My grandmother said, “I was only ever with one man. Never had another since.”
“Jack,” I said.
“Old Wolf,” she muttered, and gave me a sharp look. “You know what he is, don’t you?”
“Avatar.” I paused, trying to find the right words, and settled for being blunt. “They’re like demons. Possessors. Manipulators.”
“So are some humans. Don’t fool yourself.” Jean Kiss stepped close, searching my face. “Lines are always blurry, my dear. You know what people will do to each other, simply to satisfy a need. They will justify it, they will praise it, they will sanctify the worst of crimes as a means to whatever outcome they desire. How can you fault demons for doing the same? Or the Avatars?”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Mine. Ours. We are the Wardens, Maxine. We are the hammer and the heart, and there is no room for absolutes in this game. Just the right thing. And you know what that is, deep in your gut. You know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Jean Kiss grabbed my arm, and the contact was electrifying, chilling. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself. What we do is a privilege. It is an honor.”
“And if we’re not enough?” My cheeks were hot. “The veil is falling.”
My grandmother’s grip did not loosen. “So it’ll fall. Doesn’t matter. So the world will get eaten up. Doesn’t matter, either. What does matter is that you fight. You live. You keep breathing. You survive, and you get yourself a baby, and you make sure she does the same. You teach her how to fight. You fight. You dig deep inside that heart of yours and push the cutters back. You take care of what you can, when you can, but you don’t give up. Respect yourself. Do not belittle what you are.”
Her eyes blazed. Her touch was eerie. I was not entirely certain whether I should be inspired or ashamed, but I felt neither of those things when she suddenly enfolded me in her arms, and pressed her mouth to my ear. Her strength was immense, warm; she smelled like horses and grass and smoke.
“I know what you are,” she whispered, chilling me. “Same thing as Jolene, but stronger. I can feel it. Veil gets weak, so do parts of us. Walls around our hearts that were never supposed to come down. But they’re coming. Fast, now. Faster, in your time, I bet. So you remember something, Maxine Kiss. You stay true. Because this”—Jean Kiss laid her hand above my heart—“this is what will break the world, or save it.”
She pressed her lips to my cheek, then pushed me back, just enough to stare into my eyes. I saw pain there, sadness deep as bone; and a determination that made me love her more than I ever imagined I could, this woman who had always been dead to me, until now.
My grandmother grabbed my wrist, her fingers slipping over the iron ring. She closed her eyes, lips moving. I stared, breathless, trying to pull away—then staggered, dizzy.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled. “Stop.”
“I’m sending you home,” she whispered. “Give my best to Jack. Tell him I miss his tea.”
“No. I’m not ready.”
“You’re my granddaughter,” Jean Kiss said, her voice sounding more distant. “You’ll always be ready.”
And suddenly she was gone, and there was rain on my face, rain that tasted suspiciously salty, and the sky was golden with clouds. I was not alone. Zee and the others covered my body, staring into my eyes. Patting my cheeks. Oturu’s hair was still wrapped around my wrist.
“Hunter,” he murmured.
I closed my eyes, still trying to hold on to my grand-mother’s face, her voice, the scent of her cigarettes. My mother, so effortlessly young, without the hard glint in her eyes that I remembered from my youth.
The seed ring lay on my stomach. It was hot, almost burning. Zee whispered, “Maxine. We remember.”
Tears welled. “It was real.”
“You traveled into time,” said Oturu. “The ring you wear, the iron ring, is Labyrinth-born, hewn and crafted from ore mined in the heart of the maze. It is a key, Hunter. A key to any door, in any time or place. A key that reflects the desires of its bearer.”
I placed my hand on top of the seed ring. “So when I looked at the memories . . .”
“It brought you to them, in body and soul.” Oturu’s chin dipped against his chest. “You must take care, Hunter. The ring is bound to you now. You cannot remove it until death.”
I stared, then tried to tug the thick band off my hand. It would not budge, not in the slightest. I felt a moment of panic, took a breath, and fought to stay calm. “How do you know so much about it?”
