The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

The back of the boy’s head moved in a jerky nod. He looked very small and slender inside his ratty clothes. I had the overwhelming urge to take him shopping, which meant it was time to get out, fast. Holy crap. My mother had been right. Stay in one place too long, and you just might lose your mind.

  I shut the door and left. All I had to deal with now was Grant.

  I found him at the chapel. He was playing his flute, perched on the edge of a chair beside the pulpit, his cane leaning against his thigh. More than half the seats in front of him were filled. Already deep into his morning inspirational, something the regulars liked to call a “quirk of the man.”

  It was an informal thing. Grant might have left the priesthood, but the priest had not left the man, and he liked saying a few words in the morning to anyone who showed up to pray. Nothing sugary, or full of fire and brimstone. Just a gentle sentiment or two, mostly about being optimistic, finding joy in life. Followed by a bit of music. Always, music.

  He was performing “Danny Boy” this morning, pouring out its sweet mournful tones. Power tickled over my skin. The man at work. Grant was the only other person I had ever met who straddled the lines of the mundane and the supernatural. He did it easily, with grace. Playing his music, masking it as brief entertainment—right now, shifting the auras of the congregated in subtle, quiet ways. Leaving folks with a lightness of the spirit, a sense of possibility, hope. An easing of despair.

  Grant, able to create joy within anyone. Except me. The only person he could not affect. Which was for the best. I had my own way of being happy—a reliance on smaller moments. Flashes etched together in my memories like a quilt, or scenes from a movie—a Western, some lone gun-fighter standing against an entire army. Bad attitude, terrible odds. Hard to kill.

  I saw some zombies in the audience, rapt.

  You are playing with fire, I thought at Grant, unable to shake the old uneasiness, my fear for him—that he could change souls and demons with nothing but a song.

  I was afraid one day he would change himself.

  I heard feet pounding down the hall, and stepped outside in time to see Mary racing helter-skelter toward the chapel. She had giant sunflowers on her dress, and cats the size of soccer balls adorning a giant shapeless sweater that came down to her knees. A streak of red lipstick had been applied haphazardly across her withered mouth. She almost ran past me into the chapel, then stopped, fixing me with a fierce look. “Someone is committing sin.”

  “Sin,” I said.

  “Sin,” Mary hissed impatiently, and pointed behind her. “Murder.”

  I blinked once, brain on the fritz. Then ran.

  I had no idea where to go, but I strained to hear, and caught a shout somewhere in front of me, at the end of the winding halls. Glass shattered, floating on startled gasps. Sounded like it was coming from the lobby. I raced around a corner in the hall, brushing past ragged women who looked over their shoulders, dragging children.

  At the end of the corridor, by the front volunteer desk, I saw a big man dressed in loose gray pants, his body dwarfed by an immense brown coat that made him look like a bear. His beard was dirty, tangled and damp, his hairy hands shaped like baseball mitts.

  He was also a zombie. One of the regulars, a convert to Grant.

  Byron was on the ground in front of him.

  My focus narrowed to a knifepoint. Painful. The boy was conscious, but badly hurt. Unable to stand. I watched in horror as the man slammed a heavy boot into his back. I was too far away to stop it.

  Others tried to intervene, but the zombie was too big, crazed. Rex was in the middle, grappling to get between him and the boy. His leg was torn, bleeding. Glass all over the floor. Anger in his eyes. Anger and hunger. Feeding, soaking in pain and fear—slips of raw energy. I could almost see the straw.

  He saw me coming, and his expression shifted. He shouted again at the other zombie, but this time it was a warning.

  Too late. Rex threw himself to the side as I barreled into the zombie. I hit him so hard he flew off his feet, slamming into the wall. I heard a crack, a rumble, felt plaster rain down on my head—but the zombie kept fighting, his eyes bulging, crazed. I had never seen one of them so blind with rage.

  He stood, and I followed, gritting my teeth as he grabbed my arm, shaking me hard. He did not stop. He started screaming, and the boys stirred, restless, dreaming violence. Dreaming the zombie’s scent.

