The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “You know it is,” admitted the zombie queen. “The same fear in your eyes. We are both mothers, Hunter. No matter how incompatible our interests.”

  My mother’s hands tightened around the gun. “And?”

  “And this world will survive or die based on the strength of your daughter. It is as simple as that.”

  “No pressure, right?”

  “How you raise her—”

  “—will be my business and not yours.”

  “And if she’s not strong enough? If her heart cannot contain the beast?”

  “Then you’re fucked,” said my mother, “and I’ll be laughing my ass off in Heaven.”

  Blood Mama’s mouth tightened. “You cannot afford to make a mistake. She will not be like the others.”

  “Thank God,” shot back my mother, but I knew that look on her face. She was hiding something. Blood Mama narrowed her eyes, swaying forward—her host body almost completely devoured by her aura.

  “Jolene,” she whispered. “We have danced too long for secrets. What are you keeping from me?”

  “Something you already know,” said my mother quietly. “Something you can’t ever tell the others in the veil because you know what will happen. You know what they’ll do.”

  Blood Mama went perfectly still; even her aura, like ice. “Who told you?”

  “Doesn’t matter. But I get it now.” My mother leaned forward, her mouth tilting into a smile that was more like a snarl. “And she’ll get it. She’ll find out what she is, and when she does, you start running. You pack your bags, and you get the fuck off this world. Because it won’t be yours anymore. It’ll be hers.”

  Blood Mama reared back her head. Quivering. “And you, Zee? What do you have to say about that?”

  My mother tensed. But Zee wrapped one arm around her legs and laid his other, ever so gently, across her swollen belly. Raw and Aaz also hugged my mother’s knees, while Dek’s and Mal’s purrs threatened to drown thunder.

  “She is ours,” Zee said, defiantly. “And we are hers. No matter what. No matter who.”

  The zombie queen looked as though she wanted to puke. “Sentiment does not become you, little man. It makes you weak.”

  “Ah,” said my mother cheerfully, “then let’s see who’s standing when the walls come down, shall we? Because, honey, you’ll be dead . . . and my baby, my sweet beautiful baby, will still be fighting.”

  Then she cocked the twelve-gauge—and shot Blood Mama’s host dead.

  I lost her. Unable to say good-bye. Just like when she died.

  The night bled into darkness, then light. I opened my eyes.

  I was on a couch, my feet dangling, head lolling. Drool dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I had a good view of a ceiling, and the upper row of some bookshelves. I recognized the sight. I was back in the apartment.

  I was not alone. The television was on. Tracker sat on the edge of the ottoman, elbows braced on his knees, watching the news.

  It was such an unexpected sight—and I was already so addled—all I could do was stare. I doubt he noticed I was awake. Like the nurses at the hospital, he appeared intensely preoccupied by reports that southeastern Iran had been devastated. Thousands dead, thousands more thought to be under the rubble. Rescue operations were overwhelmed. It was night there, which was hindering efforts to find people.

  “This is your fault,” Tracker said suddenly, and turned his head just enough to fix me with a glare so harsh a shock of fear thrilled through me.

  I did not know how I had gotten here, or what, exactly, had just transpired, but I was still full with my mother, lost on a dark road with her at my side, and I looked Tracker dead in the eyes, and said, “Stop speaking to me in fucking riddles.”

  He stared for one long moment, then rose slowly to his feet. I did not move. I held his gaze, watching as he glided across the floor, each step full of cold grace. He stopped, so suddenly it was almost as though he balanced on the edge of a cliff. The cut on his face, from Oturu’s hair, was still livid.

  “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

  “Where are Grant and Byron?” I replied. “Jack?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Coming, I suppose.”

  There was nothing dismissive about his answer, which was the only reason I kept my mouth shut. I sat up, wiping spit off my face with the back of my hand. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “You passed out. Old Wolf wanted you out of there.”

  “Something happened to me.” Both statement and question. I waited for him to decide which it would be. He was a man who cared about control. I understood why. Demanding answers would not get me any.

