I leaned in, anger building in my throat, a terrible, awful fury. “He was on the Ave the night he died. He was talking to the homeless. And the only reason he would have done that was if he hoped to find someone who had stayed at the Coop. Someone who might have met me.” I stabbed my finger at Sarai. “You already knew what I was, and where. You wanted Badelt to discover the who.”
Dead silence. A cutting, morbid silence. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Told you. Just like Jeannie.”
“Then you can tattoo her name on your chest, as well,” Sarai snapped, braids swinging. “And as for you, Maxine . . .” Her hands clenched like she wanted to hit something, maybe me, and her little knuckles turned so white I thought something was going to pop. “We knew where you lived. But not the person you had grown into. And we needed to know. It was important. Brian was supposed to find tendrils, rumors, distant enough that no one would have reported the inquiries . . . but within a close enough circle for the truth.”
I stared, incredulous. “You could have just introduced yourself. I’m not that subtle.”
Jack began to sip his tea, but his hand trembled, sloshing dark liquid over the rim. “We promised your mother. No contact. Not unless you found us on your own. Which . . . we would have arranged, if Brian’s death had not . . . sped up the process.”
Sarai looked away. “Brian was killed as a message to me. A notice to stay away from you. Or perhaps, like the boy, punishment for not.”
I searched her face, but what few emotions I had seen last night were hidden away so deep she might have been discussing the death of a stranger instead of her ex-husband.
“A demon killed him,” I said. “A demonic parasite, possessing a human. I’m certain of it. And that . . . doesn’t surprise you. None of this does.”
“I know Blood Mama’s ways,” Sarai muttered, surprising me. “She cares only for herself. Even her children, she sacrifices. Killing one human man is nothing to her. Less than an afterthought.”
I had to sit down. I nearly knocked over a pile of books, but I balanced precariously on the edge of the table and hung my head. The stone disc was warm in my hands. I gazed down at the concentric lines: the singular, faithful path. Endure to the end. One step at a time. Made me light-headed. Or maybe that was the cold fear throbbing through my gut; a surging, awful, drowning fear. My entire life, prepared in theory for the shit to hit the fan, and now that it had, all I wanted to do was wring my proverbial hands and start chanting I don’t know what to do like a religious mantra. I had no clue.
Focus. Baby steps. One little nibble at a time. You can handle it. Eye on the prize. Whatever the hell that might be. I had a lot to choose from.
But first: Blood Mama. The old demon queen did nothing without a good reason. She was calculating to a fault. A little too in love with machinations. Bored little queen. Who did not want me talking to Jack and Sarai. Friends of the family.
“What,” I asked slowly, “do you know that I shouldn’t?”
Jack shifted slightly, his knees threatening to topple books. “Things your mother could not tell you. Things she hoped you would never hear.”
Sarai’s knuckles still strained white. “She was afraid for you. Of what would happen if the veil opened.”
I thought of the missing pages in her journal. “It opened last night. I encountered what came through. That demon I spoke of. The one who knows you.”
The old man teetered forward on his stool, knocking books from his lap. “Tell us.”
I could not look at his face. It hurt too much. Here, the man I wanted to be my grandfather—and he had known where I was. He had known, and not found me. Kept secrets from me.
My mother had kept secrets. “She—it—looked like a younger version of me. Even down to the outfit. Disappeared into smoke when I tried to stop it.” I met Jack’s gaze. “You knew last night, though . . . didn’t you? You knew exactly what was here.”
A flush stained his cheeks. More tea sloshed, and I reached out, unable to help myself, and took the cup from him. His breath seemed to catch when our hands brushed, and his expression turned so very pained I wanted to get down and beg him to tell me whether he was mine. But his fingers dug into his knees, and he said, “I suspected. It would not be the first such visitor I’ve had, but there was a . . . specific sensation about that particular presence. Familiar, you might say.”
“So you do know the demon who passed through the veil.” I set down the tea, afraid my own hands would start shaking. “The prison was constructed almost ten thousand years ago.”
