The Iron Hunt

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Monsters, in the deep. Monsters, in the blood.

  I dreamed my way into a forest, winding blind through a grove of trees, trunks smooth beneath my searching fingers. A scent of snow and ice came upon me. My foot caught something large and soft. I fell hard, my leg hooked. Sword still in hand.

  My leg pressed against warm, smooth fur, a slender flank. Ribs expanded and contracted, and my fingers touched a coarse mane twined with leaves and small, round stones.

  “Greetings,” whispered a familiar voice. “Greetings again, Hunter.”

  I went still, breathless, and the voice said, “Take your time. I know what it is to be lost in the darkness.”

  So I sat and dreamed, and my hand remained tangled in long hair. After a while, I scooted closer. A broad nose brushed my arm, and the tip of something hard and cold pressed against my brow. I touched it and found a horn, long and spiraled.

  “Do you know me?” asked the voice, quiet as winter.

  “Yes, Sarai,” I breathed, heart thundering. “You’re the unicorn.”

  She remained silent; until, in a whisper: “It is good to hear that name.”

  “Good,” I echoed. “You died. So I’m dreaming. Or insane. ”

  “Insane people,” said Sarai, “do not have polite conversations with unicorns.”

  “Maybe not in your world. Whatever that is.”

  “My world . . .” Her voice drifted, thoughtful. “My kind, we have many worlds. We are . . . travelers of them. Wayfarers, if you will. The Labyrinth is the crossroads, the old tree with its branches in the stars. From the Labyrinth, you may see every world, you may walk through the dreams of worlds and find rare islands adrift in the dark.”

  “Jack explained a little,” I told her. “Nothing about unicorns. But then, this isn’t your body, is it?”

  “What you feel is only flesh,” she replied simply. “And in the Labyrinth, my kind can exist as we desire, no matter how odd the shape or form. Though I admit a particular fondness for this skin. My last echo of a race that perished eons ago.”

  I dreamed her spiral horn touched my brow. I said, “I can’t stay here. I need to wake up.”

  “Then wake,” Sarai said softly from the darkness. “But you are of the Labyrinth now, Hunter. It is in your blood.”

  My body felt heavy. For a dream, far too heavy. I struggled to stand, blind. My palm was sweaty around the sword hilt.

  “Good-bye,” I heard Sarai whisper. “Thank you for sitting with me, in the end. Thank you for caring about Brian.”

  I tried to say something to her—anything, everything— but I felt a great sucking sensation upon my brain, as though a vacuum had been shoved inside a hole in my skull, and quite suddenly my eyes fluttered open.

  Awake. I saw Jack standing near my bed. Another man was with him.

  “Grant,” I whispered. My skin felt prickly, hot.

  “No,” said the man, leaning in. It was Tracker. Cuts covered his throat, above the iron collar. His eyes were sharp and hot. Dek and Mal raised their heads.

  “We need to move you,” Tracker said, his voice low, hoarse. “It’s almost dawn here. We can’t let the boys sleep on your body. It’s too soon. You almost went into shock from the first separation.”

  I tried to shake my head. Tracker placed his palm against my cheek—just for one moment, before flinching away as though burned. “I will take care of you. You have my word, Hunter.”

  My word. Once, I could trust his word. Once, he could trust mine. I remembered that. Maybe.

  Something came over me. Delirium. I wanted to hold Tracker’s hand, I wanted to touch him, so badly it felt like I had been waiting five thousand years for that one gesture. Like it would fix something. Make things better.

  I struggled to pull my arm from under the covers, but my body seemed to be made of concrete, and something as simple as freeing myself from a comforter felt like having that block of stone over my head in the Wasteland river. Drowning, again.

  I struggled harder, swallowing a whimper that made my cheeks flush hot with shame. My heart pounded, out of control. I needed to move. I needed to be free. I needed to scream.

  Maybe it showed on my face. Tracker leaned in, pulling back the blankets. The pressure eased. I could breathe. But the moment was gone, and my hand stayed glued to my side. I looked at the cuts on his face. “Did Oturu hurt you?”

  He kept silent. Jack said, “Quick. The sun will be up in less than a minute.”

