The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Jack said nothing, but I felt a terrible strain pass through him. His hand quivered.

  Ahsen gazed around the room, studying the inky bodies of breathless, waiting demons. “I was promised a boy,” she said.

  “He’s gone,” Jack told her. “Safe.”

  “But still yours.” Her lips thinned. “The eternal child. Your greatest mistake in the divine organic. Doomed to live as a boy for eternity, forever forgetting, forever wandering. You should have killed him, Jack. I would have. He is your weakness. Your failed experiment, who carries part of you inside him. If I murder the boy . . .”

  I glanced at Tracker, but his expression was closed, hard. “Byron is immortal?”

  Jack gave me a heavy look. “He is a special child. You were never supposed to meet. Fate conspired.”

  Ahsen clicked her fingers. The old man staggered, falling to his knees. His breath rattled in his throat. He clutched his chest.

  I spun around and slammed my fist into Ahsen’s face. My hand passed through her, and she laughed, brief as a clap of thunder. Desperation made me sick. I tried hitting her again, and each time I did, something inside me broke a little—that shadow behind my ribs, fluttering wilder, harder. Jack groaned.

  “You will never hurt me,” Ahsen whispered. “And when I am done with Old Wolf’s human shell, I will come for you, and I will come, and I will hunt you until you give me what I want. And then I will kill you. Or remake you, Hunter. Perhaps you will be my skin, and your boys my slaves.”

  Anger poured through me. The iron band around my finger tingled.

  A weapon, I thought. Give me a weapon.

  The iron burned hotter. I remembered the river, the living tomb, fighting the current and the sensation of the sword in my hand, cold and alive. The whispers that had led me there. I remembered. I could taste it.

  Ahsen blinked, glancing down. I also looked.

  My hand was glowing. White hot. Until, suddenly, the light died.

  And in its place, I held a sword.

  I could not have imagined such a weapon. It seemed better suited to artistry than warfare. A slender blade, polished and glittering as though fragments of starlight had been scattered into the steel—serrated and etched with runes shaped like roses. A thin chain ran from the hilt to my ring finger, which was still bound in iron.

  Behind me, Jack started laughing. It was a coarse, ugly sound—and when he raised his head, his eyes were bloodshot. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth.

  “No,” Ahsen whispered, and I could not tell if it was greed or horror that passed through her eyes. Nor did I care. My hand felt as though it were encased in a glove made of lightning—skin tingling, a cascading current surging from the sword and ring into my bones.

  I had never wielded such a weapon—not unless fencing Zee with a stick counted—but I swung the sword like I was in an old movie and sank the blade into my eight-year-old body with a hoarse shout. The sword passed through Ahsen’s stomach like she was made of air, but she cried out, twisting. For the first time, affected by a weapon. And with her cry, the demons attacked.

  It was like being swallowed by the oubliette all over again. I struck blindly, the sword glowing against demon flesh, but there were too many. Tracker shouted. I tried to find Jack. Oturu’s feet clicked in my ears though I could not see him.

  Something, too. A flute.

  Music cut like a knife, swelling through me, coursing over my skin like a hundred baby razors. The demons, the darkness, writhed and peeled, and I saw Grant—cane abandoned—sitting on the floor against the wall, just inside the front door. He held my gaze like a lifeline—my life, his life—roped together in his music.

  Ahsen made a low sound, looking from the sword to Grant, and though I had thought her expression could not become more distraught, the stare she gave him went beyond alarm: a distress that ripped her small frame with a bone-shattering shudder.

  “Lightbringer,” Ahsen whispered, her face screwed into an expression of such pure devastation it was like being kicked in the teeth. She evaporated, but I heard Tracker’s low warning and found the rebel Avatar poised above Jack’s prone body.

  “You knew!” Ahsen screamed at him. “If the others discover what this world is harboring—”

  Jack snarled breathlessly, cutting her off. “They will never know. You will not tell them.”

  “I must,” she hissed. “You stupid—”

  I plunged the sword between her shoulders, power surging between the ring and the blade—and Ahsen arched her back, writhing.

