He looked stricken. “My dear girl. No.”
“No?” I held his gaze. “Really, Jack?”
He said nothing, the flush in his cheeks spreading down his throat. My skin felt hot, too. I was burning up. Burning. Tracker took a step toward me. Grant gave him a sharp look, and the men stared at each other—wolves, both, a hunt in their dark gazes.
Tiny hands grabbed mine. Zee. Raw. Aaz. Dek and Mal quiet on my shoulders.
I turned and left the bedroom.
MY mother once asked me to choose truth over lies.
An iron room, she described, with no windows or doors. A room I could not leave. People sound asleep, inside. All of us, suffocating. All of them, falling into an easy, painless death.
Would you wake them? she had asked. Would you prefer they go to death fully conscious? Would you be that cruel?
Lu Xun. My mother loved his writing. And I was a punk at the time, told her that yes, I would be that cruel. Because truth was better than ignorance, and people should have the choice to reconcile their end. Make those last moments mean something. Or try to find a way out.
I was not so certain of myself anymore.
The television was flickering in the living room, sound turned down. News on. Still talking about the earthquake in Iran. Thousands dead, thousands more thought to be under the rubble. Concerns growing elsewhere: Volcanic activity in Hawaii, snow and ice storms all across the Midwest and upper East Coast. A school shooting in Maryland. More gunfire in an office building in Vegas. Serial rapists in Florida, missing girls in Idaho. Might not be demonically related—any of it—but it hardly mattered. This was the iron room, the iron house. An iron world, suffocating, dying in its sleep. Me, one of a handful who knew the truth.
And even that was nothing. I knew nothing.
I left the bedroom. I was almost halfway across the living room before I realized I was wearing a tank top and sweatpants, and that if anyone saw me without my tattoos, I would have some explaining to do. Careless. Or maybe living for months and years in the Wasteland darkness had cured me of caring how others saw my body, or whether anyone questioned the peculiarities of my skin.
I kept walking. I could not go back into the bedroom and face Jack again. Or even Tracker. Conflict made me feel like a kid again, and not in a good way.
Zee and the others loped into the shadows, swallowed up like wraiths, or drops of water, soft and quiet. The door to the guest room was closed. I hoped Byron was asleep and not listening to us.
I walked upstairs to the roof garden. I needed air. The wind smelled wet and was cold enough to make me shiver. I stuck with it, though. Stood against the baby gale, matted hair bobbing like a soft helmet from my face. The sky was lightening. Purple velvet clouds streaked the sky east, humming with a wink of gold. Dawn soon, punched by the sun. Singeing my skin with demons.
Oturu’s mark tingled. Heat washed over my skin, as though I stood within the bubble of a sauna.
I did not look. I did not turn. Not even when Dek hissed softly, or when I felt a delicate scrape against my elbow, a probing, ethereal touch.
“We heard your heart,” Oturu whispered. “Between the eternities. But we could not reach you, not for all our fury.”
I looked back. All I saw was a writhing cloak, dancing against the wind. He stood so near he could have swallowed me into the abyss of his body. Simply leaned forward, just a fraction, and taken me.
Zee, Raw, and Aaz blinked from the shadows around my legs, pressing close. I scratched behind their ears, and their purrs cracked and popped like ice. I sensed Oturu gazing at each of them, a surprising softness to his mouth that might have been affection. It made my heart feel odd. His cloak brushed against my arms, soft and cold as frozen silk.
“Friend,” Oturu breathed. “We feared for you. We fear still.”
“No,” I said. “Not you.”
He leaned in, so close we could have kissed, and still I could not see his eyes. But I felt him, the weight of the abyss, the touch of his hair as it wound through my own. I should have been disgusted, but I searched my heart and found nothing but a déjà vu that bordered on memory.
“The first time we met,” he murmured, “you let us live in return for a favor. And that would have been the end, except you did more, beyond our bargain, beyond promises. We were alone, Hunter. You became our friend. You . . . were kind.”
“I was not,” I told him. “That was not me.”
