“No,” she said. “There are other reasons.”
“I ran,” I agreed, speaking only to the boy. “There was something I didn’t want you to see.”
“I’ve seen a lot,” he replied, then turned to help Killy stand. A cold, blasting wind stole my breath, but I would have been breathless, anyway. I was suffering a peculiar ache in my chest. Not quite guilt, but something close: a sense that I had been caught in a lie.
I found Father Lawrence nearby, in the grass. He sat awkwardly, round stomach hanging over his pants. I wasn’t certain he noticed my presence. He was rubbing his mouth with his hands, rubbing and rubbing, as though that would cleanse him of some violent taste, blood and flesh, maybe. He wore no coat. Like Mary, he did not seem to mind the cold.
I caught Killy watching him—her expression bruised, lost—until she noticed me staring, and her vulnerability hardened into a brittle shell. She rubbed her wrist. “You have a plan?”
I did not answer her, distracted in that moment as Grant, Mary, and Jack caught up. Grant was struggling to breathe without coughing, and his face was pale, drawn, suffering from the cold air and climb—and Cribari. He needed home, warm food, a bed to sleep in, and time to recover. He needed to be safe. We all did.
Killy glanced briefly at Mary and rubbed her brow hard with both hands. I said, “Jack. If Killy and Father Lawrence leave us, will Mr. King be able to track them?”
“He has their scents,” Jack replied, his voice rough with exhaustion. “But if they’re not with us, he won’t be invested in finding them. Not right away.”
I met Killy’s gaze. “You both should go. Wherever we are, that village down in the valley is only—”
“No,” Father Lawrence suddenly croaked, in a voice so torn and battered—so surprising to hear—I flinched. “No, I stay with you.”
“Father Frank,” Killy protested, but the round little priest shook his head and struggled to stand.
“Holy damn,” he muttered. “I hurt.”
I offered him a hand, and was not offended when he hesitated, staring at my palm like it might be covered in apocalyptic cooties. It only made it sweeter when he finally did take my help. His grasp was firm and unreserved. But he swayed, slightly. I dug in my heels, pulling him toward me—just enough to help him firm his footing.
“I made a promise,” he said, looking at me with his mismatched eyes—sly and warm, cunning and kind. “Years ago I did this, and it doesn’t matter how things have fallen apart. I didn’t make that promise to an organization, or an idea. I made it to you and yours.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” I breathed, taken aback—even as memory filled me, something he had said in the hall of Mr. King.
Father Lawrence’s gaze was unflinching; his single crimson eye glittering like it had been dipped in blood and fire. “A woman saved my soul when I was young. She ripped something dark out of me and killed it before my eyes. I was useless afterward. I had ruined my life. She . . . took care of me.”
“My mother,” I whispered.
“You look so much like her,” he said.
I let go of his hand, but the heat of his palm still burned. “Victims of demonic possessions don’t remember what happened to them. Ever.”
“I remember,” he replied. “Your mother told me to do something useful with that memory.”
“I doubt risking your life is what she had in mind.”
“I became a priest to serve God against the shadows. When . . . the order . . . began to recruit me, and I discovered their purpose, to watch her bloodline . . .” He shrugged, with loose c’est la vie, but that was little more than an act compared to the grim, unflinching determination in his eyes. “Fate, Hunter. God’s mystery.”
I did not know how to respond. Killy said, “Frank.”
Father Lawrence glanced at her, then closed his eyes as though it pained him to see her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt by this. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
She stared at him, stricken. Grant cleared his throat and looked at Jack. “What about the boy? On his own—”
“No,” Byron whispered.
“He would be safe,” Jack said, his gaze hooded as he looked from Father Lawrence to the teen. “No one . . . no one can track him. Cribari coming to the shelter was no fluke, but the boy had already made himself an easy target by staying in one place.”
“No,” Byron said again, growing pale. “No, don’t.”
“I’ve done a terrible job protecting you,” I told him softly. “Look at the danger you’ve been in. It’s . . . crazy. All of this is crazy.”
