A Wild Light

by Marjorie Liu

  Across the room, a bed had been made on the floor. Soft pillows, a quilt, the Bible—and a pile of chains. Chains, binding a werewolf.

  Brown fur covered a husky, stout body—rather round in the stomach, which hung over the waist of tight black sweatpants. I saw black claws, and long teeth, one eye that was crimson and gold, and another eye that was human brown. No wolf-head, no pointed ears, but there was a wildness in the man, in the werewolf, that was not human and never would be again.

  Father Frank Lawrence. He might have been the only man in the world with his . . . particular condition . . . though given the proclivities of the creature that had made him, I had my doubts.

  Over the last six months, I’d read newspaper reports of strange sightings on the outskirts of Paris and Madrid: men and women covered in fur, attacking at random before running away from their victims—usually screaming for help. Media types blamed crazies in costumes. I blamed advanced genetic manipulation used as a weapon, a toy, by a creature who had thought himself a god.

  Father Lawrence sat cross-legged, palms resting on his knees. Iron cuffs bound his wrists and ankles, but he didn’t seem to notice them. He was focused entirely on Grant, who also sat on the bed, his cane resting upon his stretched-out legs. He was talking quietly, urgently, but stopped when we entered the room.

  “Hey,” I said, discomfited by the way both men looked at me: like I had walked into a locker room right after the jocks had stepped from the showers. Embarrassment flickered across their faces, then shut down into something far more secretive. It was an odd thing, feeling walls go up against me. Usually, it was the other way around.

  “Maxine,” greeted Father Lawrence, his voice little more than a growl. Against my legs, Raw and Aaz tugged toward him: dreaming my life, perhaps the lives of all the women who had come before. Ten thousand years, dreaming.

  I eased into the room, face bathed in the heat of more than a dozen candles burning. “You’re going to start a fire.”

  “Meditation,” he rasped, giving me a smile that bared sharp white teeth. “I find my symptoms are eased with a little reflection.”

  “And the chains?”

  His smile faded. “I need to reflect a little more.”

  Grant cleared his throat. “I was telling him . . . what happened.”

  I studied the candles. Thought about Jack and felt small and cold. “And?”

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Father Lawrence rasped, his words ending on a growl. “Alone.”

  Grant looked away, expression thoughtful but unsurprised. “Frank.”

  “Get out of here,” he replied, not unkindly. “Ask Killy to eavesdrop for you.”

  Killy blew out her breath, looking down and scuffing one boot across the scratched hardwood. Grant jammed his cane into the floor and heaved himself onto his feet. His mouth tightened with pain as his leg straightened. I almost helped him. My first instinct.

  But I stayed put and ignored the answering ache in my heart, the nagging sense that I was, indeed, cold and small—but in a different way entirely than I had felt earlier. I glanced at Frank, found him frowning at me. At least, I thought it was a frown. Hard to tell with all that fur.

  I didn’t look at Grant as he limped past—and he didn’t look at me. But my gloved hand hung at my side as I stood next to that narrow doorway, and the edge of his hand, his little finger, brushed against mine. Not even close to a real touch—leather and demons between us—but Dek stirred against my palm, and I felt heat. I felt heat.

  Grant turned his head, just a fraction. All I saw was the corner of his mouth, but even that carried the intensity I was beginning to associate with him, as though everything he did was charged.

  Or maybe that’s just you, and what you’re seeing is what you feel.

  I began to close the door behind him. Glimpsed Killy watching me from the hall. Nothing in her eyes but concern. Not for me, though.

  I shut her out but didn’t let go of the doorknob. “So.”

  “Sit down,” he said quietly.

  I almost refused, politely. But Father Lawrence was too dignified and serious, even in fur and chains—and I had nothing to prove.

  I kicked off my cowboy boots before stepping onto the quilt, then carefully, gingerly, slid down the wall beside him. Our elbows rubbed, and his fur made a scraping sound on my coat sleeve. All I could smell was vanilla, and the faintest hint of wet dog.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “I don’t want to,” I replied bluntly. “I didn’t come here for that.”