  Tracker pulled back the remainder of the covers, leaving one sheet over my body. He scooped me into his arms. My head lolled. I had no strength to hold it up. Dek and Mal curled down my chest between my breasts.

  We blinked out of the world into utter darkness. It was a relief on my eyes.

  It did not last. A room appeared around us. Hardwood floors, brick walls, large windows. A big, soft white bed with the covers pulled back. And a pacing man, leaning hard on a cane, a gold flute held white-knuckled in his other hand.

  Grant. He reached for my face as Tracker settled me on the bed, soothing back my hair, the palm of his trembling hand lingering on my brow. There were new wrinkles around his eyes, his jaw thick with stubble, and though he was still in his thirties, I swore I saw glints of gray. His gaze was impossibly grave. Zee, Raw, and Aaz appeared on the bed, pressing close, crawling under the covers to lie against my skin.

  Grant did the same. I was dimly aware of Tracker backing out of the room. Jack, as well, though I had no sense of how he had gotten there. The old man turned off the lights. The door clicked shut behind him.

  “Okay,” Grant breathed, kissing my cheek, holding me. “It’s okay, Maxine. It’s just me now.”

  I closed my eyes. I had already cried with Jack, but this was Grant.

  I’ve been waiting a long time for this, I thought, and found enough strength in my finger to scratch Zee’s head.

  I talked to Grant. I talked to him like my life depended on it, even when I was too groggy to pronounce my words. I told him what happened to me in the Wasteland. I told him everything. All the dirt and ugliness and terror that still clawed up my throat with panic. Buried alive. Running to stay sane. Losing sanity. The sword and ring.

  Grant listened. He gave me water when my throat ran dry. He helped me when I had to use the bathroom. He dressed me in soft clothes and did not leave me alone. He held me in the dark.

  He held me tight.

  AN hour before dawn, Zee said, “Can’t stay, Maxine. Gotta go where the sun don’t shine.”

  “I’ll be fine here,” I told him. “I’m better already.”

  Grant made a low rumbling sound and brushed his lips against the back of my neck. “Turn over and kiss me.”

  I gave it my best shot. I managed to roll all the way to my back before I ran out of steam. The covers, all two of them, felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, dizzy. Grant was very still beside me. Dek and Mal began humming Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.”

  “Right,” Grant said, turning on the light by the bed. “I’ve got a sumo wrestler out in the living room you can tackle after breakfast.”

  I tried to bat his arm, but my hand flopped uselessly on the covers. Aaz picked up my wrist for me and smacked my palm against Grant’s shoulder.

  “Ow,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, and the little demon gave me a toothy grin.

  Across the room, someone knocked on the door. Jack peered inside, his hair rumpled, clothes wrinkled, silver bristles covering his face. He looked like a frazzled professor who had become obsessed over some obscure text and spent the night making coffee rings on student papers and library pages. I wanted to imagine him surrounded by cups of chewed-down pencils and stale muffins, and a framed picture of my grandmother, hidden away behind stacks of books—except for those special moments when he uncovered her, like a magic treasure. I wanted to see him look at her with a smile on his face. I wanted it so badly, and I realized, with a startled pang, t
hat I was one messed-up girl.

  “I have tea,” Jack said, blushing when he saw us still in bed together—clothed, no less.

  Grant pushed back the covers and sat up, running his hands through his hair. Jack pushed deeper into the room, a cutting board in his hands doubling as a tray. I tried to sit up, and did a little better though Zee and Raw had to help me. Aaz stuffed pillows behind my back. Dek and Mal gave my neck support.

  Grant bit back a smile. “How do you think they’d look in little white nursing outfits?”

  “Hot,” Zee said, and the others snickered.

  I glimpsed a shadow in the bedroom doorway—Tracker, hovering, staring at the boys like he had just seen a rock sprout legs and do a pole dance. He caught me watching and backed away, out of sight.

  Jack set down the cutting board, and perched on the edge of the bed. He held the cup to my lips. The tea was hot and sweet. I tried to hold it myself, but my arm would not lift that high. Jack caught my hand and pressed it against his wrinkled shirt, above his heart. He set down the teacup.

