I entered the shelter near the kitchen and smelled bacon grease and coffee. Past the swinging doors, pots banged and the dishwasher rattled, competing with sounds of laughter. Smokey Robinson blared from the intercom that fed into the cafeteria. Folks liked some Motown with their cereal.
One of the volunteers staggered in from the loading bay, holding a trough of day-old glazed doughnuts, donated from a local bakery. I snagged one. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a kid around, have you? Teen, pierced, black spiked hair and sweatshirt?”
“There’s a dozen of them out there this morning,” grumbled the woman. “Take your pick.”
I pushed open the swinging doors, peering into the cafeteria. Long tables filled the room, most of them packed. My gaze slipped over tired, worn faces, some cheerful smiles, and several tense men and women with quiet children sitting between them. I saw a group of teens, trying to be small over by the wall. But not Byron.
No zombies this morning, either. That was some relief. Too much tension when they were around. And when new-comers showed up, initial interactions were always unpredictable. Especially if the zombie encountered me before Grant.
I finished off the doughnut, made a quick pass through the main halls, then went back outside. Took a walk through the garden. Smelled the sharp tang of cedar sap and grass. Felt the boys doing the same, in their sleep. Raw tugged on my arm. I paused, then started walking in that direction. My eyes ached.
On the edge of the shelter’s grounds, near a battered chain-link fence, I saw a tiny figure standing by a tree. A little girl, alone. I could not see her face because she was staring away from me, at the road, but her hair was dark, and she was dressed in denim overalls and red boots. Cute outfit. I remembered having one just like it.
I looked for a parent—any kind of adult—but except for some lone figures standing outside the main shelter doors, I seemed to be it. Made my heart squeeze in a bad way. Sometimes people abandoned their children at the Coop. I had only seen it happen once, but Grant assured me that by the summer, we would probably have several more. Folks got tired, desperate. Thought it was the only way to take care of their kids and offer them a better life.
The boys started tugging on my skin as I approached the child. I rubbed my arms and slowed down, keeping some distance between the girl and myself.
“Hello,” I said.
“Greetings,” replied the girl, unmoving. I waited a beat, then walked a wide circle, unable to take my gaze off her face. My stomach dropped. Dizziness cut. It was hard for me to stand. Cold fear rode over conscious thought.
The girl was me. At eight years old.
I stared at her. Cars passed behind me. I heard seagulls and the bellow of a distant ship horn; coarse laughter by the shelter; the faint creak of leather as my gloved hands clenched into fists. Trying not to let them shake.
The girl did not look at me, but I saw the edge of her eyes: mine in shape and color, but cold, empty. “I heard things, even in the darkness. Within the veil. Great tales of this world, sprung to life after our passage. Humanity, risen into an empire of enlightenment, unlike any other beyond the Labyrinth. Such wonders,” she whispered, her voice adult. “Such desperate, terrible wonders.”
“And now you’re here,” I said. “Now you see.”
“I see,” she said. “I am full of seeing, and still I hunger. You would not understand such hunger. For immortals trapped behind eternity, in the interminable prison dark, stories are currency. Stories are life. Stories are to be bartered, to become blood.”
Her appearance was an affront, no doubt meant to put me off balance. But it was her words that twisted me. “You didn’t cross the veil to hunt stories.”
The girl smiled, looking far away. “On the contrary. I have come for nothing but. And oh, the tales I will tell. No Wardens. No Avatars. Humans, ignorant and squealing in their misery. Nothing protecting this world. This world, that is nothing as we believed. Empires squandered. Gold and iron, and no soul.”
“You sound disappointed.”
The girl’s little hand slid from her pocket. Twine dangled. Or maybe it was hair, braided into a string. “Memories compete. I am older than some. I remember other worlds. Dazzling worlds. I had hoped this one would earn its place in the pantheon. But what am I, except old-fashioned in desire? After we are done here, there will be other empires to admire. An infinity, beyond the Labyrinth.”
