“Doctor made me turn my phone off.”
“And the police? You should have called them.”
A faint, wry smile touched his mouth. “I knew you would come. Even if the police were here, you would still have come. And you did.”
“If I hadn’t?”
“The thought didn’t cross my mind. I know you, Maxine Kiss. I know what you’re made of.”
His words echoed too closely what Sarai had said to make me entirely comfortable. I did not feel like a good person. I had never felt good. Not even righteous. Just . . . dedicated. Girl with a job to do. Girl on a mission. My mother had discouraged thoughts of anything else. She said it would lead to mixed priorities. A big head. Glory over the right thing. And the right thing, she said, always took precedence. No matter what.
“There’s something you need to know,” Grant said.
“About Byron?”
He hesitated. “No. Maybe.”
I looked at him. Behind us, the room door rattled. I expected to see a nurse, but what I got instead made me wobbly, insane.
It was Jack. His clothes were rumpled, his white hair wild. His arms were full of sandwiches and drinks. He did not seem entirely surprised to see me, but his gaze slid to Tracker and stayed there.
“Old Wolf,” said the man. “Still causing trouble?”
“Oh, dear,” said Jack.
“MR. Meddle showed up twenty minutes after you called,” Grant told me grimly. “I tried your cell phone, too. Couldn’t even get voice mail.”
I had no record of a missed call. I gave Tracker a dirty look. Then, to Jack: “What happened? Why are you here?”
The old man set down the food he carried. “Some things require personal attention. And I knew you would come. Eventually.”
“Personal attention? Eventually? You ran. Sarai is dead.” And I was worried about you. I was so afraid.
Jack made a small sound, arranging plastic-wrapped sandwiches into a heaping pile. He would not look at me. His hands shook, slightly. “Sarai would have run, too, had our positions been reversed. I can assure you of that. One of us needed to survive. The alternative would have been . . . unfortunate.”
Unfortunate did not cut it. I could still smell Sarai’s blood, feel the force of her grip on my wrist. Her pain and determination. Fighting to help me, even in the end. Anger rocked. “You don’t sound too broken up.”
Tracker folded his arms over his chest. “Why would he? He’s a skin, Hunter. An Avatar. Mortality doesn’t rattle his kind.”
Hearing those words sent heat through me, made my stomach feel weak. Again, like I was drowning. I glanced between both men, then at Grant. I expected to find confusion on his face, and there was some—but mostly, a pained resignation that made me think he had already heard this story.
He met my gaze, shoulders tilting in a mild shrug. I gritted my teeth. “Someone. Explain. Now.”
Silence was heavy. I touched Byron’s hand, again. Jack said, “The child is resilient. He will recover.”
I gave him a hard look. “I want to know what you are.”
Jack picked at the plastic on the sandwiches. He seemed normal as an old man could be—dapper in slacks and tweed, his once-handsome face still rugged and deep. If I had not seen, or heard, or known what I did, I would have thought myself insane for asking these questions, imagining this man could be anything but what he appeared: sweet, brilliant, bumbling, and shy; a man I would delight in calling my grandfather; a man I still wanted to be mine, in blood. Grandfather. Family.
But appearances deceived. Zombies did it all the time. Now I was the one being duped. On the receiving end.
Jack studied his hands as Sarai had, as though they were new and unfamiliar, a burden or wonder. “I am human. In this life, human. I have been human many times, over many years. I have been other creatures, too. But right now, here, I am Jack Meddle. I am this skin.”
My heart skipped a beat. “And beneath the skin?”
His jaw tightened. “I am . . . something else.”
Grant bowed his head close to mine. “His aura is multitonal. Two layers, one over the other. I thought I was seeing things.”
Jack made a small sound of protest. “Lad, you shouldn’t have been able to see that much. Your eyes are too open.”
“My eyes are just fine. Nothing wrong with seeing the truth.”
“That depends,” said the old man, giving him a speculative look that made me uneasy. But he glanced away, meeting my gaze square and true. “This body is my avatar. My shell. Just as every human on this planet, or any other, is nothing but a shell. A home for the soul.”
