Sarai. I thought that must be her. I felt, for a moment, an awkward and unreasonable jealousy for my grandmother, that Jack Meddle could be involved with another woman. I had to remind myself, sternly, that Jean Kiss might never have been involved in the first place with the archaeologist— and that she had been dead for almost thirty years. I had to cut the guy some slack.
And stop with the obsession. All this fretting over one old man—when I had so much else to be concerned about—was a true waste of time.
But I was here. He knew my name. And the boys. That was enough.
The art gallery was smaller on the inside than I had thought it would be—and the paintings very different, even startling. My preconceptions, stretched beyond black dots and abstract splashes. I had to take a moment, staring. Baffled. Chilled.
Because the works of art hanging on the walls—every single one of them—were of unicorns.
Not the garden-variety unicorn, either. Not some Thomas Kinkade, dreamy-eyed, soft-lit fantasy full of white horses with big horns. Not a poster of some hot pink sunset with magic rearing on silver hooves like a prepubescent fantasy shot full of fairy-tale steroids.
None of that. I stood in the doorway of Sarai Soars and stared at the most visceral incarnations of that creature I had ever seen in my life. I felt like I was thirteen again, when my mother had piled art books on me: the Pre-Raphaelites my favorites, English artists from the nineteenth century; like Rossetti, or Burne-Jones, their work sincere; themes romantic, classical.
These paintings held the same tone; strong lines and rich color, naturalistic detail: a unicorn upon a field of battle, crammed and crowded, sunk as though in quicksand by wild-eyed soldiers in medieval armor, trapped in a moment of death and violence, without end or horizon; merely bodies, tumbling upon each other, churning upon swords and axes splashed in blood. And the unicorn, braced amongst them, untouched and shining, lean as a starved tiger—staring out of the painting with eyes that reminded me of the demon: Oturu, his smile. Knowing and old and effortlessly powerful.
Masterful. Hypnotic. I wanted to buy the damn thing. I wanted to put a pillow on the floor and just lie there and stare.
There were other paintings, and each one felt like gazing at a truth. As though a unicorn had stood in battle, or upon the ramparts of an ancient desert citadel, surrounded by archers—or in the ocean, a gray specter of what seemed to be D-day, with the Allied forces fighting and dying upon the Normandy beachhead, and that fantastical creature nearly lost in the foaming waves, struggling with the men as they fought and died. I could feel it. In my gut.
The paintings themselves were few in number, probably because they were massive, and wall space was limited— but I was grateful for that. Staring at them too long made me feel as though my heart were being laid bare—and that something else might stare back.
“Remarkable, aren’t they?” Jack murmured. “Sarai does get inspired sometimes.”
“Yes,” I said, as Dek and Mal poked free of my hair to get their own good look. I tensed, aware of Jack studying them, but all he did was reach out and scratch under their chins. They giggled, purring, and it was just surreal enough to make me want to sit down and put my head between my knees.
But Jack suddenly stopped, and though he made no outward sign of alarm, his stillness was enough to make my hackles rise.
Cold air filled the gallery. Not a breeze or stirred breath, but an ambient rising chill, as if someone had just dumped a thousand pounds of ice beneath our feet. It was an unmistakable dip in temperature, a shock to the system—and not the malfunction of any air conditioner.
Heat was another kind of energy. Soak it up, leave only a chill. Like eating fire and pissing ice. All those archetypal images of Hell—brimstone and pits of lava, folks tap-dancing in flames—nothing but a manifestation of an old truth. Some demons liked it hot.
Dek and Mal rumbled. Zee and the others were still nowhere to be seen, but I felt them pressed within the shadows like sharp ghosts. I felt like I was looking for a ghost. I reached into my hair, fingers curling around a thick quivering tail. “Jack, something’s wrong. We’re not alone.”
“It’s nothing,” he said calmly.
“You don’t understand.”
“But I do.” Jack glanced at a spot over my right shoulder, the corner of his mouth turning down. “Let it pass.”
