant on the phone, digging up dirt, putting our heads together. I pushed. I waited too long. Now I was in public.

  It was dark for sunset, unusually so, which was all I had in my favor. I slid between the bumpers of two parked cars—a battered Volkswagen and muscular SUV—and slumped on my hands and knees, the ends of my hair dipped in rainwater. No streetlights in this section. No windows full of light. Only shadows—and me, just one more shuddering body collapsed on a street full of them. I heard people walk past. No one slowed. I hoped no one saw. I hoped they were blind. I hoped I was not screwed.

  Somewhere, the sun went down. I felt the horizon swallow, the push of heat in my own throat, as though inside me the darkness, the vast space of night and the stars spinning between my ribs. My tattoos began to peel. The boys woke up.

  Hurt like it should. Skin tearing. Flayed by smoke and shadows. I swallowed bad noises, throat aching, and tore off my gloves. Shook so hard my teeth chattered. Minutes ago, tattoos would have covered my hands—fingers, palms, even my nails—black and etched with lines. But now bodies writhed, silver skin dissolving into a mist that poured from beneath my clothes, and I felt hearts pound that were not my own. Slender, muscled limbs slid hot and heavy through my hair. Small fingers caressed my cheeks. Melodic whispers mated with the patter of rain.

  Endless rain. Chilling, soaking my clothes, heavy and tight. I felt discomfort. Acute discomfort. The cold and wind, an ache in my knees from the hard concrete. My palms were frozen. My nose ran. I could hardly think.

  My skin was human again. So very human. Hit, I would break. Stabbed, I would bleed. Shot, strangled, drowned: I could be killed now. I was human, until dawn. Vulnerable, until then. Mortal.

  “Maxine,” whispered Zee. “Sweet Maxine.”

  I sat up, scraping my shoulders against cold, slick car bumpers. Three little bodies crouched before me, lost in the dark wet shadows. Zee, Aaz, and Raw. Skin the color of soot smeared with silver and mercury, lean and warm. Steam drifted from the razor scales of their bristling spines and spindly arms—two arms, two legs—claws instead of fingers and toes. Their feet were vaguely human, as were their rakish faces, angular to the point of pain. I smelled fire, leather—something else I could not name, but which smelled like my mother. A scent that had always been home.

  My home. Their home. Until it was time.

  Never enough time. I tried to stand, but my body ached. I took a moment. Purrs rumbled against my ears, little tongues scraping skin. Dek and Mal, their long serpentine bodies wrapped around my neck as they snaked under my jacket to fish through my inner pockets. They had no legs, and only two arms—vestigial limbs good for little more than grasping my ears. Heads shaped like hyenas, with smiles to match. Best little bodyguards on earth.

  Dek and Mal found the teddy bears I had stashed for them—dopey little things the length of my finger, attached to key chains. I heard crunching, wet smacks. Tiny giggles. The boys liked to eat bears. I had to order in bulk. I never took them to the zoo. Poor damn grizzlies.

  Zee hugged my arm, rubbing his cheek against my coat as the silver needles of his hair shimmered and cut the leather like butter. “Bad dreams, Maxine. Bad as bones.”

  “Tell me.” I watched Aaz and Raw slink away on their bellies, red eyes blinking lazily. They could have been dragons, wolves; or both, caught in limbo. Perfect twins, except for the faint patch of silver on the tip of Raw’s chin. They disappeared beneath the SUV. I pulled several Snickers from my jacket. Tossed them into the shadows and heard a faint cheer.

  I gave one to Zee. His claws dragged trenches in the concrete as he swallowed the bar whole, wrapper and all.

  “Your dreams,” I reminded him. “They hurt me this afternoon.”

  He hesitated. “No choice. Something in the air. Something coming. Had to warn you.”

  “The veil.”

  “Cutters. Hot slicers.”

  Demons. Something larger than zombie parasites. I had already guessed as much. I looked him in the eye. “Give me more.”