“Even so,” he breathed. “It is life.”
“You tried to kill me when we first met.”
His mouth curled into a smile. “To prove ourselves. We choose to keep you safe, Hunter—but it is in our power to take your life. She gave us that right. She trusted us not to abuse her faith. A trust no other has shown us, or will again.”
I could not believe such a bargain. I could not fathom it. I stared, helpless. “Did my mother know?”
At my side, Zee tensed. Oturu said, “She also had a need, once.”
I turned from him. I remembered my vision under the bus—Oturu with a woman who looked like me, standing beneath an alien sky full of moons—and for a moment was not certain if it was fantasy or reality, past or future. The sky was getting lighter, a golden shade of pale, chasing violets and cumulous roses made of fleeing night. I walked to the edge of the roof, staring at the city. Oturu joined me.
“You have the seed ring,” I said.
Oturu remained silent, but his cloak opened, and his hair dipped into the writhing abyss. Faces pressed against the darkness, the outline of cheeks and hollow eyes, then the demon turned, just slightly, and his hair pulled free of his cloak, coiled around a bundle.
My mother’s jacket. Her gloves. Her knives. And on top, the seed ring, gleaming like a dark pearl.
“You saved it all,” I said quietly.
“You shed your belongings like a wraith,” he murmured. “Ahsen could not grasp them fast enough.”
I ran my hand over the soft leather of my mother’s jacket. My eyes burned, my throat thick. I nodded once, trying to speak, but all I could whisper was, “Thank you.”
“Your heart lives in them,” he said softly. “A danger, Hunter, to care so much for small things.”
“Small things, small moments.” I picked up the seed ring and cradled it in my palm. “Haven’t you ever loved, Oturu?”
“I have loved,” he said. “If love is the desire to see others survive. If love is the desire never to hunt alone.”
My hand closed around the seed ring. “What was my mother hiding from me?”
“Only she can tell you that. But take care. As soon as you use the seed ring, Ahsen will feel it. She will come to the source.”
I hesitated. “Will you stay with me?”
“I cannot protect you from her.”
“I know.” I stared at the brim of his hat, pretending I could see his eyes. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Ah.” He sighed. “Ah, Hunter. You have others.”
“You’re here,” I said, but it was more than that, more than I could face, or name. It was hard for me. The longer I was around him, the more I suffered an unsettling comfort, as though his presence was an old glove, a familiar knife, the weight of my mother’s coat.
It was wrong. He was a demon. I was sick.
Oturu danced away, the daggers of his feet cutting the roof as he spun into a crouch. His cloak spread across tar paper and steel. I knelt, just on the edge of the abyss. It began to rain. Zee, Raw, and Aaz gathered close, while Dek and Mal rested their chins on my ears. I held the seed ring, staring hard, fingers tracing the engraved Labyrinth lines. I felt dizzy.
Oturu whispered, “Take care where you fall, Hunter. It is a long way down into your heart.”
Long way down. But not to my heart. I thought about my mother. Stared hard at the seed ring, those veins of silver and pearl. Against my finger the engraved iron, the sword, burned.
Zee grabbed my wrist. Oturu flinched, a tendril of his hair snaking out to tou
ch the metal.
“Wait,” he breathed. “Hunter—”
But it was too late. The seed ring swallowed up my mind.
And spat me out.
I opened my eyes somewhere else. The sun was up in a sky as big as the world, casting a golden haze. Grassland, far as I could see, though against the horizon I glimpsed jagged peaks, snow-riddled, haunted by clouds. I smelled horses. I heard rough male laughter. Bells chiming.
I was still dressed in my tank and sweats, but the boys were on my skin. I turned slowly and saw I was on top of a small hill. Below me, quite near, squat round tents had been erected near a snaking silver river. Sheep grazed. Four men sat on horseback. One of them held a golden eagle on his arm, which rested inside a padded brace that rose from the side of his saddle.
The men stared at me. I stared back—lost, for a moment, in the intensity of their clear honest gazes, and the sudden wonder of standing barefoot in the grass of another time.