  His gaze flicked down. I looked, and saw the stone disc on the floor by the couch; the little labyrinth, coiled and gleaming as though infused with black pearl. Tracker crouched, and stretched his hand just over it, palm flat, as though soaking in heat. “Here is your answer.”

  “It’s a rock.”

  “A rock,” he echoed disdainfully. “This is a seed ring, Hunter. Or call it what you will. It has too many names to count.”

  I slid off the edge of the couch to sit on the floor beside him. “What does it do?”

  Tracker leaned over the disc, almost protectively; his entire focus, now that it was off me, very nearly soft with reverence. A startling thing to witness. I was afraid to breathe, that I would break the spell.

  “A seed ring stores memories,” he said gravely. “Yours, or someone else’s. Size determines how much can be retained. A large seed ring, something the size of that wall, could hold the entirety of a person’s life. An imprint of her soul. This here . . . perhaps a year at most. Or enough memories, chosen from a lifetime, to fill a year.”

  I had to take a moment—lost, still, with my mother. “How is that possible? To retain a person’s memories in stone?”

  “Thought is energy,” Tracker said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “And this isn’t stone. It’s a fragment from the Labyrinth.”

  I stared, blankly. Tracker raised his brow. “It’s physics, Hunter. Quantum mechanics. Multiple-worlds theory. Except, it’s not a theory, and the Labyrinth is not some hedgerow. It’s a place between, outside of time, outside of space. A crossroads that connects every world, every dimension.” His gaze turned dark, mocking. “You realize, don’t you, that Old Wolf and his kind made the prison veil after the war with the demons? Folding reality is their game. So is the Labyrinth.”

  I searched his face, wondering if he was lying to me. “That can’t be real.”

  He leaned back, bitter amusement touching his mouth. “A woman covered in living tattoos that peel off her body when the sun goes down? How real is that? How real is a creature with knives for feet, who dances when he kills? Or old men who wear human skins like some comfortable coats?” Bitterness touched his mouth. “You live in a world of wonder, Hunter, but you see none of it. Your life is as small as this seed ring.”

  “Don’t,” I said softly. “My mother is in there. Don’t belittle that.”

  He looked away, jaw tight. Behind him, images of wreck and ruin scrolled across the television screen: flashlights, children crying, haggard, sweating faces filled with horror. Southeastern Iran had suffered another earthquake several years before. Fifteen thousand had died, maybe more. Even now, here, with everything gone wrong, I could not ignore that.

  “You said that was my fault.” I tore my gaze from the television to look at Tracker. “What did you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” He rose to his feet and pointed at the seed ring. “Guard that with your life, Hunter. Not just for your mother, but for the stone itself. Pieces of the Labyrinth are fragments of possibility. And there is nothing more dangerous than maybe.”

  I picked up the seed ring and found it warm, with a pulse. I held it to my heart, thinking of my mother—wanting to see more. Desperate for it.

  Nothing happened. Tracker turned away and walked back to the television. Stared at the screen
.

  I pressed my cheek to the stone, and then slid it into my pocket. Took out my cell phone and dialed Grant. He answered on the second ring, breathless. “Maxine.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, aware of Tracker listening. “You?”

  “We’re in the car. Byron, me, Jack. Coming home.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Any trouble?”

  “Just you. Are you safe?”

  “As much as I ever am. Just get here.”

  “Hang tight,” he said, and I heard a low voice in the background, groggy and young. “I’m with you.”

  We hung up. I found Tracker watching me instead of the television.

  “What?” I asked, when he did not look away.

  A faint line formed in his brow. “Your man. Who is he?”

  “Don’t.”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “No.” I leaned in, holding his gaze. “You hurt him, you even look at him funny, and I’ll rip every limb off your body.”

  His mouth tilted. “And beat me to death with them?”

  “I’ll let the boys do that.”

  Tracker’s smile widened—just a fraction. “Who is he?”

  I reached inside my jacket. My mother’s knives were still there. Tracker turned his back on me and studied the television, a wall of sleek hair hiding his strong features. I did not relax. I stood, then joined him, glimpsing, just before his expression hardened, sorrow: profound and heavy, a helplessness that turned to ash every hateful word and look, every preconception. Tracker, born again inside my mind—but I still did not know what to make of him.