  I grabbed his crotch and twisted with all my strength. Demonic parasites felt pain while inhabiting their human hosts, and the man beneath me screamed. I squeezed harder. His loose pants made it easy. He let go of my arm and tried to hit me, but I sidestepped, still pulling, and that only hurt him more.

  He dropped. I yanked so hard he fell backward, like a tank. The floor shook. I stepped on his neck before he could curl up on himself, and when he did not look at me, I slapped his cheek and grabbed his beard. He trembled, red-faced, breath rattling.

  Sober now, cut sharp as a nun. Staring at me as though he realized he was about to die.

  I controlled myself, barely. “Rex. Get these people out of here.”

  “No,” Rex said. “Hunter.”

  I snapped my head around and stared into his eyes. “Do it, or you’re next.”

  “I’d listen to her,” said Grant. I looked over my shoulder and found him standing behind us, quiet as a wolf. His knuckles were white around the head of his cane. In his other hand, the flute.

  The zombie bucked beneath me. I dropped, slamming my fist into the floor by his head, shattering the tile. “Do not even think about fucking with me. You try anything, you even think about standing up, and I will have you shitting out of your dick so fast you’ll beg me to rip it off.”

  The zombie froze. Everyone was quiet. Dark spots danced in my eyes. Rex said a few low words, and I heard feet shuffling, a halting murmur. I looked sideways and found Byron near me, eyes closed. Unconscious.

  Everything inside me stilled. The boy’s face was a wreck. Left eye swelling, bruised veins streaking into his lower cheek. His nose was broken, blood flowing across his upper lip, and his brow was covered in cuts and scrapes, like a bootheel had rubbed off the skin. Did not seem real. I could still see him standing in that damn apartment. He had been out of my sight for only ten minutes.

  Rex knelt. “Nine-one-one’s already been called.”

  I forced myself to look away. Grant leaned near, as far as his cane would allow, gazing at the zombie sprawled beneath me.

  Grant said, “You beat that child.”

  His voice was impossibly soft, terrifyingly cold. The zombie sucked in his breath, shuddering; his eyes bloodshot, chest heaving. “I forgot myself. Please. Please don’t let her kill me. I saw him and forgot. I forgot.”

  I did not care for coincidence. Byron was too specific a target. “Why the boy? Did someone put you up to it? Edik? Blood Mama?”

  The zombie looked from Grant to me, and shook his head, desperate. Words spilled from his mouth, demonic words. Rex drew near, and the zombie shifted to English.

  “Tell them,” hissed the possessed man. “Rex, tell them.”

  Rex looked away. “No, Scotty.”

  The zombie looked incredulous. “But . . . he’s a skin.”

  “Skin,” I echoed sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

  Scotty clamped his mouth shut. Rex turned away, walking to the corner of the reception area, no purpose to his movement; simply, as though he needed the distance. I glanced again at Byron. The boy seemed to be breathing, but he was still as stone.

  “Answer her question,” Grant said. “Why did you use that word?”

  Scotty refused to speak. I said, “He crossed the line. You know that.”

  “Maxine.”

  “No. He’s mine.”

  Grant closed his eyes. I stripped off my gloves. The zombie wept, no longer fighting; only begging, begging so hard. I felt no mercy. I had found demons in grandmothers and kindergarten teachers, in police officers and politicians. I had exorcis
ed children and the dying. The demons were all the same. Pain was the guarantee, no matter what the package looked like.

  I placed my hand against the zombie’s brow. “Any last words?”

  “Bargain,” he gasped.

  “No. Give me free words, and I’ll make it fast. Promise me no one made you do this.”

  Scotty said nothing, which was all the answer I needed. His aura began to pull away from his head; the demon inside, preparing itself for a quick escape.

  Like hell. I pressed my hand even harder against his brow and spat out the words my mother taught me. Old words, ancient. The demon inside the man shook loose in moments. I trapped it in my hand. Just a wisp, a smoke signal. The little demon screamed, his voice like a high, piercing whistle.

  And the boys, in their sleep, sucked its body into my skin—and ate it.

  Ten seconds from start to finish. Grant still had his eyes closed. I was afraid to touch him, but as I pulled away he grabbed my hand, raised it to his cheek, and held it there. I started breathing again, and kissed his shoulder.