It occurred to me, too, that I should be invisible. At least that was the way the seed ring seemed to work.
“Well,” said a gravelly voice. “This is different.”
I flinched, hopping back on one foot. Sun cast daggers in my eyes, but I blinked, holding up my hand—
—and found myself face-to-face with my grandmother.
Jean Kiss.
I knew her only from old photographs, but those eyes were the same: dark, intelligent, crisp with scrutiny. A woman who missed nothing. She was young, too. In her late thirties, at most. Dressed like the men on horseback, a combination of loose blue slacks that bunched into tall fur boots, as well as a lightweight navy coat that clung to her slender frame. A fur hat framed her face, enhancing the cream of her skin. She stood tall and regal. A brace of knives hung across her chest. She was beautiful, noble. Naturally daunting.
“Oh,” I said, heart racing. “Oh, boy.”
It was a shock to see her. A raw blow to my heart.
I did not expect her to attack me. My grandmother was incredibly fast, like a viper: darting, furious, without mercy. Her blade was already skidding off my neck, racing sparks across my skin, before I realized what she was doing. I fell, and she traveled with me, riding me into the grass with her knee in my chest. Her eyes were terrifying. Full of murder.
She pinned me, pressing her blade against my throat. My heart hammered. It was hard to breathe. I was too shocked to protest when she tried stabbing me—again. The knife bounced off my skin.
Her mouth twisted. “What are you?”
“Maxine,” I stammered. “Your granddaughter.”
She frowned, every line and angle of her face hard as rock. “Impossible. You’re a demon.”
“Look at me,” I pleaded. “Listen to the boys.”
My grandmother recoiled, searching my face. My finger tingled. The iron ring.
Finally, finally, she very carefully eased off my body. Slumped in the grass at my feet. Rage gone from her eyes. Replaced by something haunted. I heard bells, close, it seemed, and felt the men on horseback drawing near. My grandmother never looked away from me; only barked out one sharp word. A moment later I heard the horses move again—in the opposite direction. The grass hissed with the wind. An eagle screamed.
“How?” asked my grandmother, hoarsely.
“I don’t know.” My voice weak, breathless; my heart, still stunned. “I was . . . trying to do something. But you shouldn’t be able to see me. I shouldn’t . . .” I stopped, licking my lips. “Where am I? When am I?”
Her frown deepened. “Mongolia—1972.”
I exhaled, sharply. “I was in Seattle—2008.”
My grandmother closed her eyes. Off to my left I heard a girl call out. Everything in me stopped. I could not move. I could not breathe. I sat, frozen, listening to that voice. My grandmother seemed petrified as well, but at the last moment she leapt to her feet, turning, her hands outstretched.
Too late. My mother appeared.
She was only fourteen, already tall, but skinny as a rail. Hair in braids. Glowing skin, shining eyes, a healthy flush to her cheeks that would have made a rose jealous. Her arms were bare. No tattoos. Not yet. I felt a sob rise in my throat. I wanted to melt into the grass.
She went utterly still when she saw me. Dead stop. I did not know whether to laugh or cry—or scream. It was too much. Three of us, together. Like this. I was going crazy. The seed ring had twisted me up.
“Jolene,” said my grandmother. “Sit down.”
My mother gaped at me, taking in the tattoos on my arms. But she finally sat, dropping into the grass as though her knees had stopped working. She was gangly, awkward. I knew she would grow out of it. I was still learning how to do that.
My grandmother tapped my mother’s knee with her finger. “This is Maxine, baby.”
“Hello,” said my mother uneasily.
“Hi,” I breathed, and looked again at my grandmother. She was staring at me, rubbing her cheek in that same way my mother had when I was growing up. I felt like a butterfly with its wings pinned.
My grandmother reached into her jacket and pulled out a small tin. Inside were thin papers, loose tobacco. She rolled herself a cigarette. Found a match, leaned forward, and struck it against my arm. Flame burst. She lit up, took a long drag, then put the match out on her tongue. She showed no pain. I was reasonably impressed.
