The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  And Edik, though unspecific about Badelt’s death, had implied someone else was responsible. Someone watching me. Or maybe that was just another word game, meant to take the focus off him.

  I hated this. My head still hurt, a low-grade headache centered behind my eyes. I took a deep breath. “Just one more question, Byron. Had you ever seen me before tonight? When we first met, I thought maybe you had.”

  “No,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “But you were familiar. I don’t know why.”

  Sicily, I remembered Zee saying. Sorrow in Raw’s gaze.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Byron.”

  He looked at me, uncertain. “Now what?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Byron hesitated. “Maybe I could stay tonight.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Try it out. You can keep the room downstairs, then in the morning we’ll move you to one of the studios. Like a miniapartment, just for you.”

  He looked at me like I had snakes coming out of my head, which might have been the case had Dek and Mal still been on my shoulders. The little demons, however, were behind the boy, draped around Raw’s neck; the three of them peering around a barrel full of ferns.

  “It’s the truth,” I said. “I can show you now.”

  “No,” he replied. “But I still think you’re full of it.”

  The clouds were clearing. I caught gasps of starlight and thought about the demon with his cloak, dancing on knives.

  We have missed your face.

  You woke us. Your soul reached for us. Inside the abyss, we felt your call.

  Blood holds no dominion.

  You have need of us.

  I stood, savoring the cold breeze that swept over my face. I smelled the ocean and the docks, remnants of grease from Chinatown.

  Byron stood, too. He was taller than I, but almost as slender; a hungry look on his face, starved for more than just food.

  “How long?” I asked him softly. “How long have you lived like this?”

  I thought he was going to bristle, but then he took a breath, and his shoulders relaxed. “About six months.”

  “And there’s no one?”

  “There was,” he said, looking down. “But he died last night.”

  I nodded, silent. Started to walk away. Byron cleared his throat, and I stopped, looking back. He fidgeted, fingers worrying at his sweatshirt zipper. My stomach turned, uneasy. “Yes?”

  Byron looked like he was going to be sick. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  I took a step toward him. “What?”

  The boy pressed the heel of his palm against his brow, as though in pain. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “The man who shot Brian . . . caught me watching.”

  I stopped breathing. “Did he hurt you?”

  Byron nodded, face crumpling. My mind went to places I did not want to imagine, and shied away, wild. “He let you go. You survived.”

  Tears leaked down his cheeks. “He said a woman would come asking questions. He said he would kill me if I talked. When I got taken tonight . . .”

  I thought I was going to die, I imagined him finishing.

  His entire body shuddered. I felt myself die, just a little. I wrapped my arms around the teen. Gingerly. I was not used to hugging, but he clung to me, crying, wracked with such violent grief I could not imagine all his emotion was from Brian’s death alone.

  He still thought he was going to die. I could feel it. I had given him a reprieve, that was all. Byron was terrified.

  I saw the boys watching us. Zee had one fist knotted against his chest. Raw and Aaz, Dek and Mal—all of them, staring, deep in memory. I could always tell. It was in their ears, their mouths. Slack, distracted.

  I held the boy. I held him a long time.

  CHAPTER 8

  I could not handle it on my own. Grant helped me put the boy to bed, and this time, I let him use the flute. I stood by the door and watched him sit in a chair by the nightstand and play his own music, his own creation. Invented on the spot for Byron’s soul.

  The teen’s psyche sounded a little like the Firebird Suite, lilting and eerie and sad. I could not see his aura—only, ever, the shadows of demons—but I felt Grant’s power course through me and sink into my bones. I imagined what it must be like to rearrange the colors of a boy’s soul—color that reflected energy, energy that represented emotion. A nudge here, a prod there. Gentle. Subtle. Healing. The boy slept. Grant had done that first. To make it easier.

  After a while, I left them.

