The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “And Edik? The veil? What game is Blood Mama playing? ”

  “Blood Mama does what she must to survive. But if you’re asking if she made a deal, I can’t tell you that. I don’t know.”

  “You know enough,” I retorted. “You must have some idea.”

  “I have an idea that all the inmates want to tear the prison down. Isn’t that enough?” Rex closed his eyes, shaking his head. “The only reason Blood Mama hasn’t ordered my execution is that she thinks I’ll be useful with Grant. She hasn’t given up on him. She never will, Hunter.”

  I took my hand off his leg. My palm was warm, dry. The boys felt cozy on my skin. They liked snacks. “Blood Mama and I have an agreement. A bargain made by one of my ancestors. Grant is off-limits. Anyone I mark is safe.”

  I felt like an idiot saying those words. It was a lie. No one was ever safe. Rex gave me a disdainful look. “Old bargains. You and your kin, striking deals for descendents. Nickel-and-diming your souls.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know more than you.” His mouth curled, grim. “Don’t be so righteous, Hunter. You’ll do the same, eventually. They all do. Even your mother.”

  I slammed my hand against his throat. “Say that again.”

  Rex wheezed, clawing at my arm. I heard voices at the end of the hall and released him just as some children appeared, accompanied by one of the day-care professionals, a retired teacher named Betty. Nice old woman. She made June Cleaver look like a hack job, though her husband was serving a thirty-year sentence for a string of bank robberies committed in the early nineties. The police had never recovered the money.

  “Mrs. Sansbury,” I said politely. Rex leaned over his knees, coughing.

  Betty frowned at him, steering the children away. “You should cover your mouth, Mr. Mongabay.”

  Rex grunted, still hunched over his stomach. Betty shook her head. I smiled and waved at the kids, who were sweet and smiled like angels should. When they passed out of sight, Rex muttered, “Don’t ruin this for me.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “This life.” He turned bloodshot eyes on me, his mouth crooked. “My freedom, what little I have. It is all I have.”

  “You’re a demon, Rex. You are not a man.”

  “I can be both,” he hissed. “Just like you. I can change. I have changed.”

  “Only because of Grant. He forced you.”

  “He opened a door I didn’t know existed,” Rex replied, with a fervor that had always unsettled me. “He broke my link to the Queen.”

  “She still controls you.”

  “But not here.” The zombie pressed a fist against his chest. “I am not just one of her mouths anymore, Hunter. I am not a feeding tube. I am me. I am this man.”

  “Stolen skin.”

  “He didn’t want it.”

  “Convenient.”

  Rex leaned back, rubbing his throat. Hate in his eyes. “You’re no better than a serial killer, Maxine Kiss. Dress it up all you like, but you can’t live without the hunt. It’s in your blood. All of you Hunters, feeding the addiction.”

  “And your kind?”

  “My kind are available. And all these years you’ve had the moral high ground. You gave yourself permission because we hurt the humans. Fed on their pain. But it’s harder now, isn’t it? What Grant does makes it impossible for you.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” I admitted. “But I’m not losing any sleep.”

  “Of course not.” The zombie leaned in, eyes glinting. “But if not us, then who, Hunter? Who will you kill if you can’t have us?”

  I tilted my head, studying his eyes, the flicker of his aura. Steady, strong. “Your morality is nothing but artifice. Illusion. Grant gives it to you. He could take it away.”

  “Playing God,” whispered Rex. “And yet, you don’t question him.”

  If only he knew. I yanked on my gloves. “The boy. Explain that.”

  Rex looked down at the hole in his leg. Bleeding had stopped. “Leave it alone, Hunter. You’ve got bigger problems. ”

  More and more, every minute of the day. “I want to know.”

  He closed his eyes. “You don’t. Trust me.”

  “Rex. I need information. The veil opened. Something came through.” Something small and nasty and full of piss. Wearing my face. A sour knot twisted in my gut. “What escaped?”

  “A scout.” Rex looked suddenly weary. “More than a scout. Something that should never have been locked away.”

  I hesitated. “Is it not a demon?”