  Jack grabbed at her ankle, his fingers passing through her flesh like smoke. “I never regretted what I did to you,” he growled. “I was glad to put you away. Sarai was, too.”

  Ahsen screamed, wrenching herself off the sword. Tracker tried to punch her, but his fist passed through her body exactly as mine had. Oturu did nothing. He watched only me, and I felt a question building in that flat line of his mouth, the quiet of his cloak.

  Grant’s melody changed. Ahsen cried out again, whipping around to stare at him—but not before she slammed her foot into Jack’s head. The old man went still.

  I reeled, all the breath in me gone, but I had no time to check him. Ahsen winked out of sight, then reappeared a heartbeat later, very nearly on top of Grant. His eyes were closed, his fingers flying with lightning speed. His music swept through the apartment, gathering the demons as though they were pieces of paper caught in some terrible wind. Grant’s shoulders were hunched, spine curved, skin pale.

  He was not alone. Rex stood in front of him, wielding a baseball bat. And behind them both, at the top of the stairs, I saw Mary with a frying pan, hate in her blistering eyes as she stared at Ahsen.

  I ran. I ran as fast as I could. Ahsen was going to kill Grant. I could feel it in her. All the anger was gone from her body, and in its place was a terrible desperation that was more frightening than rage.

  My skin tingled, stretching. Power swelled through my veins. An abyss opened in my heart, deeper than any cloak or wasteland, and I sank deep as I stared at Ahsen. I heard Tracker call my name, but I did not let go of the rage that filled me. I could not. I had the taste of death in my mouth.

  I did not make a sound. I charged Ahsen, swinging the sword. She turned at the last moment, eyes widening, and evaporated before I could touch her. I screamed her name, then Oturu was there, his hair and cloak winding around my body—and Tracker grabbed my hand.

  We passed into darkness, dancing between voids, skipping from light to dark. And in my heart, something stirred. A cascade beneath my ribs, into my throat. A twining body turning, writhing beneath my skin. Jaws rising behind my mouth, the sensation so strong I fancied my own mouth might unhinge, stretching into a yawn that could swallow a sun. Hunger, such hunger, burning. I remembered. Obsidian and starlight.

  In my hand, the sword glowed. Inside my body, another glow, hot and pulsing.

  Tracker stole us out of the void. I did not know where we were. I saw water. I saw a city stormy with lights. It was night here, and the air was cool in my lungs, on my hot skin. I breathed deep. Tracker stood on my left. Zee and the boys peeled off my body, but I felt no pain. Nothing but determination.

  In front of us, Ahsen. Tall now, as immense as Oturu, with hands like pitchfork tines and that silver braid flowing over a bony shoulder. Built like a whip, with slits for eyes and a small, sharp hole for a mouth. The illusion of a Mahati, swaying into a crouch.

  “Come,” she whispered. “I will not run from you this time, Hunter. We will finish it.”

  “You will die,” I said, and it was not just my voice, but a chorus of voices, echoing behind mine. “You will all die.”

  Ahsen faltered. “The veil is falling, Hunter. You have no concept of the army that waits and burns.”

  “They have no concept of me,” I breathed, and slammed into her body—like a bomb, I slammed. And though my flesh should have been vulnerable, I felt nothing of the impact—nothing, not even when she tried to stab me
with her fingers. My skin did not break.

  But Ahsen’s fingers did—and she howled. I reached down and grabbed her hair, yanking. Dek slithered down my arm, fire screaming from his mouth, enveloping that sharp silver head.

  She shimmered—breaking her word, trying to escape— but I tightened my grip and felt the power inside me reach out and surround the Avatar, binding it, as though in a cage. Her skin shriveled, flaking in strips. Hunger roared through me. Endless, violent. Sucking her dry.

  So easy. Like breathing. Death passed through me. I felt no pity, no mercy. The creature inside me eased into my heart like a missing key from a piano, sliding home to make a perfect sound. One clear tone that shivered.

  It was the music that brought me back. I remembered Grant. And when I remembered him, I recalled my mother, too. I heard her voice.

  Nothing so bad you need to be cruel. Tough, yes. You’ll have to kill, yes. But there’s a difference in the heart. One makes you mean. The other keeps you going.

