The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Men walked past. One of them, a stocky fellow with a chunky belly and a bag of takeout swinging in his fist, almost walked right over me. Oblivious. Laughing with his buddies about some girl’s ass. I felt like a ghost.

  “Hunter,” whispered the demon unsteadily. “You are still too new.”

  I glanced at Zee, who stared at the demon with a familiarity that frightened me almost as much as the creature himself. “What do you want?”

  His eldritch hair coiled in the air. “You woke us. Your soul reached for us. Inside the abyss, we felt your call.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “They know.” The demon’s cloak billowed briefly toward the boys. “We can be here for no other reason.”

  “You came through the veil.”

  “We are not of the veil,” said the demon. “But it opened. It is weakening. Something came through. You have . . . need of us.”

  I felt rain on my face, and the newspaper digging into my back. Jack Meddle, I thought. My grandmother. I did not have time for this crap. “I don’t need anything from you. You’re a demon.”

  He smiled faintly, but this time with a wry humor that was horrifying in its slip of humanity. “As are you.”

  Zee said a sharp word. The demon inclined his head and stepped back. The gesture was oddly respectful.

  “Hunter, born again,” he whispered. And then his hair lashed out, faster than I could blink, and I felt a sting against my face in the sweet spot between my jaw and ear. I flinched, dancing back. Reached up and felt no blood—just an indent, a small series of lines.

  Zee slammed his fist into the sidewalk. The demon bowed his head and stepped sideways into rain and shadow, the tips of his sharp toes digging trenches into the concrete.

  “We are yours,” he whispered. “But, Hunter, you are ours, as well.”

  “No,” I began to say, but it was like watching a living abyss fold itself into one breath, one hollow. The demon moved—and disappeared. Vanished. So completely it was as though the world had opened its mouth and swallowed him.

  I stared, my eyes nothing more than two holes burning in my head. I looked at Zee, Aaz, and Raw. Heads bowed, staring at their feet. Dek and Mal were silent, quivering. Sorrow. Shame. I could feel it in them, and it hurt. Broke my heart. I wanted to cry again, but there was no time. I had no place for tears.

  “What just happened?” I whispered, but Zee said nothing. None of the boys would look at me. It hurt more than I could have imagined.

  I touched his shoulder. “You refused to fight for me. You betrayed me. I want to know why.”

  “Sorry,” Zee breathed. “So sorry, Maxine. From the heart, sorry.”

  I brushed my hand across my eyes. More people were coming down the sidewalk; cars driving fast along the slick road. Music pounded from the rental shop, and the smells from the restaurants, the grease—

  I bent over, gagging. Dek and Mal crooned in my ear. I turned back to the Jeep, numb, fumbling for the keys. My head pounded. Tears leaked from my eyes. Zee touched my knee, and I shook him off.

  I got in the car, started the engine, and pulled away without waiting to see if the boys followed. For the first time in my life, I did not care.

  CHAPTER 6

  IF I had been thinking clearly, it might have occurred to me that a gala event at the Seattle Art Museum would be a black-tie affair.

  But I was preoccupied. Mostly with hot shame. I felt useless, worthless. I was alive, but not because of anything I had done. The demon had not wanted to hurt me—simple as that—and the idea that I had been at his mercy made me sick. I could not even blame the boys. This was my fault. I had become complacent. Always with Zee and the others at my back, knowing they would take care of me, best as they could.

  False confidence. My delusion. My mother had always worked so hard: martial arts, weapons training, games of strategy and deception. Keeping her mind and body sharp. She had trained me, too—but she had also been dead for five years, and I had let things lapse. I was rusty. I was an idiot. Relying on the boys was one thing—being lazy, something else entirely.

  The boys sat very quietly in the backseat. No music. No fidgeting. I glanced back once or twice and found them with their hands folded in their small laps, little clawed feet dangling above the floor. Ten minutes of listening to them sniffle made it impossible to stay angry. Hurt, maybe, but I could not hold a grudge. Not with them.