He knew too much. I should have found that exciting, but I did not. Maybe it was because I felt a hard ugly gaze boring into the back of my skull. I wanted to turn around more than anything, but I did not move a muscle. I pretended ignorance. Played the game. Trusted the boys.
And just like that, the cold snapped. Heat washed over us like the open door of a giant oven, but it was superficial. My bones remained frozen. My heart, arctic.
Dek and Mal stopped growling, but their straining tails were tense as tethers, and I patted them both as Zee poked his head from a shadow—directly behind Jack, out of the old man’s sight—and shook his head at me. Whatever had been here was gone.
Jack said, “I should keep more sweaters around.”
I exhaled slowly, trying not to shake. “You sound used to this.”
He shrugged, utterly nonchalant. Or maybe it was an act. “Certain associations draw unwanted attention. Nothing can change that.”
Certain associations. My grandmother. But he was too relaxed. I did not buy it. “Jack. Who are you?”
Surprise flickered. “Why, an archaeologist. You know that.”
“And I suppose, as a simple archaeologist, you’re aware of . . . demons.”
“Well, no,” he replied, with faint exasperation. “That has nothing to do with my profession.”
I stared, perplexed. Afraid for him, even. But Jack merely waved his hand and led me past a small rosewood screen carved in sparrows and cherry blossoms. Behind, a narrow white door, and a narrow flight of stairs. We walked up to the second floor, which was so unlike the first, I had to take another moment just to get my bearings. And wonder whether I was going to be buried alive.
Tables surrounded me, long wooden surfaces piled high with paper and books. Mountains of them. Everywhere. Shelves lined the walls, but those were full, too, and the only way through—as the floor was also covered in books— was a long, narrow path that threatened to topple an avalanche of paperwork with every turn. I saw wooden crates filled with packing material and metal, statues upon the tables, and shards of pottery. I did not see windows. The room felt like being inside a big papery cocoon, warm and messy. Lamps, already on, filled the air with golden light. I heard Jimmy Durante singing softly.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Jack said, then: “Zee, you can come out now. No need to be so formal.”
I bit my tongue. Zee appeared from beneath the tables, Raw and Aaz behind him. The boys prowled, sniffing the air, and Jack watched them with that same sad smile I had seen at the museum.
“Old Wolf,” rasped Zee.
“Little boy,” said the old man. “Still the same.”
“Like you.” Zee flashed him a toothy grin. “Silly skin.”
I folded my arms over my chest. Jack glanced at me and chuckled. “I know that look.”
I frowned. “I don’t see how.”
“Jeannie.” Jack walked down the narrow path. “And your mother.”
I had started to follow him, and stopped. “You knew my mother?”
“Briefly. You were a baby.” Jack made some rattling noises, out of sight from me. “Tea?”
“No,” I replied, still peevish about my close encounter downstairs. “How come I don’t know any of this?”
“My dear, I learned long ago never to question a woman in the rearing of her child, especially you particular women. You are ornery creatures.”
I had to sit down. My knees told me so. I perched on the edge of a table, my hip brushing paperwork and a glass jar of old pennies. Aaz rested his head on my knee, drooling slightly as I scratched behind his ears. “Sounds like you knew them well.”<
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Jack made a muffled sound that I took to be a yes. I heard cups rattling. I wanted to ask him more—like, Can I call you Grandpa?—but that was too much, absolutely crazy. But when I tried to ask something else, my mouth refused to form the words. My body wanted silence. So I obeyed, floating in gentle insanity, perusing the books I had been leaning against.
Most of them, surprisingly, dealt with northern European mythic traditions; specifically those of fairy, and, even more specific than that, something called the Furious Host, the Wild Hunt.
I was familiar with the concept. No expert, but I had come across it during all those trips to the bookstores and libraries. I had a vague impression of a man wearing antlers and a moss loincloth, leading ghosts and goblins and fairies on some spectral hunt through the woods. Not something I had focused on all that much. Hans Christian Andersen was more up my alley.
But I was nervous and needed to feel busy—and these texts were new to me, with inserts written by hand and typewriter. I found myself skimming, drawn to the words—one page in particular, which I thought must have been written in Jack’s hand.