  Ahsen screamed. I let go of her, but it was too late. She grabbed my arm, and her bones fractured, her skin disappearing entirely from the dried strips of her muscle. Zee pulled her from me, and the remains of her flesh turned to dust in his claws.

  I stood back. In that moment I did not know myself. All I felt was hunger. All I could remember was that backwoods Wisconsin bar, the memory of a body turning beneath my skin, a creature that I felt now, again.

  A creature that wanted free. And I suddenly knew exactly what my mother had been afraid of, what she could not tell me. What my grandmother had tried to explain.

  Veil gets weak, so do parts of us, I heard my grandmother say. Walls around our hearts that were never supposed to come down.

  And then: Stay true.

  “We’re done,” I whispered, and the dark creature inside me protested. I pushed it down, gently, and the gentleness seemed to surprise it. The darkness faltered, then retreated, softly, with a hush. Sinking into the roots of my heart; the shadow, waiting.

  I tried to drop the sword. I tried to shake it loose, but it was bound to the ring, and the ring would not come off my finger. I thought—Do it now; be small—and the sword flashed, once, and when my vision cleared, there was nothing but the ring—larger now, encasing more of my finger, with a curious little hinge for my joint. I looked at the rest of my hands, turning them, aching. My body hardly felt real. Nothing felt real. I heard gulls. Cars honking. Around us the night was calm.

  “What am I?” I breathed.

  “You are the Hunter,” whispered Oturu. “You are the last.”

  I stared at him. I could not hear my heart. I could not hear my thoughts.

  “Hunter,” whispered Oturu, his cloak extending around me. I leaned into him. I could not help myself. His hair caught my shoulders, and the abyss of his body—however briefly it touched my skin—was an odd comfort. Tracker crouched, trailing a finger through the dust of Ahsen’s corpse. Zee and the others crowded close, pushing him aside. Licking the ground. Queasy, I had to look away.

  “So,” Oturu murmured, “you are awake now. You have released the promise captured in your heart.”

  I felt Ahsen dying. I felt the taste of her life in my veins. I closed my eyes and saw her withered face—but when I opened my eyes, I found Tracker, staring. Searching.

  I was afraid of his scrutiny. Afraid of myself. I turned to look at Oturu. “Was this the Hunt? Was this what it was all about?”

  The demon bowed his head. “There are many kinds of Hunts. It is what defines us, renews us. It is the same for you, Hunter. We are born in blood, and we will die in blood, but in the interim, we must put fire to our veins and find new paths to tread upon.” Tendrils of hair tapped his head. “Paths, up here. It is what your mother wanted.”

  Tracker stepped close and held out his hand. I took it. He rubbed his thumb over my palm, his gaze inscrutable. Zee wrapped his arms around my legs, as did Raw and Aaz. Purrs sank into my bones.

  We went home.

  EPILOGUE

  TWO days later I found myself in Jack Meddle’s down-town office, buried in a stack of books. Grant and I were there, helping him clean up.

  Just that morning, Suwanai and McCowan had stopped by the Coop—but oddly enough, not for anything to do with Sarai’s murder. As far as anyone was concerned, the woman was still alive. Off . . . traveling.

  Badelt’s killer, they had informed us, was at large. But I was off the hook. No evidence. A good alibi.

  I was not comforted. A man was still dead. Sarai, though Jack assured me otherwise, was also dead. At least on this plane of existence. Which made me think of my dream. Sarai, as the unicorn, in flesh. I could almost believe it. Almost.

  “Cops were called to the art gallery,” I told Jack. “I was here. I left her body.”

  He held up a piece of broken pottery, peering at its underside. “Don’t ask too many questions, my dear. Suffice it to say, the situation has been handled.”

  “That seems vaguely menacing,” Grant said, struggling to keep a three-foot pile of texts on Mesopotamia from falling over. He pushed them once, then again, harder, but they kept tilting. I nudged him aside and started unloading the pile.

  “I did warn you book stacking is an art,” Jack said to him. “You have yours; I have mine, lad.”

  Grant grunted, giving him a suspicious look. As did I.