  Zee and the others were in the bedroom. Their teddy bears were out, amputated limbs leaking trails of white cotton stuffing. The boys started humming “Living on a Prayer” when I walked in, voices high like some demonic version of Alvin and the Chipmunks; but it was a mournful version, and when they started throwing scissors, they only halfheartedly aimed for each other’s eyes. I watched them for a moment, then stepped over their current issues of Playboy, National Geographic, and the Wall Street Journal piled alongside coloring books and half-chewed crayons.

  I stripped off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. Felt something heavy in my pocket, and remembered, suddenly, the stone disc Jack had given me. A gift from my mother. I looked at it, rubbing my palm over the smooth soft surface, my fingers trailing through the engraved circular lines, nestled within one another.

  I laid it down on the nightstand, heart aching.

  I did not look at myself in the mirror. I took a shower. It felt good. I tried not to think too hard. I also tried not to freak out, but I was just not that lucky.

  I cried. I cried for myself, my mother. I cried for Badelt and Byron. I did not know why. I had seen people die. I had killed. But I felt like I was coping with my mother’s death all over again, and that was more than I could bear. Even thinking about Jack Meddle was no distraction. Just another terrible ache.

  I turned off my brain. Stayed under the water a long time. Scalding hot. I could hardly see the walls for the steam. I was dizzy.

  When I exited the bathroom, Grant was in bed. The lights were low. Boys, gone. I pulled back the covers. Saw a lot of skin. I dropped my towel.

  Grant, very gently, said, “I’ll make it better.”

  And he did.

  I was a poor dreamer. I used to have nightmares—or better, visions of elephants soaring, crickets in top hats singing—but since my mother’s death, my dreams had been bereft, bullish in their simplicity; my life so terribly bizarre, there was nothing left to conjure in my sleep. If I dreamed, then I was good at forgetting. Mostly, there was only darkness in my mind.

  But when I fell asleep that night I dreamed of drums. I dreamed of a valley cast in moonlight, spread beneath me like round cheeks, and there were wing tips against my feet, like the cloak of a dragon, and a taste in my throat that was cinnamon and spice, and something worse, awful and metallic—creamy like butter made from blood.

  I was not alone in my dream. The boys were there, ranged about me like wolves, and I was in the company of wolves, real and golden-eyed and sharp with silver fur. I wore fur. I wore gold and silver, and against my brow a slender crown that pricked my skin with thorns. In my hand, a sword.

  And behind me, soaring against my back, a wall of darkness, a cloak writhing and twisting, a pale mouth smiling.

  It is time, I thought. This is blood.

  So it was.

  WHEN I woke, my skin was covered in tattoos. Sunrise. I had survived the night.

  My mouth tasted like cinnamon. I gazed down at my hand, nearly lost in the covers. Red eyes stared back, unblinking and flat. Raw, silver on his chin, distorted upon my skin. He had rested on my thigh yesterday, but the boys never slept in the same spot twice. I rarely let others see my tattoos. Some things were hard to explain.

  A warm foot nudged my leg. I rolled over. Grant was propped up on his pillows, early morning sunlight warming his brown hair. He held the stone disc.

  “Sorry,” he said, absently. “I got curious.”

  I la
y on my stomach, tucking pillows under me, and caught him checking out my tattooed breasts, one of which was currently the bosom pillow for Zee. I looked down and found his mercury hand frozen against my sternum, middle claw raised.

  “Well,” I said mildly, “I know he isn’t flipping me off.”

  “Don’t ask,” Grant muttered, and rolled the stone in his large palm. “What is this?”

  “Limited-edition garden ornament. The boys have been watching QVC again.”

  His mouth twitched. “Maxine.”

  “Jack Meddle gave it to me. He said it was from my mother.”

  “Just like that? Some coincidence.”

  “You know how I feel about those.” I ran my finger against the hard, thick muscles of his forearm. “Do you believe in fairy tales?”

  Grant pushed deeper into the covers and turned on his side, placing the stone between us, on the edge of my pillow. “I believe in you. And I know what I can do. I suppose that means anything is possible.”

  I gazed at the stone, and in the morning light the edges of those circular lines resembled veins quickened with glints of lavender and silver—crushed pearls—and though it could have been a trick of the eye, I imagined a faint pulse, as though a tiny heart beat inside the stone.