  Rex looked me dead in the eye. “What is a demon? You think you know? Is it everything that isn’t human? Or is there a sign on our foreheads that marks us with a big red ‘D’?” He briefly closed his eyes, shaking his head. “You, Hunter. You are so ignorant. Better ask yourself what you are, before you come after us.”

  He had a point, which I was loath to admit. Or maybe I had been around Grant too long. I was beginning to think of zombies as individuals. Not just . . . meat.

  I touched the spot just below my ear, which tingled. “What do you know about a demon with knives for feet?”

  Rex stared. “What?”

  “Toes like knives. Big cloak, black hat. Dances like a charmer.”

  He flinched, and stood. I caught his shoulder, feeling the demon squirm beneath his human skin. I saw terror in his aura, stark and hot. “What is it?”

  Rex wrenched away. I grabbed him again, and he punched my stomach. It did not hurt, but it surprised me so much I let go. He staggered backward, staring at me as though he was seeing my face for the first horrifying time. Reminded me of Jack’s reaction to seeing Oturu’s mark on my face.

  I lurched toward the zombie. “What is it?”

  He danced away, then stopped, frozen. Behind him, I heard the children, laughing and shouting.

  “Rex,” I breathed.

  “The Hunt,” he whispered. “You’re going to kill us all.”

  CHAPTER 10

  LATER, I understood why my mother ripped those pages from her diary.

  There were things I could never confess. Not to my daughter, should I live long enough to have one—and not to Grant. Not the boys, though I suspected they could read my mind. Some thoughts, the ones that lingered, were better left as ghosts.

  Some things should remain beneath the skin.

  REX ran. I went after him, but he was fast, slippery, and I lost him once he got outside. Hell-bent for leather, pedal to the metal—like a man with his heels on fire—and if I had not been entirely certain of his need for Grant, I might have imagined him burning tracks out of town. Right now, never coming back.

  I did not waste time searching. I had alternatives. But I went back to the apartment first. There were some things I needed.

  It was quiet upstairs. Grant was already gone. I looked inside the guest bedroom, thinking of Byron. My promises to him. How I had failed to keep even one boy safe. One boy, when there was an entire world that needed protection.

  Talk about screwed.

  In the living room, I gazed at the large windows, the deep couches, the guitars and piano, the Triumph motorcycle, polished to a loving red sheen. Masks and photographs covered the brick walls, along with stones and other knickknacks scattered on tiny tables. So many books, smiling from their shelves; mostly religious in nature, covering Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism; even Shamanic faiths; myths and legends. Archaic texts, some of which were in Latin, Italian, and French.

  My mother’s trunk sat against the wall, underneath a Tibetan tapestry that hugged the edge of the long table where Grant carved some of his flutes. Amongst his tools, different kinds of wood had been laid out: bamboo, walnut, cherry.

  The sun was warm. I could see, through the window, the metal and glass of downtown, sparkling.

  I knelt before the trunk and fumbled at the combination lock. I opened it. The journals were stacked on top. Leather-bound books, bundled sheaves of loose paper, folders with newspaper clippings. A B
ible. An old cloth box full of photographs sitting beneath a stuffed bunny, loved and stitched and full of rambling patches. A battered leather jacket, a pair of gloves, also leather. Black, supple, small. Custom-made for my mother’s hands. Looking at them made me light-headed.

  At the bottom of the trunk, beneath a false panel, I found the weapons. Two pistols and the old twelve-gauge, cradled on boxes of ammunition. I tried to ignore the guns. I remembered my mother cleaning them, sitting cross-legged on hotel beds with the news on, or Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.

  I remembered her body, too. On the floor. Blood, everywhere. My twenty-first birthday, candles still burning on the cake. The boys, weeping. All of us, orphans.

  I took a deep breath. Reached for the bundle wrapped in black velvet. Held it in my lap, then on the floor, sitting back on my heels as I unrolled the rich, heavy cloth.

  Inside were my mother’s knives. I had not seen them since she died, had not thought about using them. I had promised myself I would not.