“Longer than that,” Sarai muttered, and Jack shushed her.
“Ten thousand,” I said again, firmly. “And unless that demon has been popping in and out at will over the past sixty years or so, I’d say it’s pretty darn unlikely that the three of you are old friends.”
“Unless we’re also . . . that old,” Jack said, weakly.
Fuck it. I drank his hot tea, knocking back the drink in one hard swallow. I choked on it and started coughing, tears streaming from my eyes. Jack reached out, tentatively, but his hand stopped just short of patting my knee.
Sarai looked mildly disgusted. “We don’t have time for this. You know what the little skinner wants, Old Wolf.”
“My only priority is Maxine,” he told her, an edge to his voice. His gaze flicked to my cheek. My hair was down, covering the tattooed skin beneath my ear, but I imagined he could see it anyway. “Besides, there was another.”
Glass crunched. I looked down and found the teacup in my hand. In pieces. I exhaled, slowly. Jack stood, towering over me, and pointed at Sarai. “Fetch a towel, if you would.”
Her jaw tightened, but she made her way down the narrow path between books, disappearing into the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, Jack leaned in and whispered, “We are your friends, my dear. Whether you know it or not. Your mother trusted us with your well-being.”
“My mother should have told me.”
“She had her reasons. Good ones.”
“And?”
“And nothing, I’m afraid.” He looked away, cheeks still red. “Some things are out of my control.”
“That demon who came through the veil called you a friend. Care to explain that?”
“The little skinner,” Jack said grimly, pronouncing each word with cold, crisp disgust. “No friend of ours. Or demon. Certainly not like those she was imprisoned with. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s still alive. I thought for certain the others would have killed her by now.”
I stared. “Is this supposed to be answering my questions? ”
Sarai reappeared. I still held the stone disc in my other hand and set it down in time to catch the dish towel she tossed at my head. I dumped the glass into the cloth. As I was bundling it up, Jack shocked me by gently pushing my hair from my face—exposing the edge of my jaw, below my ear.
“Clever,” he murmured, and stood back so Sarai could see. “The evidence has been obscured, but I saw it myself last night. He marked her.”
“Oturu,” I said.
Sarai faltered, gazing up at Jack. There was so much history in that brief stare, I felt like an interloper merely by breathing the same air.
“So,” she finally said. “Again.”
“Again,” he said, just as carefully. “Maybe.”
“She was marked. No maybes.”
“I was speaking of interpretation. Nothing is ever what it seems.”
I battled a chill. “What are you talking about?”
“Everything,” Jack said heavily, and tapped the book by his elbow; the same text I had been looking at the night before. “An old bargain coming to fruition. Always coinciding with a weakening in the veil. Which I suppose would explain why, in ancient times, it was seen as a portent of dark events. War, plague, famine.”
“It,” I echoed.
“The Hunt,” Jack said. “The Wild Hunt.”
It was too random, too out of place. My head hurt. I glanced at the book beside him
. “That’s just a story. Myth.”
“And where do myths come from, that live so deep in blood? They do not spring, magically, from thin air. There is always a root.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes grew distant. “Always.”
“And Oturu?”
Sarai made a low sound. “Oturu is the hand of the Hunt. And the hand . . . always serves the heart.”
I studied their faces, fighting the urge to back up and put space between our bodies. “How do you know all this? My grandmother, my mother, couldn’t have told you everything. Not enough to make you say these things.”
“You thought you were the only one who knew about the demons?” Sarai raised her brow, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Or the veil?”
“Enough.” Jack waved his hand at her. “Be gentle. We haven’t made this easy on the girl.”
“So make it easy. I’m here. I found you. What was my mother hiding that she was so afraid to tell me?”
“That, my dear, we can’t say.”
Swearing in front of old people and possible relatives limited my choice of responses. So I fumed, silently. Sarai said, “It was her decision, Maxine. She felt words would be inadequate. She wanted you to be shown.”