  “I need answers,” I finally said. Zee made a small hesitant sound that was distinctly uncomfortable, and I added, “You owe me that much. I thought I was going to die.”

  “No,” Zee said firmly. “Not death.”

  “I thought we were family.”

  “Thick as thieves.”

  “Then what is going on?”

  “Can’t,” Zee whispered, and a moment later melted from the shadows into the passenger seat beside me. He clutched his sharp knobby knees to his chest.

  I searched his gaze. “Why?”

  Small fingers tugged the bottom of my jacket. Raw and Aaz squirmed around the gearshift, under my arms, into my lap. Made it hard to drive, but I did not have the heart to push them away. Zee hugged his knees a little tighter. “Secrets, Maxine.”

  “You promised not to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Promised not to tell anyone.” His voice was soft, almost childlike. “Promised on our blood.”

  My hands tightened around the steering wheel. Demons might be morally deficient—by human standards—but they kept their word. Always. I did not know what would happen otherwise, but it was important business. And the boys were no less demonic: Their word was law. But to bind it to blood was another matter. Blood was life. Blood passed on. Blood lasted until you died.

  But the boys never died—and that was the life span of a promise.

  “Someone made you promise not to speak about that demon we just met? What about Jack Meddle? That message Blood Mama gave you?” I felt like a broken record asking those questions, but I stared at him, waiting—then slammed on the brakes as the light in front of me turned yellow. We all plowed forward, Dek and Mal tightening their tails around my throat. Aaz smacked his head against the horn, and the Jeep blurted out a fat little sound.

  “All connected,” Zee said, which made me want to beat my head against the horn, too. “Mommy told you.”

  My mother said a lot of things. Brush your teeth. Read the first three chapters of War and Peace. Always keep a twelve-gauge handy. But I think I would remember something about demons with knives for feet, or private messages between the boys and Blood Mama. I think she would have drilled that in.

  I grabbed Zee’s hand. “You have to give me more. I’m out of my league.”

  He shook his head. “Never. You are the Hunter.”

  I felt like a nobody. I ran my fingers along the short razor spikes of Zee’s angular cheek. Felt like silk grass. He leaned into my touch, eyes half-lidded.

  “Did you do this to Mom?” I asked him. “Keep these secrets?”

  He did not answer. I controlled myself, barely. “The demon?”

  Zee sighed. “Oturu. He is Oturu. Also . . . a hunter.”

  “Not from inside the veil. Not what I felt come through.”

  “No.” He peered up at me, as did Raw and Aaz. Dek and Mal licked the backs of my ears. “Never would have made you dead, Maxine.”

  “I was scared.”

  “All of us scared,” Zee whispered. “But not because you might die.”

  Chills beat through me. The light turned green. I hesitated, then accelerated through. I was downtown, and the museum was close. I found parking on the street, thought about asking more questions, but gave up. Later. I needed air. I needed to think about something else. I felt like a dog running in circles, chasing its tail.

  Jack Meddle, I told myself, walking fast toward Union and First Avenue. Maybe I could learn something from him. Like whether he had hired Badelt. Or slept with my grandmother.

  It was almost nine thirty.
I had an hour and a half to stalk the man.

  If I could get through the front door.

  The Seattle Art Museum had recently undergone an expansion; the new building, attached to the former gallery—a curved art deco monolith—was an upward sheet of glass and steel that glittered on the night street with its own austere, sophisticated vanity. Regular museum hours were over, but I saw bodies milling inside—tuxedos, black gowns, the glitter and tinkle of glass and diamond.

  My jeans were dirty, my hair a mess. I still had bits of sidewalk on my face, and my mascara had probably run. No time to clean up and nothing to change into. I had not worn a dress since my mother’s death, and heels would probably kill me faster than a zombie.