“Because it was hers. A gift, from the Labyrinth. Meant only for her. That it bound itself to you . . .” Oturu did not finish, nor did he need to. I held up my hand, gazing at the iron band, engraved with fine lines that curled like roses. I remembered the body in the Wasteland river, the sensation of the chain mail, the bones. I had stolen from a grave. I had stolen from family.
Zee and the others pushed close.
“You knew before,” I said to them. “You knew I would travel back in time. You met me.”
Raw and Aaz stared at their feet. Zee chewed the tips of his claws. “More secrets. Things we couldn’t say.”
“Fate is fragile,” Oturu murmured. “As I said, Hunter. You must take care. She had trouble controlling its power. You will, as well.”
He rose. I got a good look at his toes, which resembled steak knives the length of my forearm. He took the seed ring with him, and tucked it deep within the abyss.
“Hunter,” he whispered. “Trouble is coming.”
CHAPTER 18
TEN minutes before dawn. Ten minutes to stay alive. I careened down the stairs into the apartment—but halfway there, a strong arm reached out of thin air and grabbed me.
Tracker. He melted close, pinning me to the wall, and pressed his mouth against my ear. Dek purred. Zee and the others hugged my legs. Tracker smelled like the desert at sunset, hot and full of shadows.
“We have a situation downstairs,” he murmured. “Grant took Mary away, but the boy woke up. Wasn’t too happy to see strangers. He tried to leave. Opened up the door, and there was a zombie waiting for him. Russian. Old man.”
“Edik,” I breathed, as Mal’s tail tightened around my neck. “Son of a bitch.”
“He’s got a gun. He’s sitting with the boy. And Jack. I’m worried I won’t be fast enough for the demon’s trigger finger. ”
Raw snarled. I tried to push myself past Tracker. He refused to budge. I peered into his eyes. His breath was warm on my face. I shoved him again, but he was immovable.
“What?” I asked him—but all I received was a contemplative stare that felt, unnervingly, like an attempt to memorize my face. As though a good-bye was coming soon. As though he might not see me again.
“I’m sorry,” Tracker said, finally.
“Sorry?” I echoed.
He sighed. “For pushing you in front of the bus.”
I blinked, startled. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that,” Tracker rumbled, and leaned away. “You distract; I’ll extract.”
He winked out of sight, and the vacuum created by his disappearance washed cool air over my face. I felt it, too, in my heart. Just a little ache. A disturbing, little ache.
Raw grabbed my hand, tugging.
Zee said, “The boy.”
Yes. Byron. Jack. I looked down, studying secrets in their ageless eyes. “You’ve never shown interest in any child. Why him?”
Zee hesitated. “No time.”
Never time. Such a fine excuse. I gave him a hard look and continued down the stairs—more careful now—though I made no secret of my approach. When I entered the living room, I tried to act appropriately surprised.
Which was not all that difficult.
I saw Byron first. He sat on the edge of the couch. He looked as if a horse had kicked his face, which was bandaged and swollen. His arms were folded over his ribs. His eyes widened when he saw me, but only for a moment— replaced instead by a du
ll, resigned fear that hit my heart with a panicked flutter.
Jack sat nearby on the piano stool, fidgeting. He was quite pale. I met his gaze briefly, and he gave me a faint nod that was old and canny like a wolf.
Grandfather. Mine. Those words meant so much to me. Music in my mind.
Grandfather.
Edik Bashmakov sat between them. He held a gun to Byron’s head. His hand was steady, his finger tight on the trigger. I did not know how long they had been sitting like that, but I figured Edik would tire soon. Zombies were only as strong as their hosts, and Edik was an old man who looked like pushing pencils was the most exercise he ever got.
“Edik,” I rasped. “Don’t be an idiot. Get away from the boy.”
The zombie dipped his chin, his glasses sliding down his nose. “I apologize, Hunter. But I am acting on my Queen’s behalf, and this is what she has ordered.”
I raised my brow. “She ordered you to hold a gun to a boy’s head? She ordered you to act like bait? This is a suicide mission, Edik. Coming here? Before dawn, while the boys are still awake? What were you thinking?”
The old zombie said nothing, but the strain of his silence was palpable and infinitely unhappy. He did not want to be here. He did not want to hold a gun to Byron’s head. The agitation of his aura was immense, sparking so hot and bright I could have seen the zombie from a mile away. I glanced at Jack, but he was focused on the boy. Staring as if he were trying, through sheer force of will, to pour strength into the teen.
