Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  He passed to me his knowledge, Cribari had said. He told me how to stop you.

  Something moved in the forest, behind the boys. Zee and the others turned as one to stare, and my right hand burned when I saw the man who slipped free of the shadows. He was tall, slender as a swimmer, with a pale, chiseled face framed by long silver hair that drifted past his shoulders. His eyes were red and rimmed in amber. Ruby-encrusted caps of silver covered the tips of his pointed ears, and he wore a dark crimson tunic over loose black pants. His sinewy arms were bare, white as snow, and his nails were pure white and long as claws.

  “So you lost your Lady,” he said softly, with a smile. “How unfortunate. But then, I always wanted to be a father.”

  Zee snarled, hunching over the baby as Raw and Aaz crowded in front of him, dragging their claws through the dead leaves.

  “Not yours,” he rasped, eyes glittering. “Ours, not yours.”

  “Hound,” whispered the man. “Beast. Demon. How will you care for a baby? You are nothing but slaves. She will die with you. And if she lives, she will be an animal.” He held out his hand and snapped his fingers imperiously. “Give her to me. Now or later, you have no choice. The sun will rise in mere hours.”

  Zee held the baby even closer and turned his face up to the sky. Raw and Aaz did the same, closing their eyes. The man watched them, frowning—with unease, I thought—and hunger. Greed. Lust.

  “Hound,” he said again, more urgently. “Do not defy—”

  He never finished. Zee and the boys vanished, taking the baby with them. Taking me, as well. The last I saw of the man—Mr. King, I named him—was the glitter of rubies in his ear, and the snarl that twisted his face into something monstrous and grotesque.

  Then we were elsewhere—on the rocky shore of a choppy silver sea—and there was light in the east, and pink petals of clouds, and the last stars of morning clinging to the purple sky behind me.

  “Bright little heart,” Zee whispered to the baby, rocking her gently. “We be your old mothers now, bright and sweet. Teach you fine.”

  Raw looked up at the sky, breath rattling. I felt a tinge beneath my ear, deep inside my scar. An arrow of darkness winked from the sky and dropped swiftly to earth, landing on the tips of feet shaped like daggers, glittering and sharp. A demon, or a creature so far beyond human, there was no other name to give. A wide-brimmed hat covered much of his face, and he had no arms—simply a cloak that moved against the wind, and hair that snaked into the air as though each tendril were a tentacle, and alive.

  “We heard your call,” Oturu whispered, and opened his cloak. A man stepped free of the darkness within. His hair was long and black, his cheeks sharp, his nose too large for his face. He wore simple dark clothing, rough-hewn, as though woven from a loom—and an iron collar glittered at his throat.

  Tracker. He stared at the baby.

  “Ours,” whispered Zee, holding the child tight. “But hungry. Need to make her strong while the sun goes high. Safe and strong.”

  Pain flickered through Tracker’s eyes, but he crouched and held out his hands. Zee hesitated, all the boys rumbling with unease.

  “Zee,” said Tracker quietly. “I remember how to care for a baby.”

  “We take her back tonight,” Zee said possessively, and kissed the infant on her brow. She touched his sharp face with impossibly small hands, and smiled.

  “Little Bright,” he whispered again, and handed her to Tracker, who held the baby in his large hands and cradled her to his chest.

  The sun crested the horizon. Zee and the boys vanished into smoke—shrouding the baby, sinking into her skin, glittering like stardust and becoming veins of silver and mercury—until her tattoos pressed so close together on her small body, she seemed carved from obsidian. She gripped Tracker’s tunic with strong little fingers and sighed.

  “Lady Hunter,” Oturu murmured, and I realized the demon had moved—moved without my realizing it, so focused had I been on the baby and my boys.

  I looked, and was startled to find him towering behind me, black cloak and hair flaring wildly in every direction. Nothing about him, past or present, was different; the brim of his hat still swept low, hiding his eyes. His pale jaw was sharp.

  But he was looking straight at me, and a tendril of his hair shot out to touch my cheek, and the scar he had given me, tingling below my ear.

  “Lady Hunter,” he said again. “Go home.”

  My right hand burned. Light flashed in my eyes.