  The young man out front, stationed at a podium, was squat and round and wore an ill-fitting tuxedo that bunched at his waist and hung awkwardly on his shoulders. Temp job, or maybe a museum employee roped in at the last moment. He took one look at me, then glanced at a nearby security guard, who started ambling over with a self-important strut that made me want to stick my boot in his backside.

  “You need an invitation,” said the man dismissively, smoothing back his slick brown hair. “And some personal hygiene.”

  “This is urgent,” I replied. “I need to speak to Dr. Jack Meddle.”

  “I’m sure.” The man fussed with his sleeves and glanced again at the security guard. “But not now.”

  I was not in a good mood, and I felt like crap. “This is a family matter. A family emergency, you might say. And his cell phone is turned off.”

  “I am not going to interrupt—”

  I stepped around the podium into his personal space, so close our chests briefly touched, and held his gaze like a snake charmer: unblinking, cold, and hard. His voice choked. I whispered, “Do you really want to explain why the guest of honor was denied access to an important personal message, merely because the messenger did not conform to the dress code?” Several women in evening gowns, exiting through the doors, glanced at us with both curiosity and consternation. I ignored them. “What’s your name?”

  The man hesitated, his stuffiness deflating. The security guard began edging away. “I don’t see how—”

  “Your name,” I said coldly. “Don’t make me explain why I want it.”

  He frowned, trying to maintain his cool, and took a step back. I let him. Watched as he made a maddening show of looking me up and down.

  Then, in a very loud voice, no doubt meant to impress upon the exiting guests that he was doing a massive favor that in no way violated the rules of his employment, announced, “Yes, but do take only a moment while you relay your urgent, family-related message to Dr. Jack Meddle. He has many people wanting to speak to him tonight.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll try not to leave greasy fingerprints on the paintings, or toss chicken bones over my shoulder while I look for him.”

  The man rolled his eyes. I brushed past.

  Confidence was always the key to looking like you belonged, no matter how elite and froufrou the circumstances—or how run-down. And though I might have just had my ass handed to me by a demon, I still knew who I was—and I walked like it as I strode through the museum, head held high, back straight, with a sway to my hips that I hoped, but kind of doubted, any supermodel would envy.

  The gala had drawn a good crowd. I passed beneath a discomfiting fleet of white cars hanging from the ceiling, twisted upside down amidst streaks of colored lights, and followed the trail of well-dressed individuals to the old museum wing, where girls in tight uniforms carried platters of champagne and sushi.

  I recognized some faces from the evening news, including several politicians who had recently stopped by the Coop for photo opportunities on the supper line with the other volunteers. I got some odd looks—from them, and everyone else who got out of my way—but I ignored them all and kept my eyes searching for the prize. Dek and Mal huddled in my hair, slipping deeper under my jacket. No telling where Zee and the others were, but I was certain they were close.

  I glanced briefly at the artifacts on display. Most were made of pure soft gold, a rich deep yellow that looked like velvet made from the sun. Intricate metalwork, composed in an array of urns and ornaments and statues I wanted to spend more time appreciating. If these artifacts were the results of work my grandmother had participated in, then they were part of my history. I had so little of her already. I wanted to see the things she had touched. I wanted a taste of her adventure.

  As it was, I almost plowed into Jack Meddle.

  He was a big man, hard to miss, but I was momentarily distracted by a gold armband inlaid with onyx, a design that reminded me of the boys; as though the tattoos their bodies made had been pressed, in fragments, upon the jewelry. It was difficult for me to look away, but when I did, I turned too fast and rammed shoulders with the man I had been looking for.

  “Oh,” I said, before I realized, then looked into his face and added, “Oh.”

  It was him, no mistake. Jack Meddle had to be near eighty, but I could still see the man who had been in the photo. Tall, craggy, with that same lean charm and a sparkling, restless, intelligence in his clear blue eyes. He had nice eyes. Kind eyes.

  Eyes that stared at me, amused surprise turning to puzzlement, then amazement.