Byron looked like he needed it. He hardly seemed to breathe. Watching me. Holding me with those old eyes. I stepped sideways, turning just so to hide the right side of my body, and reached into my hair. Mal curled into my hand. Edik could not have seen the little demon, but his eyes darkened.
“One chance,” I whispered to the old zombie, noting the position of Byron’s head in relation to the lamps in the room. “Go now, or die.”
“Better now than later,” Edik replied unevenly. “After the veil falls, there will be no quick death for any of us.”
“Ah,” I breathed. “You coward.”
“Not by choice,” he replied, and I saw Jack close his eyes. Even Byron had a furrow in his brow. Not too frightened to listen. Not too afraid to be confused.
“Done, Edik,” I said, and squeezed Mal’s tail. He chirped once, vanished between my fingers—
—and reappeared, partially embedded in the shadows of Byron’s hair. The little demon emerged with his mouth over the gun muzzle. Edik flinched and pulled the trigger.
The blast roared through the room, but Mal swallowed the bullet, protecting Byron. The teen shouted, eyes closed, throwing himself off the couch and clapping his hands over his ears. Mal was left suspended in the air, hanging from the end of the gun as Edik pulled the trigger a second time. Mal jerked once, then bit down hard. He swallowed half the gun. Fell to the floor, chewing loudly.
Byron began to turn to look, but Tracker appeared just behind him and yanked the boy away. As soon as they were gone, Zee and the others melted from the shadows. Edik flinched. Jack stood from his stool, but I ignored him as I moved close to the old zombie, holding his hollow gaze. “Why the boy? Why the focus on him? He’s been a target from the start. Pushed, picked on.”
The old zombie said nothing. Raw ripped a spike from his back and rammed it into the floor, again and again—like a war drum or a heartbeat. Zee sidled forward, spitting acid at the zombie’s feet. I would have done the same if I could have. I thought of my grandmother, my mother— Jack—and felt a shadow gather in my heart, heaviness like ten thousand hands pushing against my back.
Jack said, “Leave it be, dear girl.”
“No,” I told him. “And if you know the truth—”
I heard low, quiet laughter behind me. I knew that lush voice. I hardly needed to turn, but I did—and watched Blood Mama enter the apartment through the front door, which was already standing open. She wore a simple red suit and red heels, and her thin slash of a mouth was crimson. She posed for a moment, aura crackling like a hurricane in a beer bottle, and caressed Jack with a long look that chilled me to the bone.
“Old Wolf,” she said slowly. “Been a long time.”
“Blood Mama,” he said, quietly. “Queen of the rats and rabble.”
“And yet, you do not deny that I survive, ever so prettily, upon this prison world you lashed me to. You Avatar. Pretender.” Blood Mama’s lips peeled back from her teeth in a grotesque smile. “Hunter, because you ask, the boy is Old Wolf’s Achilles’ heel, the only way to give Ahsen exactly what she wants.”
Jack lurched forward. “You leave him alone.”
“You should have left him alone. Dear old bastard.” Blood Mama gave me a piercing look. “The boy is not what he seems, Hunter. He is the key to killing Jack Meddle’s soul. Kill the boy, and you kill the Immortal.”
Her words skimmed over me. I shut them out. The temperature in the room dipped, throwing a wash of frigid air over my skin. Oturu’s mark tingled, and a moment later I heard the scrape of knives against wood. I looked back and caught the edge of a black cloak floating down the stairs from the roof.
“Why did you arrange this?” I said to Blood Mama, hurried, desperate. “Why now? Why here?”
“Part of the game,” Jack muttered. “The ugly game.”
“And you play it so poorly,” she said. “Ahsen thinks she is coming here to murder your soul, Old Wolf. Whether she does or not is hardly my concern. But you, Hunter . . . do not let your opportunity go to waste. You have so few, and so many, to kill.” She smiled and snapped her fingers. “Edik, my child. Come along.”
Edik lurched to his feet, took a step—and without my leave or call, Raw fell on him, tearing into his body. I did not expect it. Not the suddenness, not the solitude. Zee and Aaz held back, leaving Raw to it. As if he deserved the kill.