It is of us, I read, this hunt, this wild raging hunt that takes upon itself the nature of an Age, and destroys so that others may be reborn.
There was more, but Jack appeared down the narrow path between stacked paper. He held two steaming cups in his hands. “Ah. You’ve found the light reading, I see.”
“It’s interesting.” I closed the book—and the page. “I thought you were an archaeologist only. Not a folklorist.”
“I am a man of many disciplines. And the two are not so dissimilar. There would be no cities to find, my dear, without the hearts that shaped them.”
I tapped the book. “Fairy tales?”
“Dreams and portents,” he replied, and held out a cup. I wanted to ask him more, but kept my mouth shut and carefully set aside the book. I took the hot drink. Tea. The liquid was a dark rich red, and I sipped it, gingerly. Tasted good and sweet.
“Jeannie preferred sugar with hers,” said Jack. “I thought you might have similar tastes.”
“It feels weird to hear you talk about her. I was shocked when I saw that photograph.”
“It’s one of my favorites.” Jack leaned on the table opposite me and glanced down at Zee. “There’s a toolbox beneath the sink if you’re hungry.”
Raw and Aaz looked at each other, ears perked, and disappeared into the shadows. Zee stayed where he was, regarding the old man with a thoughtfulness that made me nervous. I heard metal rattle. Dek and Mal chirped softly, and I reached into my hair to give them a gentle push. They winked off my shoulders, and the missing weight made me feel naked.
“My grandmother trusted you,” I said. Just as my mother must have trusted him. I wished I understood why she had never mentioned his name. Or why the boys had refused to discuss him when I first showed them his picture in Badelt’s office.
I thought of the demon. Oturu. Jack said, “We met in 1955. I had been working in Persia for some time, cataloging certain artifacts, evidence of cultural migration between China and the Middle East, and I happened to bump into Jeannie in the market. She was buying grapes, and was very angry at the price she had been quoted.” Jack smiled into his teacup. “I came to her rescue.”
I found myself covering my mouth, hiding my own smile. I bit my bottom lip. “What happened then?”
“She and I started talking. It turned out she had traveled extensively throughout Central Asia, and was quite familiar with certain archaeologically significant areas unknown to me—or any other outsider. She offered to take me to them. For a fee. She liked money, that one.”
“And the boys? How did you find out about them?”
“We were attacked.” Jack’s gaze turned distant. “Desert raiders. One of them shot at me. He was too close to miss. Jeannie . . . shielded me . . . with her body. Those bullets tore her clothing to shreds, but she remained unharmed. Scared the daylights out of the raiders, I can tell you that much. We were the only ones left alive.” He smiled again, but it was not quite as happy. “She explained the rest. No choice, really.”
“How long—” I had to stop, and steadied myself with a sip of tea. “How long were you together?”
“Oh, years.” Jack faltered, staring down at his tea. “I assume your mother passed away.”
I hesitated. “Five years ago.”
Jack’s face was still turned from me, but his chin dipped deeper against his chest, and his hands tightened around the teacup. A tremor raced through him. So faint it could have been nothing more than a breath.
“You were so lovely,” he said quietly, and I thought he might be speaking to the memory of my mother until he added, “Not a cry out of you. A sweet baby.”
I did not know what to say. Maybe he was speaking of my mother. Maybe me. Maybe, maybe. Too many maybes. “She brought me to you?”
“Just after you were born. It was one of her last visits.” Jack set down his tea. “Come. I have something for you.”
He stepped carefully down the path. I watched him intently, his words still ringing, said so casually. It was one of her last visits.
I started to follow, but Zee stopped me, holding up his hands. I swung him into my arms, and he pressed his mouth to my ear. “We promised, Maxine. Mommy made us. No talking about the Meddling Man.”
“Why?” I whispered.
Zee hesitated. “Look deep, beneath the skin. Meddling Man is all skin.”
A riddle. Not the worst. But it made me uneasy, when all I wanted was joy.