  The blades were simple, noble. Custom-made. No hilt, just steel, folded and honed. Razor-sharp, double-edged, both ends pointed and serrated. Touching them was dangerous. Required thick skin, or gloves with iron embedded. My mother had inherited them from her mother, as had my grandmother from hers. Old, but still strong. Full of history.

  I took off my gloves and pulled the turtleneck over my head. Naked from the waist up, every inch of my skin up to my chin covered in the boys. I picked up the first knife, and the steel blended with the scales and spikes covering my palm and wrist, glinting like the silver embedded in my flesh. I remembered my mother also holding her knives, just so, and the memories grew stronger as I began to sharpen each blade—all twelve of them—against my arms.

  Sparks flew. The boys loved knives. They loved my mother more. I wondered what kinds of secrets, if any, they had kept from her.

  The leather brace fit like a shoulder holster. I slipped it on, and the fit was perfect. The knives rested against my ribs. I fingered my jacket, then pushed it aside for my mother’s leather coat and gloves. Stupid. I was going too far. But it made me feel better, and the leather was soft, supple, every scratch like a scar.

  I put everything back inside the trunk, except for the box of photographs. Those I left on the workbench, for Grant. Just in case. He had never seen them. I had never brought them out, unwilling to make a production out of it, watching his reaction.

  The stone circle was warm in my back pocket. I patted it, then stopped in front of the mirror on my way out.

  Edik was right.

  I did look like my mother.

  THERE was always a cab or two around the Coop. I got a ride back to the university district to pick up the Mustang. Still morning, and Seattle was hopping. Good weather brought folks out in droves, all of them stripped down to shorts and T-shirts and those odd, clunky sandals that seemed to be a fad in this part of North America. The temperature was only fifty degrees, but it might have been Arizona in summer for all the skin I saw. Poor sun-starved bastards.

  The Mustang was where I had left it. “Bohemian Rhapsody” on the radio. I cranked the volume up and rolled the windows down, enjoying the crisp salty air in my lungs. The boys slept heavily against my skin: dreaming my life, dreaming others’, women dead and gone. My only promise of immortality, lost in blood, memory.

  The art gallery was open. No blood splattered on the walls. Only one person inside, a young pretty blonde dressed in jeans and a peasant blouse. She sat behind a small desk and stood when I walked in. I said, “Sarai and Jack are expecting me.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “You can go on up.”

  I paused before the painting of the unicorn trapped in battle. I did not see a name or date. “Sarai painted this, right?”

  The woman nodded. “It’s not for sale, though. None of her work is.”

  “Then this art gallery is just a place for her to exhibit?” I found myself unable to look away from the painting. “I’m surprised she isn’t more famous.”

  “And what is fame to a unicorn?” said Sarai, appearing from the side door. Two thick silver braids framed her face, and her skin seemed to glow from within. I had as much trouble looking away from her as I did from the painting. Sarai glanced at the young woman. “Linn, you can take the rest of the day off. I’ll be closing early.”

  No arguments, no hesitation. The blonde smiled at me, grabbed her purse, and almost ran out the door. Sarai locked it. A hush descended upon the room.

  “Thank you for coming back,” she said. “And for your understanding.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I replied. “Things are getting out of hand. I had an encounter this morning with a creature . . . a nonhuman creature . . . who knows you and Jack. Called you old friends.”

  Saying that much to a stranger felt like an invitation to be called crazy, but Sarai remained silently thoughtful, with little reaction to judge. She turned her head, just so, and stared out the gallery window at the street. We were near Pike Place Market. I saw brick and flowerpots. The sky was blue, and the sun shot bars of white across the clean wood floor. I looked behind me and met the gaze of a unicorn in the sea, fighting for shore, against bullets and blood.

  I waited for Sarai to say something, anything, but she never did. So I took a moment to get my bearings, rest my mind. Sarai was a hard woman to read, but there was enough steel in her eyes, in the way she moved, to erase any doubt that this was a woman who needed watching. Like a hawk.

  “You’re talented,” I said. You are hiding something.