  I sensed movement on my right, and found Byron hovering in the doorway. The teen had tagged along, without much prodding. Another surprise, another surreal stitch in my life. He was living at the shelter, in his small studio. Grant had managed to divert Social Services. For now.

  The eternal child. Your greatest mistake in the divine organic. Doomed to live as a boy for eternity, forever forgetting, forever wandering.

  I did not know what that meant, but it haunted me every time I saw the boy. I could hear Ahsen’s voice.

  I stood, rubbing my hands on my jeans, and made my way to Byron. He did not leave the doorway. He held a pink box in his hands. Snack run. There was a bakery down the street. His face was still cut and bruised, his eyes hollow. But for a boy with broken ribs, he was moving around well—perhaps too well—and he was here. He had not run, despite everything.

  He was more than human. And he did not realize it.

  “Um. I got doughnuts.” Byron shoved the box at me and reached into his pocket. He dropped a crumpled wad of change on top.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s all there,” he replied, distinctly uncomfortable. “I have a receipt if you want to count it.”

  “I believe you.” I punched his shoulder, very gently. “Relax, kid.”

  Byron shrugged, glancing at Grant, then Jack.

  I said, “I appreciate your helping out today.”

  He shuffled his feet. Shy, pained, thoughtful. “You helped me.”

  “I got you hurt.”

  “You helped me.” Byron looked into my eyes, then faltered, swallowing hard. “I . . . saw some things I don’t understand. But it wasn’t you who hurt me. Not you.”

  It was my turn to feel awkward.

  Byron said, “The old man knew Brian?”

  “Jack’s business partner was married to him.”

  The boy nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “He’s familiar to me. I don’t know why.”

  I hardly knew why. Jack had explained nothing.

  I stepped aside, glancing deeper into the room, where Grant and Jack were stooped over a growing stack of books. Arguing softly with each other.

  “You want to talk to Jack?” I asked Byron.

  “No,” he said, already backing away. “I think I’ll go downstairs and look at the paintings.”

  He fled. I let him go without a word, noting his speed, the stiffness of his shoulders. Something in him, an instinct. Made me afraid to tell the boy who Jack was to me. As proud as I was, it felt like it should stay a secret. Even more than my boys, my purpose, the prison surrounding the world. Jack Meddle: a grave and deadly riddle.


  I carried the doughnut box back to the men, sliding the change into my pocket along the way. I felt the outline of my knives beneath my jacket. My mother’s jacket. Oturu had left it behind, on the apartment roof, along with the weapons. Small things.

  He had not done the same with the seed ring. I had let him take it into his keeping while Ahsen lived, but now that she was dead, I wanted it back. I needed it, even just to hold. My mother lived in the seed ring. Her ghost. Her thoughts. Her memories of my grandmother.

  But Tracker and Oturu were gone. I had not seen them since that night.

  “Byron,” Grant said, digging into the doughnut box. “He slipped away again?”

  “Downstairs.” I shot Jack a long look. “Ready yet to explain who he is, how he’s connected to you?”

  The old man’s jaw tightened. He gave Grant a gruff gesture. “Into the kitchen with you, lad. I won’t have your crumbs or sticky fingers around my books.”

  Grant’s gaze flicked to Jack’s aura. I thought he would say something—and there was plenty to remark on, from Byron to Mary—but his shoulders settled, and he bent down and kissed my mouth. He tasted like sugary glaze. I hung on. Grant sighed against my mouth, pulling away with a solemn expression ruined by the warmth in his eyes. He jammed the half-eaten doughnut into his mouth, gave Jack a hard look, and took the pink bakery box in one hand. He limped away toward the kitchen, his cane clicking loudly.

  I watched him go. When he was out of sight, I very quietly said, “Jack, why was Ahsen afraid of Grant?”

  “Why are you?” replied the old man carefully.

  I flashed him a scathing look. “I’m not.”

  “But you’re wary. You think about possibilities.”

  I took a deep breath and counted to three. “She called him something.”

  “Names are meaningless,” Jack replied brusquely, and shoved a book at me. “Here. I believe you admired this before.”