  “Why?” Grant asked.

  “I don’t know. It was in my head.” I turned, exposing my jaw. “See anything?”

  He peered closely. “A tattoo extending out of your hairline. Dek or Mal, I’m not sure who. Just enough to cover the mark. I don’t feel it anymore, either. Can the boys get rid of scarring?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” I wondered why the boys would prefer to expose themselves than allow that brand to remain on my face. Or how Jack had recognized it.

  Grant grunted. “I talked to Zee last night. Tried to get some answers out of him.”

  “And?”

  “He told me they made some promises.”

  I buried my head in the pillows. “I got the same line. Did they give you anything useful?”

  He smiled. “Guilt. Something I’m well versed in.”

  I could not laugh. “When you were a priest, did you take confessions?”

  “Sure. Have something you want to get off your chest?”

  “Ha.” I rubbed the stone with my finger. “Just wondered if you ever . . . encountered anything truly bizarre. So horrible you had trouble keeping it to yourself.”

  “Haven’t you kept secrets?”

  “Not the kind that mess up a person’s life.”

  Grant pulled me close. “Confession, the sacrament, penance . . . all of that is supposed to help sinners commune with God. Self-examination, with me, as priest, standing in for Jesus to exercise forgiveness. It was never my place to judge. And as for repeating what I heard . . . that’s something I could never do, not even to save my life. Or anyone else’s.”

  “But you did judge. You acted.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You knew you could fix the most troubled. And you used the confessional to find them.”

  He did not deny it. He had said as much to me in the past, and it was one of the reasons he had left the priesthood. Too much conflict. Too much danger. Not from himself, but from the Church.

  Grant closed his eyes. “You just had to bring that up.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be. I just . . . couldn’t let some of them go. Not as they were. And maybe that was wrong of me. Could be everything I do is wrong. But you can’t compare that to Zee and the others, what they’re keeping from you . . .” He stopped, sighing. “There must be a good reason for it. They love you, Maxine. And not just because they need you to survive.”

  I hoped so. I picked up the stone and cradled it above our heads, trying to be careful. My mother had wanted me to have this. My mother. I could hardly imagine it.

  I could not understand why.

  “It’s a labyrinth,” Grant said, tapping the edge of the disc. “At least, I think so. It’s a bit different from what I’m used to.”

  I stared at him, surprised. “You’ve seen something like this before?”

  “The imagery is a mainstay of the Church. Symbolizes the path to salvation, enlightenment.”

  Interesting. “So what’s different about it?”

  Grant’s gaze was sharp, thoughtful. “A labyrinth has only one beginning, and one end. See where these lines meet the edge? There are nine of them. Nine ways in.”

  “It’s probably not literal.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t. But the symbolism is the same across cultures, from ancient Greece, to Iran and China. Relics have been found in pre-Columbian North and South America. Australia, even. And in all those places, labyrinths are depicted a certain way. Not like this.”

  “Expert much?”

  “Had to be.”

  “You’ve got that glint in your eye.”

  He grinned. “It’s a fascinating topic. And a very appropriate gift. Your mother knew what she was doing.”

  “She usually did,” I replied dryly.

  “But see, look at this.” He tapped the stone, tracing his finger around the concentric lines. “There may be nine ways in, but there’s only one way to the center, once you slip into this opening . . . right here. One single path. A unicursal maze. And all it takes is faith to reach the end. Not logic. Just endurance.”

  “My mother would have appreciated the sentiment.”

  “There’s something else she would have liked more. The archetype of the warrior.” Grant looked into my eyes. “If you study the myths associated with labyrinths, there’s always a malevolent presence within it—the Minotaur, Satan, Khumbaba. But where there is evil . . .”

  “There’s someone fighting against it.”

  “In the labyrinth, the warrior will defeat the darkness,” he said quietly. “And win salvation for all.”