  “Lad,” he said to Grant. “Watch this and learn something. ”

  I frowned. So did Grant. Jack closed his eyes. The ring tingled against my finger, glinting in the shadows of the bedroom; heavy, but comfortable; pressed so close to my skin I imagined silver roots spreading from the metal into flesh, binding with bone: quicksilver for marrow.

  I did not notice anything different at first—nothing except the expression on Grant’s face as he sat on the bed, staring between me and Jack, a deep line furrowed between his eyes, his fingers dancing a melody in the air above his stomach. Like taking music lessons for the soul.

  Until, suddenly, I noticed incredible heat in my hand. A pulsing warmth that spread from Jack’s touch, into my skin. Sweat broke out over my back, against my neck, and the boys gathered close, sniffing the air. Zee licked his claw, then ran a line through the air above Jack’s body.

  “Meddling Man,” he said, and Jack cracked open one eye.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  His smile was strained. “Try lifting your arm, my dear.”

  I did. And I could. I was stronger.

  “Lad,” Jack said, faint lines forming around his eyes, “go fetch your flute.”

  The instrument was on the nightstand. Grant reached back with his long arm and, in one smooth motion, picked up the golden flute, brought it to his mouth, and released a lilting trill of notes. I felt the music pass through me; I felt the power of it—but even as I remembered that Grant’s music had never affected me or the boys, I realized he was playing for Jack. Bolstering him. And I could see it in the old man as his spine straightened, and the strain faded from his face. I could feel it, too, as the heat between us intensified, as though a baby sun were bouncing between our hands.

  “Oh, dear,” Jack murmured, as Grant’s playing intensified. “You are strong.”

  And so was I. I leaned forward, testing myself, and found that I could move easily, without feeling tired. Zee tugged on my hand and pointed at Grant. I looked at him, a smile bubbling up my throat. I had never heard him play so wildly, his fingers moving so fast it seemed he hardly needed to breathe. Notes rippled through the air. I could taste them in my mouth. I could almost see the light. He caught me looking, and his eyes crinkled, warm and sweet.

  But even though Jack had asked him to play, there was suddenly very little amusement on the old man’s face. He turned quite pale as he stared at Grant. I heard movement at the door and found Tracker again, also staring. But not at Grant. At me. A look in his eyes that was somber and grave.

  Somewhere distant, I thought I heard pounding. Fists.

  Jack let go of my hands. It was difficult; our skins seemed to stick together, peeling apart with a pop. A bang came from the other room, a low shout. Tracker disappeared for a moment, and I heard him grunt. Grant stopped playing, and the silence was so profound it felt almost like death.

  Mary appeared in the doorway. White hair blazing, sticking out like a helmet full of static electricity. She wore a shift covered in flying pink dragons, and an old navy cardigan, dotted with tattered little holes, some of which had been mended with red yarn.

  Her eyes were wild, her hands full of Grant’s mail; one of the little jobs he had given her, which she took very seriously. She stared at him, chest heaving. Her gaze slid sideways, to Jack.

  And everything changed.

  The mail slid from her hands. A hard, sharp fury pricked her face.

  “Wolf,” she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  WOLF.

  Tracker appeared behind Mary. Bent slightly over his stomach. Hard for me to imagine one old woman being able to hurt him—when I had hardly made a dent— but there was a look on his face that made me think she had done just that.

  Mary glided into the room with surprising grace and speed, staring at Jack as though he were nothing but a piece of bad news. Mail lay scattered on the floor, but in her right hand she held a tinfoil block that smelled suspiciously like brownies. Zee and the others sat beside me on the bed, very still—dolls with razor blades for skin. Mary studied them, too, but only for a moment. Her focus was Jack.

  “Wolf,” she whispered again, withered lips hardly moving. “Sinner.”

  She might have been a bullet instead of a woman. Jack stared, muscles ticking spasmodically in his cheek.

  “Marritine,” he finally choked out. “Such a surprise to see you.”

  Oh. God. I stared at the old man, incredulous. Grant made a small, choked sound. We shared a quick glance. He looked just as confused—and concerned.

  Mary began to shudder. Slowly at first, hardly a tremor, but the shakes got worse until her teeth began to chatter. It was eerie, watching the old woman’s body fall apart while her unblinking eyes, hollow and cold, stared holes into Jack’s head.