He seemed to shrink in front of me, swallowed up by his coat until he was little more than a mountain ghost, whose sole connection to this mortal coil rested in his dark, electric eyes.
“I’m safer with you,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“If something happens—”
He shook his head with a wildness that made me shut my mouth. Grant touched my elbow and gave me a long, solemn look that made my heart ache. I glanced again at Byron. We’d had this conversation already.
I’m not alone. Strange is okay.
Better than the alternative. A life so terrible that gun-men and werewolves, and acts of defiance against the laws of physics were preferable.
You would have followed your mother through Hell and back, rather than be on your own.
I was not Byron’s mother. But maybe I understood.
Zee, Raw, and Aaz watched us from the shadows, their narrowed eyes mere glints of rubies. Dek and Mal were warm against my shoulders and scalp, singing softly: Jimmy Durante. “Make Someone Happy.”
“All right,” I said, reaching out to ruffle Byron’s hair. He closed his eyes, swaying, and something came over me: I dragged him into my arms, hugging him tight. Byron did not hug back, but sagged against me, slender as a whip beneath his coat. My heart broke again, burning itself into bone, and when the shadow suddenly stirred beneath my ribs, I was not afraid.
I looked over Byron’s head at Killy. “You have my credit card. You can go anywhere.”
The woman stared—from me to Father Lawrence—and ran her fingers through her short hair, tugging sharply on her scalp. She seemed ready to start laying about her again with her fists.
“Shit,” she finally said, looking at the priest. “Fuck you.”
He did not seem offended. A faint smile graced his battered mouth, both gentleness and cold scrutiny in his eyes—as well as unease. His hands clutched tight across his stomach, trembling slightly. From nerves, or something else—I could no longer say. Byron, though, was warm in my arms, and Grant was warm beside me. Mary stood nearby, humming tunelessly, twirling the stone knife through her fingers. Jack stared again at the stars.
All of us, together, I thought, heart still aching. Wondering what my mother would say—she, who had lived a life beyond mine, one I was learning about in fragments, and that painted a different picture of the woman I had thought I knew. I could still hear her voice in my head.
Trust yourself.
You’re not alone.
There are others.
Dek and Mal growled in my ears. I pushed Byron and Grant from me, snapping around to stare at the hillside. Zee bounded from the shadows. I heard gasps, but paid no mind. It was too late for secrets now. Too late, for so much. Raw and Aaz rolled from the dark places in stone outcrop-pings, racing for me with all their strength—flying, flying like wolves with wings on their feet.
“Maxine,” Zee rasped. “Got bodies coming. Bouncing too fast.”
“He’s throwing people away,” Jack snapped—head tilted, listening. “Using them to cut space too quickly for Zee and the others to track. He’s killing them for this.”
I shoved Byron down on the ground and tried to do the same with Grant—who resisted, reaching for his flute. I said, “Stop—”
An explosion filled the air, and I was slammed backward, off my feet. Pain bloomed throu
gh my chest. I glimpsed, as in a dream, Grant’s face—staring at me in horror. Blood covered him. So much blood.
I heard more explosions. Screams. I was still falling. I was falling very slowly.
Sharp fingers clasped mine. Small bodies crowded close. My right hand burned, but I hardly noticed. My chest was exploding in fire.
I hit the grass, but only for a moment—the earth swallowed me, then closed.
CHAPTER 20
I lost myself in darkness. I lost myself in dreams, and the boys dreamed with me, sweet on my skin; until I dreamed myself stunned by some river’s edge, and in my dream I forced myself to rise and walk, and I walked past trees with trunks older than the first breath of man, and when I stopped walking, I ran.
I ran with memory and dream, like the buds of a spring tree, pushing from the death of winter: nibbles of tender shoots in my mind, delicate and sweet. I remembered forests. I remembered in my hands a fine bow, my hair loose and braided with leaves and moss, my body covered in a slip of linen, and in my focus a white stag, bounding swift on hooves like starry cuffs; hunting animals, hunting men, hunting demons.