She was talking to herself. Riddles. “You came here to see me. You know what I am.”
“You, Hunter,” said the girl disdainfully. “Prison guard. Host to an army of runts. I have heard stories of your bloodline, as well, but you are not so much to reckon. Ten thousand years thins the spirit. And human flesh was ever so easy to carve.”
“Then you don’t know me,” I said quietly, stepping close. “And you’re welcome to get in line.”
The girl smiled. “One thing first, Hunter. Before we scrabble in the grass. Tell me of Jack. Jack and his Sarai Soars. The wolf and the unicorn.”
Expect the unexpected. But that question still clubbed my heart. I fought to keep my expression smooth, cold. “How do you know them?”
The girl held up her hand. Skin shimmered, becoming so translucent I could look through her palm at her face. Like smoke. Or a ghost. Around us, the air cooled as though shaved by ice.
I gritted my teeth. “That was you last night.”
Her hand solidified. “My eyes are everywhere. And Jack and Sarai, no matter what they call themselves, are . . . old friends. Imagine my surprise to see you with them. Just imagine. If you had not been there, we would not be having this conversation. I would have . . . ignored you.”
“And now?”
“Now you are part of the game. Now, while I have been given a reprieve from my masters, I will seize the moment to settle old stories.”
“No,” I breathed coldly. “You stay away from them.”
“Or what?” The girl regarded me with distant, imperious condescension. “You are only one, and alone. The Wardens are dead, Hunter. And you will be the blood I use as ink, as I write the end upon my skin.”
I walked to the little girl, that demon wearing my baby face, and leaned down with ice in my veins. “I never liked wasting time.”
“Nothing is ever wasted.” The demon grabbed my throat. She had a strong grip. Might have pulverized regular human flesh, crushed it into mush, but I just stood there while she strained, and silently stripped off my gloves.
I grabbed her wrist. Aaz dug in. I watched my own face—eight years old, demon me—slacken with surprise. Hardened my heart and held tight, kneeling as all the boys got in on the act of absorbing her life into their bodies— using Aaz as the direct conduit. The demon’s grip on my throat loosened, mouth twisting in agony. Her eyes shut.
“Thank you for not ignoring me,” I whispered.
The child snarled, facial features contorting, losing solidity. And then, with a snap like bones cracking, she dissolved completely—and disappeared into smoke.
Aaz could not hold on. Neither could I. In seconds, the demon was gone. But she reappeared just out of reach, a shadow of me—colors faded, washed out, as though standing on the other side of a black-and-white television screen.
“This is my world,” I said hoarsely.
“Mine first,” she breathed. “Mine, again. You cannot stop that. The veil is falling, Hunter. And when the others learn what I have discovered—”
She stopped, a shudder ripping through her frame—and the face she wore, mine, trembled briefly into something older and far more expressive. Oturu’s mark burned, throbbing to my heartbeat. I wanted to touch it, but dug my fingers into my thighs.
“Go home, demon,” I told her. “Go back inside the prison. Or I will kill you.”
The girl’s face stopped shifting, and she looked at me with glittering endless eyes, ancient and terrifying. “That is not my home, Hunter. And I am not a demon.”
I lunged toward her. She disappeared again. Only this
time, she did not come back.
I pushed myself up to my knees, staring at the spot. Boys restless on my skin. It took me ten minutes before I was strong enough to stand. Ten minutes before my thoughts settled into some echo of rational calm.
But my legs wobbled. My heart thundered.
I was scared. Really scared.
Just not for me.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN I was twelve years old, I watched my mother pull a man from a burning car. Freak accident on a stretch of Oklahoma highway. Not many other vehicles involved, but a semi changed lanes, colliding with a sedan, and things got ugly. Big fire, unconscious driver.