I found Jack on the other side of the room, around a freestanding bookshelf that served as a dividing wall. I saw a sink, a stove, a dishwasher—four little demons eating the remains of a toolkit—a table that was, remarkably, only half-covered in books—one refrigerator that was twenty years too old, and a door to what I assumed was either a bedroom or a toilet.
Jack was mumbling to himself, and I tried to memorize every detail of the old man—still in a tuxedo, lost in a maze of books and paper. It was a treasure, a delight. Better than what I could have imagined.
I almost asked—right then, right there. The question almost slipped free. Took all my willpower to hold it in, but I was too scared not to. Too frightened of myself. Jack Meddle was a stranger. I had no reason to trust him. No cause to believe.
But I wanted to. I wanted Jack to say yes. I wanted him to be family, so badly I could taste it.
And if it was someone else, and not him . . . I did not want to know. Not yet. I could pretend, just for a little while.
“Here,” Jack said, smiling triumphantly. I still held Zee in my arms, and swayed close, peering at the object in the old man’s hands. It was covered in a fine linen that he swiftly unfolded, revealing a round flat stone. A disc. Filled with deep concentric lines that seemed to shimmer, as though the stone itself was laced with veins of pearl.
My vision blurred. My stomach clenched. I leaned against the kitchen table. Zee’s hands tightened around my neck.
“What is it?” I asked. My voice sounded strange in my ears.
“A gift,” Jack said slowly, “from your mother. She said if we ever happened to . . . bump into one another . . . you should have it.”
“Bump into one another?” I rubbed my aching eyes. “What were the odds of that?”
“My dear girl . . . you’re here, aren’t you?”
Raw and the others stopped eating. They sat on the floor, staring at the stone in Jack’s hands. Dek and Mal collapsed from the shadows inside my hair to drape across my shoulders.
He held out the disc. I took it from him. My hand tingled. Zee seemed to hold his breath.
But nothing happened. It was just rock. Smooth rock, polished to a butter-soft shine. Sandstone, perhaps. It felt good to hold, and the design in its heart was simple. Those circles within circles. I touched the outer ring, dipping my finger into the carved line. I could not help myself. I began to trace it, and again, my skin tingled. I felt dizzy, and
stopped.
“What is it?” I asked again.
Jack never answered. We both heard his door creak open, and then a woman called, “Are you in there, Old Wolf? Something’s happened.”
Zee vanished from my arms, while Raw and Aaz winked into the shadows beneath the sink. Dek and Mal stopped purring. Jack hesitated, as though he was seriously contemplating silence. “Yes, Sarai. We have company.”
I did not hear the woman move through the other room, but suddenly she was there, at the corner of my eye. I turned.
And one piece of the puzzle slipped into place.
Sarai was the woman from Badelt’s photograph. No mistake. She was slender, shorter than I, with long silver hair that framed a face so ethereally perfect, so lovely, I could only imagine Troy and Helen and one thousand ships, and think that yes, maybe such a thing could have happened, perhaps a woman could be that beautiful.
Sarai certainly was. A hundred times more beautiful in person, as if Badelt’s photograph had captured only a rough copy of the woman—and though I guessed she was in her forties or fifties, I could hardly find one wrinkle, one flaw, in her skin. No makeup, either. She was unreal.
“You,” I said slowly. “It was you who sent Badelt after me.”
“Oh,” Sarai said. “Damn.”
CHAPTER 7
ODDLY enough, I thought of Shakespeare first. Part of a birthday present when I was twelve: a book of quotes from the Bard. Poetic maxims. My mother was big on those.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie, Imagine every eye beholds their blame.
Maybe. But Shakespeare would have been waiting for a cold day in hell before he saw guilt—or any other emotion— in Sarai Soars’s eyes.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said. “Brian?”
I did not answer. I was too busy studying her reaction. My mother had kept her emotions hidden with most everyone but me. Survival, she called it, and maybe Sarai was the same—though I had questions that took precedence over personality. I wanted to know how she knew me. Or why seeing me would make her assume a man had died.
“He was murdered,” Jack said quietly. “I’m sorry, Sarai.”
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