“The soul,” I echoed.
“The soul, which is energy with a purpose. Energy with a mind. And my kind, long ago, learned to live as nothing but that energy.”
His words bounced. I struggled to focus, my thoughts skittish, wild; as though Jack had become fire, and I was some horse trapped in a barn, smelling smoke. No way out. I wanted to tell him he was full of shit but could not. Too much truth in his eyes. Too much in my gut that said, Yes, I know this.
It terrified me. I felt like I was being swallowed by the world, and I scrunched my toes in my boots, wiggling them until they hurt. Reminding myself that my feet were on the ground. Solid. Here. Now.
I exhaled, slowly. “Where did you get the body?”
Jack blinked owlishly. Tracker laughed, but it was ugly. “Where do those demon parasites get theirs, Hunter?”
Grant’s hand brushed against my back. I did not look at him. Chills settled in my gut. “You possessed that man?”
“No.” Jack gave Tracker a hard look. “I was born into him.”
“Born.”
“In the womb. I entered his body months before birth. To preclude a conflict of personality.”
I wanted to sit down. I squeezed Byron’s warm, limp hand, then let go and squeezed the bars of his bed instead. My head ached. It had been sore since yesterday, when I felt the veil open. A quiet pain, simmering behind my eyes. As though my brain wanted me to see something—straining so hard it hurt.
I closed my eyes. “Sarai?”
“Alive. Somewhere.”
Somewhere. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. “And Byron? The zombie who beat the boy called him a skin.”
Jack hesitated. “He was mistaken. The boy was a candidate, briefly, but was abandoned. The demon would have tasted the echo of that contact.”
“Some coincidence. Byron, friends with Sarai’s ex-husband? ” I leaned in, anger swelling in my throat. “What games are you playing, Meddling Man?”
“None,” he said heavily. “I promise you.”
“And Ahsen?”
He flinched. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Is she one of you?”
“The name. Tell me.”
“Blood Mama.”
Jack looked ill. “Yes, my dear. The little skinner is one of us.”
“She wants you dead.”
“Does she now? How civil.”
I stepped toward him. “Don’t. Don’t be flippant. People have died. People are going to die. And you . . . you’re no better than the demons. Stealing bodies.” My voice was low, harsh—sour disappointment tying knots in my gut. “What do I do, Jack?”
I did not mean to ask that question. What I meant to say was How do I stop her? or What are her weaknesses? but the words came out hard and plaintive, and I felt like a kid at the foot of the proverbial rocking chair, seeking advice from the village elder. Made my cheeks flush in shame, but I could not take it back. I could not hide how weak that one question made me feel. Or how lonely.
Jack regarded me silently, shadows gathering around his eyes. “You must take care, my dear. Tread lightly. Our skinner was formidable once, and that has not changed.”
“Why didn’t she kill you last night? When we first felt her in the gallery?”
The old man hesitated. “Flesh holds no dominion. Kill this body, and I will simply retreat and be bo
rn again. Extinguishing me, what rests beneath, is a great deal more difficult.”
If you know what Ahsen wants, Blood Mama had said, you can use it against her.
Like killing Sarai. Her death nothing but a distraction. A means of keeping Ahsen hungry, here, hunting. Buying time so I could figure out what to do.
“How would she kill you?” I asked Jack. “If it’s so difficult? ”
The old man said nothing. Tracker laughed, quietly. “He doesn’t trust you, Hunter.”
“Or maybe it’s you,” I snapped, though I still felt the sting. “Jack. I need to know how to keep you safe.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” he muttered, glancing at Byron. “I have the ability to hide from the skinner. Now that I know she’s looking for me.”
“Why didn’t you do that earlier?” I asked him. “When Sarai was still alive?”
“Arrogance,” he replied. “Nor did we expect outside . . . interference.”
Which was all well and good, but if Ahsen could not find Jack, then I would likely become her next focus—and splitting town and running was not an attractive option. I had no way of knowing how much of my life Ahsen had seen. She might try to use the others against me.