  Beneath me, Scotty groaned. I stepped off his body and crouched by Byron. I touched his hair, but that was all. I did not want to hurt him. Fear made me sick. So did rage.

  Grant said, “Rex. We’ll need help here.”

  The zombie said nothing. He left the reception area. Grant leaned down and sang a soft melody under his breath. Power prickled. On the floor, the man’s breathing calmed. Grant did not stop humming. I did not know what he observed in the man’s aura, but his melody shifted, and I could almost imagine a jigsaw puzzle: a rearrangement of fragments, slipping new cues into place.

  Possession, whispered a tiny voice in my head. Grant is no different.

  But he was. I would never believe otherwise.

  Grant stopped humming. His silence was profound, as cutting as his song. He leaned heavily on his cane, thoughtful, and glanced at some of the men who walked into the reception area. All of them were regulars to the shelter, fellow homeless, big strong guys who were studying for their GEDs. I knew, because every now and then I tutored a class. They knelt by Scotty and helped him sit up.

  I sat down on the floor, feeling like a German shepherd, and guarded the boy until the ambulance came.

  THE shit hit the fan at the same time. EMTs, police, sirens wailing so loud I heard babies crying. Some of the guys who had been helping with Scotty scattered fast. No one wanted to be around a badge and uniform. Including me.

  I had to talk to the officers. No sign of Suwanai or McCowan, but word would leak back. I could only imagine what they would think, but all I hoped for was that no one linked Byron to Badelt. A can of worms I did not want to deal with. Not through official channels, anyway.

  EMTs carried Byron out on a stretcher. He wore a neck brace. Grant limped close, haggard. “I’m going to have to call Social Services. If I don’t, the hospital will.”

  I pressed my knuckles against my forehead. “I should have been more careful. I promised that kid everything would be okay. Now he’s practically in a coma.”

  Grant sighed. “He’s faking unconsciousness, Maxine. He’s awake.”

  I froze. “You’re kidding.”

  “I was distracted. Didn’t notice the mark in his aura until ten minutes ago, but there were too many people around to call him out. The EMTs will figure it out soon, if they haven’t already.”

  “You think he heard me kill that demon?”

  “Don’t know. But no matter how badly he’s been hurt, I doubt he’ll stick around that hospital long enough for the police to question him. Or for Social Services to take custody. ”

  I felt sick, like a monster, for not being able to protect the boy—or keep the rug firmly under his feet. “Someone needs to be with him.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I’ve been assigned the job?”

  “Because you’re the only one I trust. Scotty called Byron a piece of skin. Nothing but a skin. Zee used that word last night to describe Jack Meddle, and here it is again, out of the mouth of a zombie. A zombie who just so happened to attack a boy who knew Badelt.” I closed my eyes, hands tapping against my thighs. “Byron said that Badelt was murdered by the same people running drugs through the university district. That would be Edik’s group.”

  “And he answers to Blood Mama,” Grant said grimly, then looked on as the police led Scotty out of the lobby.

  It was terrible. The big man seemed so lost. Human again . . . and now this. I wondered how long he had been possessed, how much had been stolen from his life. Certainly, his freedom. If I had exorcised the man as I should have the first time I met him, all this could have been avoided.

  Made me angry. At myself—and Grant. Though it was hard to hold that anger when I looked into Grant’s face and saw something cracking, breaking. He watched the police take Scotty like he was the one in handcuffs. He listened with awful tension as the big man protested he did not remember committing a crime.

  I grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t,” he echoed bleakly. “Don’t soften it. You and I both know how this happened.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “But the boy’s a target. If not Scotty, then someone else. No good looking back.”

  Grant rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand. “I hadn’t planned on letting you out of my sight quite so soon. I seem to remember making an impassioned speech last night.”

  “It was a good speech,” I told him; and then, gently: “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re talking to me, Maxine.”

  “I will be fine,” I said again, more firmly. “Really. I’m more worried about the boy. And you.”

  Grant shook his head. “I would say, I’ll be fine, but then we’ll just start all over again. And we’d both be lying.”