I saw demons. I saw strange things. I saw myself, riding atop Zee’s back, the boys running large as lions across a rocky desert, through the shambles of a ruined moonlight city—and in front of us, men on horseback, racing for their lives. I saw elephants marching on two feet across snow, bearing armor and swords and small winged women in cages; and a ship powered by sails that glittered like golden spiderwebs beneath a purple sky; and my body, drifting in a world of starlight, my mouth and nose covered by skin—the boys, breathing for me. In space. Above a red planet dashed with clouds.
And then I was in the forest again, but I was blind and heavy, and beneath my hand I touched a long, spiraled horn, cool and familiar as stone.
Unicorn, I thought, and felt a tingle race through me, from my hand, as though small bolts of lightning were knitting flash marks across my skin.
A woman whispered, “Hunter. You should not have come here. Not now.”
“I’m dreaming,” I whispered.
“You should be.” The spiraled horn shifted, sliding in my hand until my knuckles brushed the silken hide of a fine-boned head. “So pretend, Hunter. Pretend this is a dream, and that you do not fall so lightly between the shadows of the Labyrinth. Pretend you are not more than what you seem.”
I think I smiled, but the dream was fading, and everything around me felt gossamer, and soft. “I know you. You were human once.”
“I was never human,” said the woman quietly. “And neither are you.”
The horn slipped away, quick as thought—and jabbed me in the chest. Pain exploded, but it was soft and thick, blossoming like the fast-motion revelation of a red, red rose—and the petals that fell were blood, and the blood was sweet on my tongue.
Until, suddenly, the blood was no longer so sweet. The dream broke.
I gasped, choking, and surged upward. I glimpsed a room thick with moving shadows, candle flames flickering—then pain paralyzed me, and I could not breathe. Small, sharp hands pushed me down—followed by larger human ones: quick and warm against my body. My shirt was cut away. I felt soaked, everywhere. I tried opening my eyes, but my lids were too heavy: No amount of willpower could make me see.
“No bullet,” Zee rasped, somewhere near. “Taken already.”
“Broken bones?” asked a woman, her voice low and tense. “I can’t tell from looking.”
“Healed. Done and fixed.”
“But not the rest of her? Damn fool bitch.” Soft cloth was pressed to my chest, just above my right breast. “What was she thinking?”
“Too much blood,” Zee murmured. “Couldn’t let her blood be scented. Not in the maze.”
The woman grumbled something under her breath, but her hands were strong and competent, and even when she poured some burning fluid over my wound, making me scream, I was not afraid of her.
I heard a door slam, and another low voice that was young and soft. A cool cloth touched my brow, and water dribbled into my mouth. Dek and Mal were quiet. After a while, all I could hear was harsh breathing and the thundering skip of my heart.
Then, not even that.
I did not dream. I entered darkness and abided there, and when it was time, I opened my eyes and was awake.
I hurt. I noticed that first. I could not breathe without pain, and so I breathed carefully, inhaling so very little it felt as though breathing were the same as skipping a stone across still water, light, quick, careful.
I was in a bed, with covers folded up to my waist, and warm, hard stones tucked around my elbows, lower back, and neck. The boys were heavy on my skin, but the heat of the stones soaked through their tattooed bodies, and I was grateful. It felt good.
I was in a simple bedroom, with no windows. Cigarette smoke clung to the air. On my right, wood creaked—and a woman said, “Never the easy way with you, is it?”
I managed to move my head, just a fraction. I glimpsed long legs clad in brown trousers, tucked inside tall, scuffed boots. A white blouse gleamed, obscured by a long scarf and dark braids. Smoke drifted around a tattooed hand. I looked into a face that was mine, only older, lined with the pulse of the wind and sun.
“Maxine, again,” whispered my grandmother.