  “More,” he echoed softly, tearing his gaze from mine. “More is coming. More is ending. Maxine. Sweet Maxine. ”

  He stopped. His silence was final. I unclenched my hands. No good pushing. Zee had a habit of riddles. Unfortunately, he was the only one of his brothers who could hold a human conversation. Far as I knew.

  I glanced over my shoulder, shoving the gloves in my pocket. People were coming. I heard laughter, the slap of shoes in puddles. Rain on umbrellas. Nice. Normal.

  “We’re hunting,” I told Zee. “Big trouble.”

  “In Little China,” he crooned. Such a goof. He loved movies. Missed the eighties. And the Crusades, though I had yet to figure out that one. Might have been the armor. He had a thing for crunchy meals.

  Zee flashed white teeth, a tongue long and black, and melted into the shadows beneath his feet. Gone in a wink. No idea what lay on the other side of a shadow but had a feeling I was better off not knowing. I did not worry about whether Raw and Aaz would follow. The boys had a system.

  I stood. Got some looks from passersby. Nothing serious. No one ran or screamed. No one ever had. I gave a good face, dressed nice, stayed clean—kept the demons and tattoos out of sight. It took so little to hide the big secrets. Not that anyone would ever imagine an army of demons living on one woman’s skin. If they even believed demons existed.

  I thought of Badelt. Got a bad feeling in my gut.

  I walked back to the alley. Dek and Mal remained sleek and heavy on my shoulders, the turtleneck collar hiding their bodies while their sleek, tufted heads stayed tucked out of sight within my hair. A sharp observer might see some glint of a red eye, but only as a figment of light and fancy. Not demon. Not animal.

  I looked for zombies. Checked auras for dark spots. This was a good part of town for parasites. The human crush, seeping with heartache. All the pain a dark spirit required to stay alive.

  Emotions made energy. Energy was food. That violence could beget violence was no joke. It took a particular breed of demon to create zombies, but the cracks in the veil had grown over the last century, making it easier for them to slip free from their prison in the first ring of the veil. Once here, they infected humans who were emotionally vulnerable. Turned them into puppets, living tools. Mindless shells. Good for trouble, abuse—self-inflicted or dished out. Charmers, all of them. Subtle.

  A zombie would kill you with a smile. Smiles made everything sweeter.

  Dek and Mal hissed in my ear. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man and woman some distance behind me, strolling down the sidewalk. Despite the apparent differences in gender, they both wore dark slacks and slick wind blazers that strained against their broad shoulders. Intense eyes stared from thick faces with ruddy cheeks. Identical bulges distorted the sides of their jackets.

  Really big cell phones, maybe. Urban missionaries, roving the night to aid the helpless. Innocent. Utterly harmless. Wonder Twins.

  I reached the alley. Stopped, staring. I had been away less than five minutes.

  The children were gone. All of them. Bodies had huddled against the brick and concrete, and now those same spaces were empty. Plastic bags fluttered like ghosts; cardboard boxes stood battered and crushed like stormed castles. An eerie absence, cutting. I wanted to hold my stomach.

  A man stood in front of me. He was young and blond, l
ike the others, and smelled of cigars. Built like a bull. Would have looked more at home in furs, with a club in one hand. Modern times were not for everyone.

  He told me not to move. He had a Russian accent. I did not say a word. I could not have cared less about conversation. I was thinking about those kids, especially the boy. I had gotten him, maybe all of them, in trouble. I had brought shit down on their heads.

  The man pulled out a cell phone. He spoke into it. I did not understand Russian, but I got the drift. I felt movement behind me and found the Wonder Twins. They held guns. Nearby, Zee and the others watched from the shadows, red eyes glinting like rubies. Dek and Mal rumbled in my ears.

  I took a step. Trigger fingers tightened. If they tightened any more, the Wonder Twins would be dead. I looked back at the fellow with the cell phone. “The children. Where are they?”

  He ignored me. A car engine roared, and a pair of headlights pulled in to the end of the alley. A limo. The door opened from inside. No one got out. I could not see who sat within.

  Everything, my mother used to say, is connected.