  “Go,” I said, feeling miserable. “Be careful. I’d do it myself, but there’s other trouble.”

  He gave me a sharp look. Rex approached. His aura was dull, his expression guarded. Grant leaned in and whispered something in the zombie’s ear. Rex looked at me and shook his head, but Grant grabbed his arm and the dark spittle of Rex’s demon aura fluttered, gasping under the power of Grant’s touch, the barely audible melody of his voice. That was all it took. It helped that Rex was willing.

  Convert. Goody Two-Shoes. Demonic son of a bitch declaring himself free for the light. Weaning himself from pain. And Blood Mama. There might have been twenty other zombies, male and female, who felt the same. All of them rotated through the shelter, coming in for regular musical treatments, personal sessions with Grant that allowed him to modify the energy patterns in their demon spirits. Mornings in the chapel were icing on the cake.

  Not that Scotty could be called a success story.

  Some of the people in the reception area still watched us. I disliked the scrutiny, but Grant caught my hand and pulled me close. “You be careful,” he whispered. I nodded dumbly, swallowed up by the intensity of his gaze. There were promises in Grant’s eyes. Always, promises.

  He backed off, slowly—gave Rex another hard look— then limped down the hall.

  I watched until he was gone, then turned to the zombie. He stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, a demon staring from those human eyes. He was a man of all trades in this place. He helped people, was well liked. But he still fed on pain—even if he did not cause any.

  Rex did not move. Neither did I. Behind us, people began talking again, laughing uneasily. I heard a broom, the tinkle of glass. Somewhere, the dulcet croon of Smokey Robinson. I smelled blood, but Rex seemed unconcerned by his injury.

  “Let’s go somewhere else,” I told him.

  We found a bench down the hall and sat. Rex stared at the wall across from us, painted butter yellow and covered with fat butterflies, painted by the children who used the day-care services the shelter provided. I saw tulips, fairies hiding in red petals—a blue bird caught in a shaft of thick goopy sunlight, winging above the jagged waves of a green sea. A mermaid looked back at me.
r />   “Feel better?” Rex asked. “A little murder make your morning?”

  “You didn’t protect the boy.”

  “I didn’t get there in time. Scotty was out of control. Not like I did the rest.”

  But maybe it tasted good. Maybe it was sweet. I studied his eyes, the flicker of his aura, which was a shallower shade of darkness than others of his kind. The only evidence Grant had affected him.

  “Scotty tried to kill Byron for a reason,” I said. “And you know what it is.”

  “Not true,” he replied, but something small squirmed in his gaze, and I felt it click inside me like a key, turning.

  We were alone in the hall. I took off my gloves. “Nothing gets past you, Rex. I bet you knew Edik had a message for me, just waiting to be delivered. Maybe you knew about Badelt, too. One human man, looking for the Hunter. Seems like that would cause some gossip. Gosh, I suppose you might even know who ordered his death. Like . . . Edik? Blood Mama?”

  Rex stared at my hands, the tattoos. “You’re wrong.”

  “Grant won’t care if I get rid of you. Not now. Not if you betrayed me.”

  “Grant doesn’t know what you are.”

  “So you admit to holding out on me.”

  “Fuck you,” he snapped. “I’ve done nothing.”

  “That’s the point.” I placed my hand on his wound. His blood soaked into my skin, and he shuddered, fists digging into his upper thighs. He made no move to fight me. He knew better.

  “Stop it,” he hissed.

  “Give me what I want,” I told him quietly. “Or sit there. The boys will bleed you out. You’ll be dead in ten minutes. ”

  “And if I leave this body?” Rex drew in a shaky breath, looking at me with hate in his eyes. “If I run? Would you still kill the host?”

  “I’d kill you,” I replied. “I’ll kill you, either way. But only if you don’t talk.”

  “I did not betray Grant,” Rex snarled. “Not him. Not his trust.”

  “Touching. Answer my questions.”

  “I don’t know who killed the investigator,” he insisted.

  “But you knew he was asking questions.”

  “I’d heard rumors, but I didn’t believe them. It made no sense.”