The old zombie screamed, trying to fend off the little demon, but the assault was like setting fire to tissue paper— an effortless annihilation. Horrible to witness. I tried to stop Raw, but he was fast, efficient, and by the time I opened my mouth, it was too late. Most of Edik’s stomach was gone, his arms ripped away and devoured in giant bites. Raw snarled, slamming his claws deep into Edik’s skull—yanking the demon free of his possessed body. He tore into the parasite, ripping the wraith to shreds. The old man’s blood was already absorbing into his skin.
Jack made a small sound, watching him. Tracker reappeared at my side, without Byron, and gave me a swift nod. Someplace safe. That was all I could ask for. Cold air washed over me, heavy with the scent of blood, a deep, arctic cold. A tendril of hair caressed my shoulder. Oturu, looming. I looked for Blood Mama. She was gone. Of course.
“It begins,” Oturu whispered.
“Maxine,” Jack rasped, “I—”
He never finished. I wished he could have. In the center of the room, a tiny figure coalesced. Dark hair, dark eyes, roses in her cheeks. Red cowboy boots stood firm on the wood floor. My body. A living echo of my childhood.
“Hunter,” Ahsen said. “How remarkable to see your face.”
I felt the sun break over the horizon like a long, hot drink of water. Zee and the others vanished, instantly reappearing on my skin, bound and hard. But though the sun must have broken open, none of that dawn light entered through the apartment windows. The lamps flickered.
Shadows shifted, stretching like mouths across the room, spreading and rising from the floor and walls in churning waves. Like oil running up walls, or the abyss of Oturu’s cloak, full of pressed faces and twisted bodies. A breathing, aching darkness; a tsunami of soul cages; demons hurled and writhing. The interior of the apartment grew dark and closed, as suffocating as the Wasteland, and it was the wall of demons who made it so; entombing, consuming us.
Ahsen remained a small figure in the hovering darkness, shining like the morning star. I walked across the room. I stopped less than ten feet from her, demons spreading beneath my toes like spilled oil. Ahsen removed a na
rrow braid of hair from her pocket and wound it slowly around her small wrist. She searched my face, as I did hers, and glided forward, closing the distance between us—eyes glittering, her body frayed at the edges, becoming smoke.
“You didn’t make these,” I said, gesturing at the demons.
“No,” she replied. “But I gathered them. They could smell the Labyrinth upon me, just from that one touch of the seed ring, and it was enough. You cannot fathom the allure of the crossroads, Hunter. But you would know, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” I said dryly.
The skin around her mouth became unnaturally taut. “How ever did you escape the Wasteland?”
“I just did.”
Her eyelid fluttered. “Not even an Avatar could accomplish that.”
I smiled, grim. “Perhaps that means I’m more powerful than you.”
“Doubtful.”
“Really. We could go there now. Find out.”
Her fingers stroked the braid. “You are trying to goad me.”
“I’m trying to tell the truth. But that’s worse, isn’t it? Almost as bad as tossing up someone’s reflection when you’re about to kill them?” I shook my head, still smiling. “I think you’re afraid. I think you’ve been afraid for the past ten thousand years. All alone. Little lamb amongst the wolves.”
Her body flickered. Jack moved close to my side, brushing against my shoulder. Very gently, he said, “I’m here. Let this end.”
Ahsen closed her eyes, as though she could not bear to look at him. “You do not have the luxury of making requests. You, who condemned me. You, who trapped me with our enemy.”
“I did what I had to.”
“No,” she whispered. “There were alternatives. You must have known what would happen. You must have. And even if you did not, you should have. Old Wolf, you cannot imagine. I was their whore. For millennia, I serviced an army. Reduced to filth.”
She finally looked at him, and her eyes were black with loathing, coarse with horror—horrific for me, to see those emotions painted on my own face, as though it were my body subject to her memories, my flesh that bore the burden. She held up the braid of pale, glossy hair, still wrapped around her wrist. “Do you remember this, Old Wolf? This is all I have left of the body I wore the day you imprisoned me. All I have left of the humanity I had cultivated.”
The Iron Hunt Page 24