  And I could, on occasion, be a very patient woman.

  The man gestured with his gun. Shadows filled the limo. The boys always liked going for a ride.

  I got in.

  CHAPTER 3

  AN old man sat inside the limo. He wore a suit. Thick black glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was bald. He was a zombie.

  The man with the cell phone began to get in after us, but the zombie held up his hand and said a word in Russian. The blond hesitated, backed away, and shut the door. The limo started moving. I opened the minibar and took out a ginger ale. I needed something sweet.

  The zombie watched me, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. He was a small, spindly man, swallowed by the immense seat across from me. His eyes were cold, his aura black. Older and more deadly than most. Higher up the food chain. But he should have been running. Engagement with me was a death sentence. Usually.

  Which meant he had something on me. I had a bad feeling what that was.

  “Hunter Kiss,” said the zombie. “So infamous. How very interesting finally to meet you in the flesh.”

  “Sure,” I replied, sipping my drink. “I’m popular tonight. ”

  His smile widened. “You look like your mother.”

  My fingers tightened around the can. The zombie took off his glasses and rubbed the edge of his suit jacket against the lens. “Your mother never cared for pleasantries, either. Beautiful woman. But then, your family has always been striking.” He slipped his glasses back on and blinked, owlishly. “I assume your wards are nearby?”

  I snapped my fingers. Zee, Aaz, and Raw coalesced from the shadows. They sat beside me, all in a row, legs too short for the leather seat. In unison, they swung their clawed feet, hands clasped in their laps. Deceptively prim. Little smart-asses. I opened the minibar, and Zee pointed to the whiskey and vodka. I passed out the bottles.

  The zombie raised his brow. “How endearing.”

  “You have no idea.” I felt my heart sink into a dark, hard place. “Are you responsible for the disappearance of those children in the alley?”

  “I am responsible for many things. But not that.” He tilted his head, watching Zee and the others with a curious—and rather unnatural—lack of fear. “I did, however, retrieve one of them. A boy. That boy you took such interest in.”

  The zombie had been watching me. All that time, I never knew it. “You think I care?”

  He laughed. “My dear, your mother had the heart of a lion, but you, merely a lamb. You care. You care too much.”

  Dek and Mal poked their heads from my hair. Raw tipped whiskey into their small mouths. I wanted to take the bottle and smash it across the zombie’s human head. And then exorcise the hell out of him.

  “The boy,” I said. “If you hurt him—”

  “That would not be in my interest. He is my protection. Against you.”

  “A man died last night. Were you involved in that, too?”

  A faint smile touched his mouth. “There are many players in the game, Hunter. How many watch you from the shadows, you may never know.”

  That was a bad answer. I wanted to tap my foot, but kept my leg still. The limo felt like a cage. “What do you want?”

  “Conversation. Nothing more. You have my word, on the blood of my Queen.”

  I leaned back. Zee stilled. “Blood Mama sent you?”

  The zombie’s expression never changed, but his throat bobbed, and his aura flickered. “She has concerns.”

  I held my breath. Blood Mama was the ruler of the first prison ring, and a true zombie queen, more powerful than all her children combined—and she grew more powerful with every soul her children inhabited. The pain they made was the pain she felt, and it fed a hunger that never ended, and never would.

  I had met her. I had crossed the veil itself to face her presence. Given myself up, allowed my body to be dragged into the prison. To save Grant. Blood Mama had tried to possess him. She had come close. So close to taking everything I cared about. Again.

  Blood Mama had ordered the murder of my mother.

  She had ordered the deaths of all the women in my line. She would order my murder, when it was time. A decision entirely dependent on Zee and the others. My boys. My friends. Who would abandon me one day in favor of some distant, future daughter—whoever she might be. And when that happened, when I no longer had their protection, Blood Mama would know. All the zombies would know. I could almost hear the rifles being loaded.

  Not that I let it get me down. Not that I had abandoned hope. I was not afraid. Not anymore—though I remembered those days. I remembered being terrified. Scared of possibilities. Some distant, future pregnancy, which would start the clock ticking down the seconds of my life.