  “Jeannie,” he whispered, which gave me my own shock. Jean. My grandmother’s real name. She had trusted this man with it. I started to tell him he was mistaken, but he shook his head, squeezing shut his eyes. “No. You’re not her.”

  “She was my grandmother,” I said quietly.

  “Yes,” he said, looking at me again, this time with wonder, a bewilderment tinged by hollow sadness. It made him look tired and old, and no matter how much I wanted answers, I suddenly felt bad for disturbing him; on this night especially, which was a celebration of his work. It was rude, and I was an interloper with no right to his time—no matter the mystery that had brought me here.

  But Jack touched my arm, so gently; and then, before I could stop him, his hand slid around my neck, his fingers pressing against Dek and Mal. I froze, holding my breath. A moment later, the boys began to purr.

  “Ah,” said the old man, sighing. “I’ve missed the lads.”

  I could hardly speak. “You knew?”

  Jack smiled, and stared deeper into my eyes. “Of course, my dear. I am so delighted finally to meet you. Little Maxine Kiss.”

  JACK made some excuses. We left the party. As we exited the museum through the front doors and passed the podium, I was not so distracted that I failed to note, with grim amusement, the dismayed expression on the man’s face when he saw the both of us together.

  “We can walk,” said Jack, pulling up the collar of his coat. “My office is close.”

  For some reason, it surprised me that he lived in Seattle. Under my nose this entire time. Made me feel odd, like I was a step out of touch with my life. “You keep an office downtown? I thought you were an archaeologist.”

  “Oh,” he said. “This and that.”

  He walked like a young man, with a smooth rollicking gait. I worked hard to keep up with him. “My grandmother—”

  “Jeannie,” he said. “You look so much like her.”

  “I saw a picture of you both.” I pulled the newspaper from my back pocket. “In here. I found it in the office of a man who was looking for me. A private investigator.”

  His pace faltered. “Really.”

  “Were you trying to find me?”

  “Not I,” he said, his tone curious; halting and thoughtful. “But I’m glad you were found.”

  “I wasn’t,” I said. “The man was murdered.”

  He gave me a sharp look. “Murdered?”

  “Shot,” I told him, and thought he must be lying about not searching for me. “Just last night.”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. I glimpsed Zee, Raw, and Aaz in the shadows, the three of them standing apart, peering at us from under a car, from the mouth of a drain at the side of the roa
d, and within the thin line cast by the pole of a street-light. Red eyes glittered, the tops of their bristling heads pushing free of the slick darkness like demonic otters pulling free from water. The air tasted heavy with rain. Few people were on the sidewalk. I fought the urge to check the skies for figures in black cloaks, ready to descend.

  “Did you know him?” I asked. “His name was Brian Badelt.”

  “I never met the man,” Jack replied, carefully. I felt like Suwanai, listening to my own answers.

  “He knew my real name,” I persisted. “He had it written down on a paper just like this. With that picture of you and my grandmother. How do you explain that?”

  “My dear,” said Jack, “I wish I could.”

  “Then how did you know my name?” I fumbled for words, feeling awkward, ill at ease, thinking of my grandmother—Miss Chambers to the world—telling this man her name was Jean Kiss. “We’ve never met.”

  He smiled faintly. “Not that you remember.”

  I stared. Jack said, “Here we are, my dear. The door just ahead.”

  All I saw was the modern glass façade of an art gallery, a sleek presentation that screamed money and—I imagined—overly large paintings that no doubt consisted of black and white dots, or abstract imitations of tortured souls—meant to soothe the intellectual malaise of the very rich. Not the home of a treasure hunter, or a man who—if my grandmother had liked him—no doubt made his life outside the lines of normal society.

  But Jack surprised me by stopping in front of the glass door, pulling free a set of keys from the pocket of his long black coat. An elegant script had been printed on the glass: SARAI SOARS: ART GALLERY.

  He glanced at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t be so taken aback. Besides, this place belongs to my business partner. ”