  Father Lawrence held up his furred hands, and the chains rattled. “Tough shit. None of us get what we want.”

  I stripped off my gloves and rubbed my eyes, which still felt bleary from my earlier tears. More tears than I had shed in years. “You don’t really need those, do you?”

  “Not all the time,” he admitted. “Not when I’m in my human body. But when I shift . . . when I shift, I only need to be dangerous once. One time, to kill or ruin someone’s life. These . . . precautions . . . are worth some discomfort. Besides,” he added, with a grimace, “I think I ate a cat last night.”

  I patted his arm. “The boys ate a grizzly bear once. Manage that, and we can talk.”

  Father Lawrence grunted. “I’m sorry about Jack.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “Part of him is. The very physical part who knew your grandmother, and mother, and you. You only knew him as Jack Meddle, old man with crazy white hair and wrinkles. That body was precious. You can admit that, Maxine.”

  I stared at my tattooed hands, those red eyes glinting. The armor glimmered with candlelight, holding the light, so that when I turned my right hand, there was a delay in the movement of the reflected glow, as though part of it remained trapped, or lost in time within the armor.

  “Seems ungrateful,” I said quietly. “Too sentimental. The real Jack is nothing but energy. Energy with conscious intent. He told me that once. Called it the soul. And his soul . . .”

  “Can do things. Occupy bodies. Alter bodies.” Father Lawrence also stared at his hands. “You’ve never lost him before. Part of you isn’t sure he’ll be back.”

  “I can kill his kind.” I closed my eyes, the candlelight making me dizzy. “Something inside me, Frank. Something about me. It scared Jack. This scared him.” I tapped the scar on the edge of my jaw, beneath my ear. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t scare you. You’ve got it tattooed on your arm.” I smiled, grim. “Any members of that cult still contact you?”

  “Yes,” he said, which surprised me just a little. “Not everyone was corrupted by Father Cribari and the Erl- King. There are those still dedicated to the mission that Jack created for our order, all those centuries ago.”

  “Watching my bloodline. Waiting for one of us women to destroy the world.”

  Father Lawrence nudged me. “Drama queen. Like you’re something special.”

  I smiled, despite myself. He added, “Why aren’t you talking to Grant about this?” And then, before I could say anything: “Pull up the edge of the blanket. I need something.”

  I did as he asked, biting back all kinds of nasty replies, and pulled out a clear bag filled with Oreo cookies. Some were smashed, the creamy filling smeared against the inside of the plastic.

  I shook it. “What is this? Contraband?”

  Father Lawrence patted his stomach. “I’m on a special diet. Open it up and tell me about Grant.”

  I shoved the bag into his furry hands. “Open it yourself. And forget about it. I’m not talking about that man.”

  “That man.” Father Lawrence tried to open the bag, but his claws snared the plastic and everything ripped. Cookies fell out into his lap. He sighed, and gave me a reproachful look. “That man loves you. Actually, forget that. He adores you.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You know him. You just don’t remember.”

  “What does that even mean? Killy said the same thing, and I’m sick of hearing
it. I don’t remember him, I don’t know him. He’s a stranger. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay that way.”

  “Coward,” Father Lawrence whispered. “You terrible coward.”

  I grabbed a cookie and shoved it into my mouth. “Maybe.”

  “Fine.” The priest very delicately picked up a cookie between his claws and took a careful bite. His fangs shattered it into pieces that joined the other crumbs in his lap. “I won’t presume to tell you anything then.”

  “Stop trying to be so polite,” I muttered. “You have to put the whole thing in your mouth.”

  “But you loved him,” he continued, sweeping crumbs into his palm and tipping them into his mouth. “By God, you loved him. And you need each other. More than you realize.”