  “You want to help those people,” I said. “You want to be there.”

  “If I did?” He glanced down at me, so proud. “Would you, if you could?”

  “Go there?” I hesitated, thinking of Grant and Jack. Byron. Ahsen, loose and hunting. Tracker shook his head in disgust.

  “It’s not so easy,” I protested. “There are people who need me. Right now. Here.”

  “And they don’t?” His gaze searched mine. “How do you judge, Hunter? How many deaths are required before one reaches the end of the world? Just one? A thousand? Or does it ever end, only when the last heart is dead?”

  “No,” I said, grim. “But I’m just one person.”

  “Ah,” he replied. “And I suppose just one person never did any good at all. Hunter. Last Warden of this lonely, caged world.”

  I stared, torn. Tracker, after a moment, held out his hand.

  I thought of Grant and Byron. Jack. Coming here. Expecting to find me. They would be worried. If it were me, I would be terrified.

  Tracker’s expression hardened. He began to pull back his hand. I grabbed his wrist, fingers squeezing tight. Holding his gaze.

  I did not let go. I found my cell phone, and called Grant.

  “Change of plans,” I said.

  IT was night on the other side of the world. I heard screams. I saw flashlights and smelled smoke, listened to children crying. Made out the slide and broken stone of rubble. The air choked me with dust, the acrid scent of blood and bowels loosened in death. The boys peeled off my body, tumbling to the ground, nearly taking me with them, in pain.

  Tracker stood beside me. I did not waste time asking questions, and neither did the boys. I heard a woman groaning and followed the sound to a pile of stone and wires. I had excellent night vision—better than human— and saw an ankle, a twitching hand.

  I snapped my fingers. Zee and Raw began digging into the rubble. Aaz prowled past them, like a small dragon, sniffing the air. I followed him, stumbling, and when he started to dig, I followed without question. Dek and Mal slithered off my shoulders, disappearing inside crevices too small for my hands. Rock crunched, their jaws chewing and grinding. Within moments they made a hole big enough to reach into, and I did, blindly, patting the ground. I felt something soft—a stuffed toy—and then a small hand.

  I pulled gently, and Aaz disappeared into the shadows to wriggle the child free, from beneath.

  It was a little girl. I tugged her into my arms, and she began to cough, crying. I rocked her in my lap, and Mal dragged a rag doll from the hole, one little patchy arm between his sharp teeth. I placed the toy in the girl’s arms, and stood. Found Tracker staring, his expression utterly unreadable.

  I found a safe place for the little girl, and left her curled around her rag doll. I did not want to leave her, but I could hear cries beneath the stone, young voices, and I ran to them, the boys at my back. It was so dark, and there were so few people searching the rubble, I did not worry about them being seen. Only once did someone lock eyes with Zee. An old man, bleeding from a head wound and half-delirious. He looked into Zee’s face as the little demon chewed through the crude metal beam pinning his legs, and said a word I did not understand.

  “It’s Persian for djinn,” Tracker muttered, near my shoulder. “He thinks Zee is a spirit, something that can possess a human.”

  I grunted, wiping sweat from my brow. “Close enough to the truth.”

  “You’ll find a lot of zombies here,” Tracker said.

  “Zombies everywhere,” I replied carefully.

  “Only one of you,” he said, a hard note creeping back into his voice.

  I dug my knuckles into stone, then reached over Zee to help cushion the old man’s head, which was lacerated with cuts. “That’s not my fault.”

  Tracker’s silence implied he disagreed. I was too tired to argue. Instead, I said, “Oturu. Are there others like him?”

  “He’s the last of his kind. A wanderer, before he was brought here.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Somewhere between,” he said distantly, shoving rocks away. “Beyond this world. His time on this earth is limited to fragments. Too long, and his hunger to hunt will overwhelm. He won’t risk breaking his word.” He straightened, pushing back his hair, staring down his nose at me. “I was sold to him. One of your ancestors needed a favor. I was the prize.”