“Shown what?”
“Shown you,” said the woman softly. “Just you.”
“What you’re made of,” added Jack. “Beneath the skin.”
I pressed my knuckles against my brow and tried to keep my voice steady. “Meddling Man. What are you hiding beneath your skin?”
Jack stilled, and for a moment I saw something ancient peer out from behind those blue eyes; something so old and tired and hard, I had to look away—only for a moment. But when I met his gaze again, seconds later, there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing but the eyes of an old human man, intelligent and warm.
Sarai said, very quietly, “None of us are what we seem, Hunter. We walk as reflections, only.”
“That’s riddle talk.”
“Sometimes riddles are the only way to tell the truth.”
“And your . . . skinner? Blood Mama?”
“Other riddles,” Sarai said. “Yet more players in the game.”
Chills rode up my spine. “You’re not demon. But you’re not human, either, are you?”
Sarai never answered. Zee tugged against my stomach; all the boys, stirring on my skin. A warning. I looked behind, at the open door. Listening hard. Jack began to say something. I held up my hand, silencing him.
I stepped toward the door. I heard nothing, but the boys were pulsing against my body, struggling from their dreams, and the silence I strained to hear beyond was full and heavy, drawn upon itself as though cloaked, in hiding.
Something, hiding.
Dread filled me. Cold certainty. I thought about that little demon wearing my face, or Oturu, but this felt different. I tried to remember the layout of the stairs, and recalled they went up another flight; but that here, on the second floor, this was the only door.
I returned to Jack and Sarai, stepping quickly down the narrow path between books. I shoved the stone disc into my back pocket, and started waving my hands. “Go, move. Is there another exit?”
Jack shook his head. I pushed Sarai’s shoulder. She hesitated, then said, “Brian gave me his gun. It’s upstairs.”
No time. They took a couple steps, then looked back at me. Past me.
I turned. And got shot in the chest.
CHAPTER 11
MY mother was shot to death. I stopped carrying a gun after that. I had not touched one in five years.
It was a fast attack. A man and woman swept into the cluttered room, one after the other—so quick, little more than a blur in my eyes. I saw blond hair. Windbreakers and jeans. Familiar ruddy faces.
Edik’s Wonder Twins. Blood Mama’s long reach. Made no sense.
The piles of books and paper did not slow their trigger fingers. They started shooting as soon as they came into sight; precise hits, softened by silencers. I got slammed with the first round—felt the impact, no pain. The Wonder Twins seemed unbothered that I stayed on my feet. Their gazes never changed: sharp, intensely focused.
Bullets bounced off my body. One of them nicked the gun-woman in the arm, but she barely faltered. She kept her weapon trained on me, reaching inside her jacket for a second gun when the first ran out of bullets. Drowning me in metal.
It took me less than five seconds to realize I was not their target. Five seconds to get rained on and pounded. Five seconds before I gathered my wits and reached inside my jacket for the knives.
My mother had trained me to use her blades. I sparred with her every day, even when I was hardly as tall as her knees—but it had been five years and all those skills were gone to shit. I had played it easy. Let the boys do the dirty work. And now one day of crap had hammered it home.
Dumb. I was so damn dumb.
I threw the knives. My aim was better with my right hand and the blade skimmed the edge of the woman’s gun arm, shaving off flesh, making her drop the weapon. The other man, victim of my left, was stabbed in the upper thigh. He got off a shot before I reached him. The bullet hit my collarbone. I planted my fist in his face. He fell hard and did not get up.
The woman already had her hand on another gun. I body-slammed her, and we fell down in a pile of books, rolling and grappling. She punched me and I let her; a flamethrower or bazooka would have felt the same. The boys absorbed everything.
I finally pinned her, books and paper cascading out of control. She tried to buck me off, but I dug my fingers into her armpit, pinching a nerve, and she screamed in pain. The boys rumbled in their dreams.