Beside me, Grant made an odd small movement. I found him looking between Byron and Jack with a faint frown. Tracker was also studying the boy—surreptitiously—as though something bothered him.
“Jack,” I said slowly, “you put Ahsen in the prison. Locked her up with the demons. You did that to one of your own.”
Tracker tore his gaze from the teen. “Old Wolf. You are cold.”
I ignored him, focusing on Jack. “I want to know why. What did she do?”
The old man looked away, a faint flush staining his cheeks. “What she did to deserve imprisonment doesn’t matter anymore. You cannot fight her. She has no body to harm, no physical link in this world to tether her.”
“You must be wrong.”
“My dear,” he said slowly, “I wish.”
I steadied myself and looked at Tracker. “Could Oturu do it?”
His dark eyebrow twitched. “You should ask him yourself. ”
“I’m asking you. You’re one of them, aren’t you? An Avatar?”
“Never,” Tracker said coldly. “As for Oturu, it takes a killer to know one. You don’t need my help to figure it out.”
I stared at him, cold anger settling hard in my gut. Tracker met my stare—bold, defiant—but there was never a question in my mind, not a doubt. No way in hell I was going to back down.
Tracker could not hold my gaze. He blinked first and looked away. I did not feel particularly triumphant. Just tired. Grant sidled close enough that his shoulder rubbed against mine. Subtle, brief, but solid. I was grateful. He was my only real friend here. The only person I knew I could count on.
“Jack,” I said. “I can’t let Ahsen return to the veil. And she can’t be allowed to roam free. That leaves only one option. ”
“You have no means to capture her, my dear.”
“Prison builders. That’s what your kind are.”
“A long time ago. That power is gone.”
Grant leaned hard on his cane. “Sounds as though you want to give up.”
Jack shot him a chilling look. “Lad, if surrender was in my nature, I would have abandoned this world ten thousand years ago.”
Grant did not appear impressed. He glanced down at me, and I knew in a heartbeat what he was thinking.
“Too dangerous,” I said.
“Is there another option?” His mouth tilted into a grim smile. “Blood Mama was scared enough to try to possess me. And if this Ahsen is structured like Jack, then the same principles should apply. Energy is energy, Maxine.”
The idea of his being anywhere near Ahsen terrified me. I had seen little of her capabilities, but a taste was enough. She was lethal, merciless. She might kill Grant before he got the flute to his mouth. I shook my head. “Last option.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll take the opportunity if I can get it. We might be able to get through this without more violence. ”
I doubted it, but this was not the place to argue. We had witnesses—two men who were suddenly staring at Grant as though he were some foreign beast, replete with horns, tail, and an army of singing ladybugs perched like a crown atop his head. I did not like it. Not one bit.
Byron stirred. Maybe we were talking too loud. I held my breath as his right eye, which had escaped swelling, cracked open. He looked at me—made a sound, low in his throat—and then his eye closed again. His breathing settled. I exhaled, slowly.
“We need to get him out of here,” I murmured to Grant. “It’s not safe.”
Not safe. And not simply because Byron had proven himself a target, temporary or not. The need to spirit the boy away went deeper, a primitive urgency that felt the same as my need to breathe.
Grant’s gaze was dark, knowing. “I already asked. They won’t discharge Byron until they’re certain the danger from his concussion has passed. In this case, I have to agree with the doctors.”
Jack softly cleared his throat. “The circumstances have changed. When I . . . first arrived here, I took the liberty of healing the physical injury to the boy’s brain. He can be moved . . . if that’s what you wish.”
Grant and I stared at the old man. Tracker smiled dourly, studying his boots as though black leather held some infinite fascination for him, perhaps lessons in how to hold a grudge.
I bit the inside of my cheek. I had questions, but they could wait. “Grant, can you handle the doctor? Convince him that Byron should be discharged?”