My mother never hesitated. She disappeared into the blaze and came back, clothes burning, hair on fire. A man draped across her shoulders; hurt, but breathing. My mother, totally unharmed. Sporting a new haircut. She dumped the man, and got back into the station wagon. Gunned the engine and pulled a hard U-turn on the median. Drove us out of there.
Never heard a peep on the radio, afterward—not even a segment on the news—though nowadays there would probably be a cell-phone video making our lives hell on You-Tube. Not that it would matter, given the alternative.
“Exceptions to the rules,” my mother would say. “There are always exceptions.”
Drawing attention for a good cause was one of them. Like fighting demons, even if it was in broad daylight. Lost opportunities, after all, were like wasting air while drowning a mile underwater. No matter who might be watching.
I turned around and saw Byron.
I did not know how long he had been standing there, but he was pale and skinny in his oversized clothes, and his eyes belonged to a kid who had not only seen some bad things, but might have just witnessed something downright crazy, like a grown woman tussling with a child that could vanish into thin air.
“Hey,” I said, awkwardly. “I was looking for you.”
“I was on your roof,” he said, voice hollow, almost like he was talking on automatic pilot. “Grant said you guys didn’t check there.”
I nodded, then realized his gaze had dropped to my hands. I had shoved my gloves into a pocket. Forgotten to put them back on. Too busy thinking about the end of the world. And one old man who might be my grandfather.
I had to warn him. I needed answers.
I tried to play it cool as I pulled on my gloves, but I felt like the mask had been ripped off my face. All my secrets, naked and burning.
Byron swallowed hard. “You got more of those?”
“Here and there,” I said shortly.
“You don’t look like the tattoo type.”
“Told you I was scary.”
Some of the tension leaked from his shoulders. “Scary’s not bad sometimes.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. “Thanks, kid.”
He seemed embarrassed and rubbed his nose, glancing past my shoulder. I looked, just in case, but saw no sign of a demonic mini-me. Found him checking me out again, though. I did not budge from the scrutiny, his searching gaze; emotions flickering in his face: doubt, fear, unease. Maybe some appreciation, though God only knew what that was for.
“You eaten breakfast?” I asked him.
“I was going to bail,” he said. “I can’t stay here.”
“Don’t leave on an empty stomach.” I walked past him, trying to act more relaxed than I felt. “Unless you’re a vegetarian. In which case, you’re screwed.”
I did not wait to see if he followed though my ears strained for his footsteps. I heard him, after a moment, and kept my mouth shut when he caught up, matching my pace. He walked with a hunched shuffle—bad posture, trying not to be noticed.
“Why do you live here?” Byron asked.
“Why not?” I checked around us for more demons, or pieces of the sky falling; maybe locusts and flying toads. “Why do you live on the street?”
“Because it’s there,” he replied.
I glanced sideways. “Still haven’t seen those rooms. Locks on the doors. Your own key. Might be able to swing you a job here, or somewhere close by.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, but I could tell he was interested. I did not have much practice at dealing with kids his age—kids at all, period—but I thought I was doing okay. He was not running yet. No matter what he might have seen.
We reached the main doors of the Coop. Byron cleared his throat, his hand sliding up to finger a bruise at the side of his neck. I had not noticed it the night before. I wanted to ask where the injury had come from—if there were more—but I thought I knew. Just one more thing to feel sick about.
Byron caught me looking, and his hand froze. I pretended not to notice. Just kept walking. Jack and Sarai floating at the back of my mind.
Old friends.
Old friends with a demon. Or whatever that creature might be.
I patted my back pocket and felt the stone disc. My mother and her secrets. My grandmother.
“Fuck,” I muttered. Byron glanced at me, and I added, “Sorry.”
The teen shrugged like it was nothing, but I still felt embarrassed. I was not a brilliant example for good behavior. Not for a kid. Not that Byron cared, I suspected.