  I closed my eyes, imagining my mother gazing at the stone and its engraving. Contemplating her daughter’s future. “That doesn’t explain why she didn’t just give this to me herself.”

  “Part of the message?” Grant raised his brow. “Leaving things to faith, the convoluted path? Maybe she thought it would mean more if you received it . . . later.”

  After she was dead. A message beyond the grave. That, too, made sense. My mother had been esoteric in life; death, apparently, had not changed a thing.

  “You know,” said Grant thoughtfully, “from a human consciousness standpoint, a labyrinth is seen as a door between two worlds. Some also believe that prehistoric labyrinths might have served as traps, symbolic or not, for . . . malevolent spirits.”

  I shook my head. “I’m convinced. Message received.”

  Grant’s mouth twitched. “Still doesn’t explain the deviation in the iconography. The lack of order, the nine points of entry.”

  I snuggled deeper into his side. “You sound like a professor. ”

  “Does it turn you on?”

  “Keep talking.”

  He began to smile, but a faint line gathered between his eyes. He held up the stone disc, turning it in the light.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Something that doesn’t make sense. I keep thinking it’s my imagination.” He hesitated, still staring at the stone. “A person in a coma has an aura. Deep indicators. But the longer and harder someone sleeps, the shallower that light becomes. And those who are damaged beyond repair . . .”

  “They pulse,” I said quietly, reaching out to touch the engraving, the glints of silver. I traced the lines, feeling something shift inside my mind; a dark flutter. “Reduced to heartbeats.”

  Grant stared. “You see it.”

  “Something.” My gaze was drawn to my hand: another kind of snarl, a jam of knots and complications, a maze of flesh and time and death. Each line in my skin, evidence of a life I was responsible for. No running, either. I was the bars of my own cage. Jailer and the jailed.

  The phone rang. Grant did not pick it up. He pulled me close and leaned over my body until I was cov
ered in his skin. I hooked my leg around his. I felt small when he held me. Safer than I should. Warm. Grant was the only thing the boys allowed me to feel when they slept.

  “Listen,” he said quietly. “This is not you, alone.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. “But we had this conversation.”

  He leaned his forehead against mine. “I mean it, Maxine. Please.”

  “I know.” I kissed the corner of his mouth. “Go figure.”

  He smiled, though it was strained. I could not see his eyes. Made me flash back to the demon, Oturu, and I forced Grant away just enough so that I could look at him fully.

  He hid nothing from me. Not one tremor. Not the heat, or the full beat of his strength, which was steady, calm. I did not know what he saw in my eyes, but I knew what I felt. It scared me.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “People get hurt because of me.”

  “Faith, endurance.” Grant held up the stone. “Listen to your mother.”

  I laughed at the irony. “If I listened to my mother, I wouldn’t be here right now. And you would probably be dead.”

  Grant made a face and rolled out of bed. I sat up, tossing aside covers. My body was dark with tattoos, even down to my toenails: the color of claws. No nail polish for me. Never stuck.

  I thought about Byron and grabbed my jeans and boots, dragging a navy cashmere turtleneck from the closet. Grant yanked on a pair of jogging pants that slung low across his lean hips. I tossed him the cane. His eyes were sharp, his jaw set. Sexy beast.

  I swiped the stone disc from the bed and shoved it into the back pocket of my jeans. The floors in the living room were slippery with sunlight. I glimpsed blue sky through the windows and grabbed a pair of gloves from the coffee table.

  Byron was not in the spare bedroom. The bed was made.

  I stood there, disappointed. Grant placed his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we should check downstairs. He might be eating breakfast.”

  Or maybe he had run like hell. Not that I would blame him. I was the reason he had gotten hurt. He probably figured I was also the reason Badelt had been murdered.

  I left Grant to finish getting dressed. There was no direct access to the shelter from his apartment. I had to go outside, and the morning air was crisp and damp, with only a faint scent from the docks to mar the breeze. Made me miss Wisconsin winter sunrises, with air so cold it cut the lungs like a knife. During the day, the only temperature I could feel was in my lungs. Gave a place some texture.