I stared, and she stabbed her cigarette into a porcelain dish that held the brown core of an apple and some bread, as well as the stubby remains of more cigarettes, which had spilled over onto the table. She cleared her throat, then picked up a teacup and held it to my mouth. I needed help to drink. Water dribbled down my chin, but I hardly noticed. I stared into my grandmother’s eyes.
“Don’t strain yourself,” she said, after a minute. “Not like I’m going anywhere.”
I did not look away. “When are we?”
“Nineteen seventy-four. Been two years since you found us in Mongolia.” Jean Kiss gestured sharply at the interior of the bedroom—not looking particularly happy with her surroundings. “Now we’re in Paris. Renting a flat from an old soldier I know.”
I remembered my brief glimpse of Mongolian grass-lands and the blue sky that had burned itself into me as surely as the presence of the woman seated now at my bedside. Three months ago, right before my last battle with Ahsen, I had made the mistake of traveling through time—the first of many, it seemed. The finger armor had brought me to my grandmother then—but I had never thought to see her again.
“Why did you leave Mongolia?” I asked.
“Because I’m not going to be around forever,” she said bluntly, “and this world is unkind to ignorant women. Paris has good tutors. Jolene will learn some things.”
“I’m sure she hates it.”
“I didn’t raise a whiner,” replied my grandmother, though I could tell she was none too pleased, either, about where they were living.
I did not, however, know what else to say. Maybe she didn’t, either. I lay on the bed, aching—watching her watch me. In silence.
Until she said: “Look at us. Talking.”
I smiled. “I like it.”
“Don’t like it too much.” My grandmother stood, and pulled an old creased-leather wallet from her back pocket. She unfolded it on the nightstand, revealing thin papers and a tin of loose tobacco leaves. She began rolling a cigarette and glanced at me. “You can make mistakes, but not with time.”
“I didn’t choose to come here.”
“That’s right.” Jean Kiss struck a match and lit her cigarette. “You were dying, and Zee got you help. Survival comes first. I know that. But this”—and she waved her hand between us—“is dangerous.”
“I don’t think I’m in any state to change world history.”
She smiled grimly. “And what about just ours?”
I stared, unsure how to respond. My grandmother started smoking her cigarette and leaned back in the small wooden chair, stretching out her legs. Still watching me. Watching me so long and hard I felt uneasy.
“Jolene
is downstairs,” said my grandmother, suddenly. “I made her promise not to speak to you.”
“My mother,” I said.
“My daughter,” she added. “Letting you meet that first time was a mistake. She developed an . . . unhealthy . . . preoccupation with your existence.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure what that meant. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Trouble,” echoed my grandmother, knocking ashes to the floor. “You should have seen the look on her face when you were brought here, bleeding to death. If you had died in front of her, mere trouble would have been the least of it.”
I could not argue with her about that. I tried to sit up, and managed to do so after a long and careful negotiation with the pain inside my body. Breathing was easier, which was a small consolation. When I looked down at where my wound should have been, all I saw was an unblemished line of tattoos.
My grandmother came to sit beside me. “You’ll still have some signs of injury after sunset, but within a day or two even those will be gone. The boys take care of us, when we let them.”
“You know this from experience?”
“My mother was hurt once.” Jean Kiss picked up my right hand. “You have to go now, Maxine.”
I searched her eyes. “Something’s happened to you since we last met. I can tell. You weren’t this . . . brittle . . . before.”
“Brittle,” she echoed, and her entire face tightened with pain—just before sliding into the cool, thoughtful mask that had greeted me upon waking. “All of us change. Everyone in this world, from birth to death, becomes someone new. Again and again, we are remade.”
“And you lose pieces of yourself along the way?”
“You compensate,” she replied, stubbing out the cigarette on her tattooed hand. “You remind yourself of what’s important and let that guide you.”
“I’ve heard this before,” I said, searching her face. “From my mother .”
My grandmother blinked. “Is that so?”
“And Jack,” I added softly.
She blinked again, but this time it was more of a flinch. “I suppose he’s still causing trouble?”
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