  I closed my eyes, briefly—counted to ten—and then reached into the bag for a cookie. I held it against the priest’s leathery lips. “Open up.”

  He gave me a sidelong look but did as I asked. I angled the entire cookie inside until his cheek bulged. “What I need, Frank, is to find out who murdered my grandfather.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Jack expected to be killed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jack warned me.” Father Lawrence held up his arm, and I saw the outline of that twisted tattoo beneath his fur. “The Old Wolf is still my master, second only to God. And I am here to watch you, Hunter Kiss, and help when I can. Despite my . . . current indisposition.” He lowered his arm, and the chains rattled.

  “Jack,” I said, trying to ignore everything else he had said. The idea that a small group of men and women had been following every move of my ancestors for the last several thousand years still didn’t sit well with me.

  Father Lawrence folded his furred, clawed hands over his round stomach. “Jack said, and I quote, ‘The status quo would have to change.’ That events had progressed to the point where he would have to take certain actions that might have . . . negative results.”

  “Yo,” I said. “His throat was cut.”

  “That’s . . . negative,” he replied mildly. “But I think he was worried about something even bigger.”

  “I saw him last night, but he was fine, relaxed, all smiles. He didn’t act like a man on the verge of anything terrible.” I hesitated, staring at the candles. “But Grant . . . Grant said that Jack called in the middle of the night. That he needed to tell me something important.”

  “So he told you, or he didn’t. But given the absence of your memories, my guess is that he did tell you something important.”

  “Something that someone else doesn’t want me to remember.” I leaned back, shaking my head. “The boys don’t remember, either. And that . . . that should be impossible. They can’t be tampered with.”

  “Except by those who made your bloodline. Or,” he continued, holding up his dark furred hand, forestalling any comments from me, “some other force you aren’t yet familiar with. How many surprises have you been given over the past year, Maxine? There’s so much none of us understand. We’re children, compared to the vastness that sleeps.”

  I was certain he didn’t mean anything, but my hand touched my stomach, my ribs. “I know.”

  Father Lawrence struggled to feed himself another cookie. I let him do it on his own, and he managed to shove the whole thing in his mouth. He was a messy eater, but only because his mouth was awkwardly shaped. He mumbled, “Grant is another matter entirely.”

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  “There are things he needs to explain,” he replied, with a great deal of seriousness. “And when he does, you need to ask yourself again why you don’t remember him. Why him? What would be the benefit?”

  “Why not make me forget everything? It seems as though that would be easier.”

  “Easier, yes. Assuming . . . assuming someone did steal your memories.”

  “Of course someone did.” I frowned, searching his gaze, which was becoming distant, thoughtful. “What are you thinking?”

  He hesitated, and the hush that fell down around us was thick, and the air hard to breathe.

  “Both of us would do anything to protect the ones we love,” Father Lawrence said. “I wear chains when I lose myself. I hide in this room with candles and prayer. But what would you do, Maxine, to protect Grant?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not that woman.”

  He gave me a sad, chilling smile. Against my skin, the boys stirred, tugging me toward the door. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I stood and pulled on my boots, unable to look at Father Lawrence.

  “I wondered if I killed him,” I blurted out. “I still wonder. My knife was there. But I wouldn’t have needed a weapon to finish it.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Father Lawrence said, gently. “You wouldn’t hurt your own grandfather. And you’re not a cold-blooded killer.”

  “But I do kill.” Tears burned my eyes. I blinked them away. “I’ll see you later, Frank. Stay out of trouble.”

  “And don’t,” I added as an afterthought, “keep stringing Killy along. You being here isn’t easy for her. You know how she feels about you.”

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t,” I echoed mockingly, and left the room.

  CHAPTER 6

  I knew something was wrong before I hit the stairs. The boys were too restless. Even the armor throbbed; but that felt odd, and separate from what Zee and the others were telling me. Which was worrisome enough.

  I reached the bar. And found a shitload of zombies.