  I felt dizzy and tried to focus on the old man. I hardly dared to pull him free. His legs were crushed. “Where was this?”

  “Sumeria.”

  I risked a quick glance. “Sumeria hasn’t existed in five thousand years.”

  “Remarkable,” he replied. “It thinks.”

  I bit my tongue. The old man was no longer making any sounds. I checked his pulse, and it was still strong. He had fainted.

  “Help me,” I said, as Zee finished clearing rubble from around his feet. I glimpsed Raw and Aaz carrying a small boy between them, their little bodies disjointed and hunched, like wolves trying to walk on two feet.

  Tracker followed my gaze. “How long did it take you to train them?”

  I gave him a sharp look, as did Zee. “They’re not dogs.”

  “They obey you, don’t they?”

  “They’re my friends. Family.”

  Zee flipped his middle claw at the man and melted into shadow. I saw him reappear some distance on my right, burrowing through stone. Sparks flew from his claws. I heard sirens, distantly, and voices shouting, screaming out names. More activity. If the boys were not careful, someone else would see them soon, even in the dark.

  I said, “Tell me about the woman.”

  “Look in the mirror.”

  “I think they’re all cracked,” I muttered. “You’ll just have to settle for words.”

  Tracker pushed me aside, poles in his hands. He grabbed wire from beneath some rubble and pulled hard until he had a decent amount coiled at his feet. He began binding the old man’s crushed legs together to hold them steady. Quick, efficient. “She went insane. Too much power. It changed her.”

  “Changed her like Oturu thinks I’ll be changed?”

  Tracker’s hands faltered, then resumed tying knots. “He gave you his mark. Which means he sees something of her in you.”

  “You must, too. Unless you hate all of my bloodline, just on principle.”

  He turned from me before I could see his face. Dek
appeared at my feet, dragging a bottle of water in his mouth. I had no clue where he had found it, but I was grateful. I tried pouring some into the old man’s mouth. He did not wake up, but I was satisfied with the tiny dribble I got past his lips. I found Tracker watching me again.

  I handed him the water. “Whoever she was, I’m not her.”

  He took a sip, his gaze never leaving my face. “We’ll see, Hunter.”

  Before I could think of an appropriate response, the boys melted from the shadows, surrounding me. Oturu’s mark began tingling. Tracker stiffened.

  “Cutter,” Zee hissed. “Hot slicer.”

  I straightened. “Where?”

  “Coming from behind,” said the little demon. Raw and Aaz tore spikes from their spines, and the wet sounds of ripping flesh made my skin crawl. I glanced at Tracker. Noted the speculation in his eyes as he gazed into the shadows. I remembered what he had said to me at the hospital.

  “You were serious,” I whispered. “Demonic activity caused this earthquake?”

  Tracker finished lashing the old man’s legs. “Not this one. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try and benefit from it. There are many demons hiding on this earth, Hunter. Feeling the veil open will make them bold.”

  I thought of the rescued children resting nearby, and started scrabbling across the rubble. Tracker grabbed my arm. I tried pulling free, and felt the temperature drop like a bag of ice cubes was being poured down my spine.

  I caught movement ahead of me, a flash of pale skin—a glimpse that reached down into that most primal place in my gut and screamed not human. Silver hair braided into ropes, flowing down a gaunt body dressed only in a leather belt. Fingers like the tines of pitchforks, impaled with chunks of red, dripping flesh. The demon moved like a leaf falling from a tree: graceful, with odd, sweeping movements that sent it low to the ground, up and down, over and over again.

  Alien. So alien, part of me wanted to scream. Even Oturu had felt more familiar than this creature, which was so far removed from anything this world could offer that it crossed my mind, with terrible certainty, that whatever the demons were, they had not been here first. Interlopers. Invaders. Something beyond the pale of this world’s horizon. Maybe, even, demon was inappropriate, a word so excessively steeped in religion it had ceased to apply. Because what I saw now did not feel supernatural, no matter how bizarre its appearance.