  Some in my bloodline had tried to avoid sex entirely, determined to elude their fates. But children were how Zee and the others survived. Celibacy was the same as their murder. And if a Hunter would not willingly procreate . . . the boys, so I had been told, would force the issue.

  And that was something I tried never to think about.

  “I want to see the boy,” I told the zombie. “And give me the name of your host.”

  “Edik Bashmakov.” He tipped his head to me. “And you may not see the child until our business is complete. I cannot take the risk.”

  Glass broke. Aaz was eating the vodka bottle. “No trust? I’m willing to take you at your word.”

  He shrugged; a delicate movement, infinitely refined. “You are the Hunter and you have no bounds, no allegiance. No one you answer to. Your word has no honor.”

  I imagined my hand on his forehead, sucking the demon free. “And you? Possessing human bodies? Feeding on suffering? Is that honor?”

  “It is survival,” he replied calmly. “Do not judge us by human values. You, who pretend to walk amongst them. You, who are only half a breed, some glorified prison guard. You, lonely little Warden.”

  Zee rested his claws against my knee and stared at Edik. The zombie lowered his gaze. “This will not take long, Hunter. Then I will go, and you will have the boy. Agreed?”

  I could have set Zee and the others upon him. Exorcised the demon from that human body and tortured it into speaking. My mother had taught me the trick. But I thought, perhaps, that was a line I did not feel like crossing tonight. And I did have some honor.

  I drank my ginger ale. The boys pressed close, clinging. My eyes ached. Outside, the limo drifted into a neighborhood of warehouses, rusty steel. I smelled the ocean. I thought of Grant. We were near him.

  “Tell me why I’m here,” I said.

  Edik’s aura flickered. “The veil. It opened tonight. You felt it.”

  “Do you know what came through?” It would not have been Blood Mama or her brood. Zombie-makers did not need to wait for the veil to open.

  Edik said nothing; unmoving, not one muscle, not a twitch, though his aura burned. Either he did not know
or did not want to say. I took another sip of ginger ale. “What does your Queen want?”

  The zombie slid his hands down his thighs, resting his palms on his knees. “I think you know, Hunter. The prison is failing. When it does, this world will die.”

  No mystery, no surprise. A logical conclusion, one I had been trying to ignore for the last decade. But I had never heard it said quite so bluntly. “I can’t imagine why you’re warning me. You’re a demon. Prison goes down, you win.”

  Edik’s flickering aura was the only thing about him not perfectly, coldly, calm. Even his eyes, hard as steel. If bullets could have been made from disdain, I might have died in that moment from a shot through the head.

  “You are so naïve,” he said.

  “Am I?” I replied. “Wow.”

  Edik’s mouth tightened with displeasure. “You have no idea what rests in the prison rings. My kind are vermin to the others, less than demon. Rats chasing the tails of wolves.”

  Demon politics. Something I had not considered. Maybe I was naïve. “You think I care? All I want to know is what came through the veil.”

  “Calculation,” he said mysteriously. “A pawn, a scout.”

  The ginger ale suddenly felt like acid in my stomach. “What else? How do I find this demon?”

  “Only my Queen knows.” Edik hesitated. “She was used, Hunter. She was used in the service of another. Forced to make a bargain, to facilitate the passage of this pawn.”

  “No one forces Blood Mama into anything.”

  Edik looked away, a muscle twitching in his face. “Our brethren in the veil will destroy us, you know. They will kill us when they break free. They will consume us. But before they do, before all the walls fall and the First Ward crumbles, and the Reapers rape the bones of this world, the others will have their way with your humans—and no matter what you think of Blood Mama and her brood, we are nothing compared to them.”

  I said nothing. I sat very still. Except for my fingers, making a dent in the soda can. Blood Mama had chosen well. Edik Bashmakov had talent. He was a true connoisseur, a professional, at the art of imparting bad news. I admired his skill. I no longer felt quite so eager to kill him.