I looked for Jack and Sarai. The old man was gone. No sign of him, though I did not discount the possibility that he was hiding under the table.
Sarai was on the ground, lost in a heap of books. Legs twitching. Covered in blood.
My focus narrowed, my heart thundering in my throat. The woman beneath me started fighting again. I punched her. I hit her so hard, bone crunched, leaving a dent in her cheek the size of my fist. Blood spurted from her nose. She blacked out. I checked her pulse. Still alive.
I clambered off her body and stumbled to Sarai, falling on my knees at her side. She was breathing, eyes fluttering. I thought of my mother, and wanted to be sick.
“Sarai,” I whispered, reaching into my pocket for the cell phone. “Sarai, hold on.”
She grabbed my wrist. I did not know how. She looked too weak to breathe, but her grip was strong. “Don’t call anyone.”
“You’ll die.”
“Yes.” She began to laugh; short-lived, painful. “But one more time won’t kill me.”
I gritted my teeth, still struggling for my cell phone. Sarai whispered, “Listen, Hunter. You, Hunter. The first Hunter. Like Athena and Inanna, Kali and Badb. Queens of the blood and sword. Queens of war, born again.” Her fingers squeezed. “You are born again.”
Chills raced through me. “Sarai. Give me back my hand. You need help.”
“You need help,” she breathed, blood flecking her lips. “You are feared, Hunter. In every way, you should be feared. For good reason. But times have come to hand. The veil is falling.”
I waited for her to say more, but she turned her head sharply, like she heard something. I looked, but the shooters were still unconscious. We were alone. Jack was still nowhere to be seen. I felt like a kid in a horror movie, trapped in a nightmare. “Sarai. Please.”
“Please,” she echoed softly, and her face contorted. “Oh, Brian. Brian, I’m so sorry.”
Her grip was still too strong. I tried reaching into my pocket with my other hand, but Sarai yanked me to her, so hard I almost fell across her wounds. I held myself just above her body, breathless and desperate, and looked into her eyes. Her endless eyes. Same ancient strength I had glimpsed in Jack’s gaze; only deeper, more powerful. Inexorable.
“You are a good person,” she whispered harshly, trembling. “Your mother wanted you to stay a good perso
n. What she did was for that reason only. Nothing else.”
Sarai released me, holding my gaze—but her eyes dulled almost immediately, tension draining from her body. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She made a sound, breathless. I leaned in, tears burning.
“Labyrinth,” she murmured.
“Sarai,” I hissed, but it was too late. I watched her die.
I was still sitting there when I heard the sirens. It might have been a minute, or ten. My hearing was very good, and they were distant. I looked over my shoulder. The Wonder Twins were still on the floor, covered in books, sprawled and bleeding and broken. I stood and walked to their bodies, my boots rolling over bullet casings.
The air in the room tasted cold. I bent and yanked my knife out of the man’s thigh. Except for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he did not move, or make a sound. I found my other knife on the floor, and sheathed both blades.
Got colder. Icy. I could not feel it on my skin, but when I breathed, the air held an arctic flavor in my lungs. My breath puffed into a delicate white cloud. The boys rumbled against my body, restless and dreaming.
I walked past Sarai’s body, calling out Jack’s name, and checked the adjoining room. I found only a rumpled bed and small bathroom. No sign of the old man. I was scared for him. When I turned around, I had company.
The little girl. Little me. Still dressed in denim and red cowboy boots, dark hair sliding past her shoulders. She crouched by Sarai’s head. One tiny finger poked the center of her brow.
“The unicorn lost her horn,” murmured the child.
“Get away from her.”
“This is just a skin, Hunter. Nothing left to harm.” The child jabbed her index finger into Sarai’s skull, right in the center of her brow. Bone cracked. Her finger sank to its joint inside her head. I cried out, lunging, but books got in my way, and I went down, sprawled just out of reach. I scrabbled forward, but not before the girl removed her finger. It was covered in brain matter. She stared, frowning. As though there were words in Sarai’s flesh.
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