The main kitchen had a volunteer lounge where all the folks who kept the Coop running could go and chill out. Eat, read, watch some television. Byron and I grabbed trays and plates and squeezed in between the servers on the main line to grab some breakfast. I did not feel hungry—I had to hit the road, like now—but the boy was walking wounded. I could see it in his eyes. If I ran off, he might not be here when I got back. And I wanted him to be. I needed him to be safe, almost as much as I needed to see Jack and Sarai.
No good reason for it. Something in Byron just hit me the hard way. Or maybe that was guilt. He had gotten hurt because of me. Badelt and his questions.
I forced myself to eat, and halfway between the second and third bite, my stomach started growling happily. Byron tucked in more food than I, but not by much. Both our plates, piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon, hash browns smothered in ketchup; toast, butter, jam. Another doughnut.
“I’m gonna puke,” Byron said, toward the end of his plate. He stuffed another piece of bread in his mouth.
“You could eat like this every day,” I muttered, dialing the information services number on my cell phone. I asked for the Sarai Soars Art Gallery, but according to the man clicking away on the other end of the line, such a place did not exist. Or if it did, was unlisted.
I slammed the phone into my jacket pocket. Byron stared at me, a piece of bacon hanging limply in his fingers. “Brian was married to a woman named Sarai.”
I suddenly felt sorry I had made that call in front of him. “He talked to you about her?”
“Said she was beautiful.” Byron shrugged, and dropped the bacon back on his plate. “Also said she was a pain in the ass, but that most women were.”
Sounded like the man in the picture. “Was she the one who hired Badelt to come looking for me?”
“Don’t know.” Byron rubbed his hands on his jeans. “You’re not going to tell the police I saw anything, are you?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Far as they know, you don’t exist.”
He nodded, jaw tight. Like maybe he really was feeling queasy. I pushed back my chair. “Let me show you that room.”
The private wing was on the second floor of the middle warehouse, between the dining hall and the common rest areas. Grant had set it up in order to accommodate those special cases he occasionally encountered—families or individuals who were particularly close to getting back on their feet, but needed that extra push—or even folks who were not remotely near success, but who would benefit from the confidence of having their own place.
It was a closely guarded secret. A tricky balance. Grant was good at it.
My key chain was full. I let us into the wing, and we walked down a long corridor that had been painted a pale sand color with white accents. Track lighting and a simple tile floor lent an upscale quality that
helped residents forget they were living in a homeless shelter. I stopped halfway down in front of a white door. Opened it and let Byron in.
It was the same size and shape as a hotel room, with a bathroom directly to the right of the door, and just beyond, a bed and dresser. A telephone sat on the narrow nightstand, along with a pad of paper and a pen. One window faced southeast. Sunlight trickled through the sheer curtain. The walls were white, the furniture simple, in some cottage style.
Byron stopped in the middle of the room, staring. His back was to me. I wanted to see his face, but I was afraid to move. “It’s yours, kid. No rent, though most people volunteer downstairs to make up the difference. And like I said before, no drugs, no parties. We’ll nag you to get your GED.”
He said nothing. I thought of Jack, the demon, and crept close, behind him. “Byron. I need to go take care of something. Will you be all right if I leave you here?”
He nodded. I held out the door key, over his shoulder. “This lock is the same as the main wing door. We’ll change it if you decide to stay.”
Byron looked down at the key, then took it, almost gingerly. Raw tugged on my hand, rearing up toward the boy. He wanted me to remove my glove. I ignored him. I backed away from Byron, shoving my protesting hand into my jacket pocket.
As I began to leave the room, the boy turned, just slightly. “Maxine.”
Maxine. It felt strange hearing him say my name. He spoke so softly I could hardly hear him. I still could not see his face.
His hand hung down at his side, clenched around the key. “The man who killed Brian . . . he was one of them. You know. Part of the group selling drugs and taking girls.” Byron paused. “You asked yesterday. I never answered your question.”
“Thank you,” I said heavily. “You just helped me.”
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