He hesitated, still staring at Jack. “Give me ten minutes. ”
Grant limped from the room. I waited for him, caught in awkward, uncomfortable silence, surreal as a bad dream, in the company of strangers, and strangeness. Jack stared at the wall, a furrow between his eyes; his lips moved in silent conversation.
Tracker managed to make sitting in a chair seem like an act of aggression; and when he looked at me, there was too much in his eyes, a heaviness that felt like a scar. I had no sense of the man, and I felt trapped by that ignorance—and his hate. It hurt me, in ways I could not explain. No words. No courage.
The boys helped, dreaming on my skin. My little friends.
But inside my heart I was alone. I had never felt so alone.
I held Byron’s hand, and with my other, reached into my back pocket and pulled out the stone disc. It was warm against my hand. Shimmers of pearl seemed to push up through the soft dark surface, those veins of silver glittering inside the engraved concentric lines. I placed the stone in my lap and traced my finger through the lines. Felt light-headed.
A large, wrinkled hand engulfed my wrist. Jack. I had not heard him move. He held my gaze, a hint of urgency in his eyes. “Not here, my dear.”
I blinked. “Not here, what?”
“Exploring that.” He inclined his head toward the stone. “Your mother’s gift is more than it appears to be.”
“Ahsen certainly thought so,” I mumbled.
Jack flinched. “She saw it?”
“She touched it.”
I thought my words were going to kill him. A great and terrible strain filled his face, as though he were struggling with all his might not to shatter. My mouth went dry. I sensed Tracker standing, staring, but I did not dare look at him. I could not. I thought if I did, Jack might disappear. Fall to pieces, like glass.
“Oh, dear,” he breathed. “How unfortunate.”
“Jack,” I whispered, and felt the boys stirring against my skin. I held up the stone disc, staring hard. Thinking of my mother. I traced the lines with my gaze, searching deep into the silver veins—pretending I was on the path, enduring. The warrior and the maze. A message after death. I felt dizzy again, but refused to look away. I kept seeing my mother’s face. Jack said something. So did Tracker.
And then, quite suddenly, I was no longer at the hospital.
I was stand
ing on an empty street. It was night. Cool breeze on my skin.
My mother stood beside me.
CHAPTER 14
MY mother.
I called out to her, but she did not hear me. Her gaze was fixed on some distant point, sharp, focused. I tried to touch her shoulder, and my hand passed through her body. I tried again, feeling like some bird throwing herself against a window, breaking bones on glass. Dumb as dirt. Desperate to get through.
Nothing. I did not exist. I was a ghost. Or maybe she was. Not that it mattered.
We were together.
She was younger than I remembered, with a glow in her face that was exhilarating and vital, full of a raw vigor that I had never seen in my own reflection. She was beautiful. I could not imagine a person who would not love her. I could not imagine a power on earth or in the prison veil that could stand against her. She was a force of nature. Bigger than life.
She was also pregnant.
Huge, ready to burst. Dressed in a thick sweater, a shapeless muumuu and cowboy boots. Dek and Mal were coiled low over her shoulders, with Zee and the others ranged around her like demon wolves. She held a twelve-gauge across her stomach as though it were a holy relic.
“Come any closer and I’ll blow your brains out,” she said to the shadows.
“Hunter,” said a softly chiding female voice. “You know better.”
My mother narrowed her eyes. “I know you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted to deal.”
“Merely to pass along a message. Personally, as I like you so.” A figure emerged from the shadows; a redheaded woman dressed in a long, crimson coat. Surrounded by an aura so thunderous I could hardly see the possessed human beneath the miasma of demonic energy.
The face was different, but I knew that aura.
“Blood Mama,” said my mother. “Get to the point.”
“Your baby is the point,” replied the zombie queen. “The veil is falling, Hunter. She will be the last.”
“Old story. You told my mother the same thing.”
“But you can feel it now. In your bones, in your heart. Your daughter will herald the final breath of this world.”
A cool smile touched my mother’s mouth. “Is that fear I see in your eyes?”
The Iron Hunt Page 18