  Grant struggled to stand from the bed. I fumbled for his cane, and he took it in grim silence, heaving himself up on his feet. He shot Jack another quick look, then limped swiftly across the room until he stood between Mary and the old man. He did not say a word. Just bundled her up with his free arm, cradling her against his chest. Mary buried her face against his sweatshirt.

  I grabbed Jack’s shoulder. He blinked, tearing his gaze from Mary to stare at me, past me, far away.

  “It makes no sense,” he murmured. “Fate does not conspire. ”

  I squeezed his bony shoulder. “Jack. What is going on?”

  “Marritine,” he said again, vision clearing. “Oh, dear.”

  Grant made a low, rumbling sound that could have been a growl. “She’s scared of you.”

  Jack shook himself, regaining some semblance of composure. “Nonsense. Bad memories, yes . . . but if Marritine is scared, it is because of where I found her. That woman . . . she was not born on earth.”

  I gave up. I buried my head in my hands. Tracker stepped into the room. He had been standing so still, I had almost forgotten him. Shadows from the lamp made his face appear even more menacing. Hard man to read, but he was looking at Jack with brutal intensity. Like something needed to be done. And he wanted to be the one who did it.

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Mary is human.”

  “I don’t disagree,” muttered the old man, giving Tracker a fleeting look. “But she’s not from this world.”

  “What?” I snapped. “She got here on a spaceship?”

  Jack shot me a scathing look. “The Labyrinth, Hunter. Lost in the quantum rose.”

  Mary clutched Grant’s sweatshirt, face buried, peering at the old man with one blazing eye. I leaned close, also trying to divine the emotions passing across his aged handsome face. “What did you do to Mary?”

  He rubbed his face, cheeks blazing red. “I found her in the Labyrinth. Years ago. She could not tell me how long she had been wandering, but it was clear she had gone insane. I brought her to this world.”

  “You put her on the street,” Grant said, his voice hard. “I found her in an alle
y, freezing, almost dead from a drug overdose.”

  “I left her in the care of someone I trusted,” Jack replied mildly. “In Hawaii.”

  Grant still looked angry. He ran a soothing hand down Mary’s back. “How did she even end up in this . . . Labyrinth? ”

  “In fairy tales,” Jack said, “men and women are always falling through holes into other worlds.”

  “A lot of things happen in those stories. Doesn’t mean they’re real.”

  “Aren’t they?” Tracker said—his voice low, strong. “Hunter. Just as the prison veil has cracks, so does the Labyrinth. People can step wrong, anywhere, and . . . lose themselves.”

  “And there are . . . humans, elsewhere?” Grant’s voice was strained.

  “Everywhere,” Jack said. “The Labyrinth is a place of infinite doorways.”

  “Wolf,” Mary muttered again. “Offender.”

  “Marritine,” he said, and she hurled her foil-wrapped brownies at his head. Jack ducked.

  “Stay away from Grant,” she said, bristling. “Lighteater. ”

  Jack flinched. Tracker tensed. Grant hugged Mary tighter and turned her so that she did not have to look at Jack. I stood before it occurred to me that I might still be weak.

  My legs held. My head felt fine. My heart did not pound. Not from overexertion, anyway.

  Grant had that farseeing manner about him; a preternatural unrelenting awareness: truth seeker, music man, my dangerous Pied Piper. His voice was soft as thunder, his tone lyrical, rolling with power. “You’re wrong, Jack. Mary isn’t just scared of the Labyrinth.”

  His words echoed inside my head, relentless. My heart sank. Of course, I thought, staring at that old baffling man.

  “Meddling man,” I whispered. “Jack.”

  Maybe it showed on my face. The old man paled and started shaking his head. I held up my hand, a sharp gesture that made his mouth clamp shut.

  “I keep forgetting the way it is,” I said to him, softly. “I push it away, because I like you so much. But your kind . . . they treat humans like cattle, same as the demons, same as any zombie. You just . . . dress it up nicer. No teeth.” I closed my eyes, steadying myself. “So why did the demons chase your kind, Jack? Was it because they didn’t like you? Or were you . . . competing . . . for the same resources?”