  Almost two dozen, scattered like gnats on rotten fruit: ready to eat, ready to fly. Men, women, even a couple teenagers, all sporting black auras that flickered above their heads like storm clouds. They watched me with dead eyes and flat expressions. Sitting, standing in front of the door and windows. Business suits, street clothes, and a mother in sweats with a baby strapped to her chest and a pistol in her left hand.

  Possessed humans. Ruled by parasites who fed on pain. Amongst them sat Killy and Grant. Killy was pale, tight-lipped, arms folded over her chest. The toe of her red boot tapped the floor with all the force of a machine gun.

  Grant was far more still, but only in body. His palms pressed flat against the battered wooden tabletop, his jaw tight and that furrow deep between his eyes. But when I looked at him, only for a moment, the air seemed to shimmer around his body in waves of heat and light—not an aura, but something deeper, burning inside him.

  He met my gaze. I saw no fear. None. Just grim confidence, rooted so deep, so unwavering, I might have also called it faith. Faith in what, I didn’t know, didn’t presume to guess. I wondered why I assumed he knew what surrounded him. Most humans couldn’t tell a zombie from a peanut. Even being with me wouldn’t have changed that. You had to see it. Feel it. Know it.

  He does, I thought. He damn well does.

  A woman sat with him and Killy, across the table. Aura thunderous, cut with flickers of red lightning that flowed from the crown of her head, down to her feet. She had red hair, and wore a red dress beneath a bone-colored trench coat. Red heels covered her feet, and her legs were long and bare, pale as snow and moisturized until they shone. She was nursing a cup of coffee, steaming hot, and smiled over the rim when she saw me.

  “Hunter,” Blood Mama whispered. “Dearest little Hunter.”

  THERE were rules when it came to demons. Rules and hierarchies that I had only just begun to understand. My mother had never found it important to delineate between different kinds of demons—at least not to my face. If it wasn’t human or animal, it was dead meat. If it was human or animal, and tried to hurt us, it was also dead meat. My mother did not fuck around.

  The most dangerous of the demons, so the stories went, were the Reaper Kings.

  World Eaters, some of my ancestors had called them. Living only for their bellies, and the hunt, and the kill.

  I knew nothing else about the Reaper Kings, except that they were death—and the leaders of the demonic army. Imprisoned in the First Ward, the core of the veil
, for the last ten thousand years. I had tried asking Jack about them, but of all the myriad things my grandfather had not wanted to discuss, they seemed to be at the top.

  My mother had warned me, though. But not in so many words.

  You won’t be able to run from them, baby.

  Stop them, you stop it all.

  Right. Easy. Thanks for the advice.

  The lowest of the low within the ranks of the imprisoned army were the parasites. Rats, cockroaches, fleas. Slipping between cracks in the outer ring of the prison veil to farm for pain. Some were young, others old. The old ones could exert complete control over hosts. The young ones simply rode along, choosing humans already predisposed to abuse, and merely . . . egging them on. I couldn’t blame every random act of violence on a parasite turning some human into a zombie puppet, but if there was pain, and fear, and death—all three of those together—then a demonic parasite was probably close by, feeding on that dark energy.

  And the zombie seated in front of me was their queen. Queen of the demonic parasites. Queen of the gutter rats.

  I walked to the table, turned a chair around, and straddled it. My gloves were still off. I shrugged out of my jacket, and pushed up my sleeves. Tattoos rippled across my skin, scales shimmering and heaving, those red eyes on my palm glinting like fire. Grant and Killy watched me, but I didn’t look at them. Just Blood Mama. Just that cold smile.

  “Have something to drink,” she said, as a stringy-haired zombie in jeans and Birkenstocks walked out from behind the bar and set down a tray filled with three cups of coffee, steaming. Killy gave the zombie a disgusted look.

  I poured a little from each cup over my tattooed finger, allowing the boys a taste. Blood Mama said, “Poison, my dear, is for cave-dwelling types with no sophistication. I’m better than that.”