“Well,” said my grandmother, exhaling smoke in my face, “you pose a pretty problem, my dear.”
The smoke smelled acrid and good. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t even know if this is real.”
She grunted, leaning back on her elbow, relaxed as a leopard, claws sheathed. “A man once told me that nothing is real. Just is. And right now you seem to think you’re in the past, while I . . . I seem to think I’m right where I belong. So let’s pretend we’re all sane here and get you figured out.”
“The man who told you that,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose his name was Jack?”
Jean Kiss went very still. “How do you know that name?”
I tried not to look at my mother. “I found him. Things are happening.”
The older woman sat up and looked at her daughter. “Baby. Walk away.”
“Mom—”
“Now . . . please.”
“No.” I clambered to my feet, throwing my grandmother a look that felt raw, desperate. “Give me a minute.”
Bitter comprehension filled her eyes. I hesitated, then walked to Jolene. My mother. She was on her feet, watching me warily. Ready to bolt. I swallowed hard. I could see the woman I knew in her face: younger, softer, but still her. A shadow of grit and fire.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said lamely. “Take care of yourself.”
“Sure,” said my mother, looking past me at Jean Kiss. Searching for an escape, answers to the riddle of the weird woman standing in front of her—tattooed to the gills in Zee and the boys. Tattoos no one else was supposed to have. Made me smile, made my eyes burn with tears.
I flung my arms around the girl. Holding tight.
“I love you,” I breathed in her ear. “Remember that when you meet me again. I’ll always love you.”
She shoved me away. Eyes huge. I felt like a fool, standing there. Bereft. But I did not regret a word. Not one.
“Go,” said my grandmother, hoarse. “Jolene, baby. Run along.”
My mother hesitated, then took off like a little mustang, racing across the grass toward the men on horseback. One of them kicked his mount to meet her, and midgallop, reached down with one long arm to sweep her up into the saddle behind him. She hugged his waist, but turned to stare back at us as he carried her toward the others. I could not look away.
My grandmother stepped close. Smoke leaked from her nostrils. She looked like a hard-living woman. Her gloves were off. I had not noticed her removing them.
“Seeing you means she’s dead,” said Jean Kiss. “Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“At least you won’t watch it happen.”
“Fair enough.” She stabbed the cigarette into her palm. “Let’s walk, Maxine.”
Grass sang beneath the wind. My grandmother removed her knife brace and handed it to me while she unbuttoned her jacket. She wore a sleeveless linen sheath beneath, and slung her jacket over one shoulder, along with her knives. Tattoos covered her arms. Red eyes glinted in her skin. The boys tugged. Straining hard.
My grandmother smiled briefly. “Feel that?”
“They always did love themselves.”
“Cheeky brats. More so now than before. Time was, the other Hunters treated them as mindless, like dogs with teeth. Stupid bitches.”
I stared. “Never heard that.”
“Didn’t you?” My grandmother made a small sound. “Well. I guess every mother shares something different.”
I rubbed my arms, trying to calm Aaz and Raw. Zee shifted against my sternum, restless. “Why am I here?”
“I have no idea,” she muttered. “What were you doing? ”
“Holding a seed ring. My mot—your daughter—” I stopped, unsure how to explain. How much to say.
My grandmother stared up at the sky. “I know about seed rings. Jack gave you one, didn’t he?”
“You worked together.”
“He told you that, too?”
“Is he my grandfather?”
A slip of the tongue. I could not stop myself. Jean Kiss paused in midstep and gave me a long, inscrutable look. “Do you have a man?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“More than anything.”
“Poor girl,” she replied immediately.
I shook my head. “You loved Jack. I saw a picture.”
“I still love him,” admitted my grandmother, surprising me. “Hard man not to. But there’s a reason we don’t stick around.”
“It’s not safe. I know.”
“No. You don’t.” Jean Kiss turned in a full circle and looked back at the encampment behind us. I saw very distant figures on horseback. I imagined a fourteen-year-old girl, watching us. Wondered if this was real.
The Iron Hunt Page 23