  “I’m patient,” she replied. “I’ve had years to hone my craft.”

  “Why unicorns?” Why do you know me?

  “Do you find them childish?”

  “Not the way you depict them.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s go find Jack.”

  Compared to the bright sunlit interior of the gallery, Jack’s office felt like the cave of some mountain hermit, an intellectual scavenger hoarding words and paper and books as though preparing for the long starvation of an endless dreary winter. I loved it. Felt comfy, like having my mind and spirit cushioned by good strong things. I would have made an excellent recluse.

  Jack was seated in the middle of the path, perched precariously on a wobbly stool far too small for a man his size. His knees pressed against stacks of books. He had books open in his lap. A book in his hands. He looked up when Sarai and I walked in, and his smile was warm. Despite all my questions—and fear—I felt a small thrill seeing him.

  “My dear girl,” he said. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” I replied. “But not good.”

  I repeated again what I had told Sarai, though with more details. I was not entirely certain how much I could say without blowing their minds, but given the circumstances, I had a bad feeling that Jack Meddle and Sarai Soars knew a great deal more about the state of the supernatural than even I did.

  Jack’s subdued reaction did nothing to change that opinion, which sent an unexpected pang through me. My fantasy, stuck full of pins and needles. I had gone looking for a grandfather, an archaeologist, a regular man who loved books and clutter and digging in the dirt. And what I was getting instead, while perhaps all of those things still, was something . . . far more complicated. And, perhaps, not as pleasant.

  Jack closed his book and laid it on the table. A cup of tea sat on the floor in front of his feet. He sipped it, slowly, eyes distant.

  “Silence is overrated,” I finally said, after counting, quite literally, to one hundred.

  “Silence is customary,” Sarai replied, “when one is thinking.”

  I shot her a look. “Think faster. Or better yet, just tell me the truth. You shouldn’t have to think about that.”

  “Just like Jeannie,” Jack said, sighing. “I miss her.”

  “You miss them all,” Sarai muttered, but before I could question her, she said, “Did you look at your mother’s gift, Maxine? Did you understand its meaning?”

  I
could not believe what I was hearing. “You are both on the radar of a demon. You understand what that means, don’t you? A demon who, very likely, is coming to kill you. And you’re worried about a piece of rock?”

  Sarai frowned, which only seemed to enhance her beauty. “Humor me.”

  I wanted to keep arguing, but I had a feeling the older woman would win hands down, simply through being too stubborn to live. I pulled the stone disc free of my pocket and held it carefully. “A labyrinth. The warrior in the maze. Faith.”

  “Faith,” said Jack, “is the cornerstone of all great endeavors. ”

  “Faith is fine,” I replied. “But truth greases the wheels. Now please, what is this about? Why would a demon come looking for the both of you? And why was Badelt investigating me?”

  “Those questions can wait,” Sarai said firmly. “Your mother left her gift to you for a specific reason, one you should not ignore.”

  I hated that crisp arrogance in her voice, as though she thought I was five years old, eager to please for a lollipop. I leaned in, bordering her personal space. “My mother isn’t here. My mother is dead. And I just watched a boy get his brains beaten in. A boy who knew Badelt. So don’t you dare tell me what can, or cannot, wait. Because other people are getting hurt now. That kid? He was warned not to speak to me.”

  Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is he at the hospital? ”

  “Someone’s watching him. Don’t change the subject.”

  “How could we?” Sarai asked bitterly. “You have invaded us. We can hardly escape.”

  I wanted to grab those braids and swing the woman around my head. “Who are you people?”

  Jack shared a long look with Sarai. “Friends to your family, my dear. Trusted friends.”

  “Trust,” I echoed. “Isn’t that a funny word to use.”

  “It is the truth. You must believe that.”

  I wanted to. I wanted to believe a lot of things. “You want to know what I believe? I believe you knew where I was. Before I found you last night, you could have marched up to me at any time and said hello. But you didn’t. You were afraid of something. So afraid, Sarai hired Badelt. She gave him my name. She asked him to look into me. And he died for it. He was shot. And for what?”