  Moments later, I was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE next time I opened my eyes, I found myself on my hands and knees. My ears were ringing, and my mouth tasted vile. The boys were asleep on my skin. I stared at my fingernails, black as oil—right hand dark with tattoos—glittering like mercury and quicksilver.

  The armor had grown, again. The bracelet, which fit my wrist like a second skin, had expanded almost an inch up my arm. Metal gleamed, engraved with an intricate array of coiled lines, like scales, or roses, or the twists of a labyrinth. Blending in with my tattoos.

  I was in Grant’s apartment, on the floor of his living room. Rare sunlight bathed me in a glow. I peered blearily to my right. Grant was sprawled on his back, rubbing his face. I nudged him with my foot, and he gave me a slow, pained look that might have been his hangover face—if he ever decided to take up alcohol.

  Killy lay several feet away, eyes closed. Breathing, but still. No sign of the Chinese man Rex had inhabited.

  I fell down on my side and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. Grant grabbed my hand, but that was all. I almost asked him how long I had been gone, but it was clear I hadn’t been missed. What I had passed through between leaving China and arriving here had been for me alone: a vision, a dream, a memory belonging to the boys.

  Zee had said he knew that Avatar scent on Father Ross’s body. Mr. King. Who, in another life, had conspired to murder one of my ancestors. Not to extinguish my bloodline—but to control it.

  Made sense. Control a Hunter, and you controlled the boys. Must have seemed attractive at the time. Except he hadn’t anticipated that Zee and the others would take matters into their own hands. Raise the child—with a little help.

  But now he wanted me dead. Out of the way.

  If the skinner kills you, Hunter, the prison veil will come down.

  I shook my head, forcing myself to sit up. Rex had it wrong. His Queen was wrong. Up to her old tricks again. The only things he had said that I could be certain were true was that I had to kill the Avatar, next chance I got—and I could not let him have Grant.

  Gold flashed. I looked at Grant again and saw that his mother’s pendant had fallen just slightly out of his shirt. Most of the disc was obscured, but I could see enough of those curving lines to get hit with déjà vu.

  I held up my right hand, checking out the newly expanded cuff that was molded to my wrist—metal flowing seamlessly into my tattooed skin.

  Grant said, “You’ll still look sexy when you’re a cyborg.”

  “Thanks,” I replied dryly, and pointed at the pendant. “Can I see that?”

  He frowned, but pulled the necklace over his head and gave it to me. I held it next to my wrist. The engraved lines were strikingly similar. Too much so to be a coincidence.

  “Huh,” Grant said.

  Killy twitched, eyelids fluttering. I returned the necklace to Grant, and he stared thoughtfully at the pendant before draping the gold chain over his head. “My mother looked human.”

  “So do I,” I replied. “So do you. So did Mr. King, but we know what was on the inside.”

  “Never judge a book by its cover, right?”

  “Don’t judge your mother,” I said. “Not before you know the facts.”

  “There are no facts.” Grant sat up, reaching for his cane. “Just possibilities.”

  I grabbed his wrist, stopping him from standing. “You and I both know that you haven’t stretched the limits of what you can do. I’m not even proposing you try.
But a lot of powerful individuals think you’re dangerous, and that means something. If your mother knew what you were capable of, and didn’t tell you, there’s a reason.”

  He pulled away from me. “Same reason your mother kept secrets from you?”

  Secrets. Secrets about the darkness sleeping inside me, that threatened to possess and overpower me: a force, an entity, that had terrified my mother. And Jack. Others, as well. I did not know what frightened me more: that I was beginning to find a use for that power—or that I still didn’t know what it was or where it had come from.

  “Maybe,” I replied, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. “My mother wanted to protect me. She wanted me to grow up as normal as possible, without that extra burden. We had enough problems.”

  “I was afraid,” Grant said, his gaze burning into mine. “I was afraid of myself, and I bore it alone. I’m still afraid, but at least I have you. I just wish . . . if she could have . . . that it hadn’t taken so long.”

  I grabbed his hand. “You know she loved you. You know that, right?”

  Grant closed his other hand around the pendant, his thumb rubbing the engraved lines. Solemn, thoughtful. I waited, afraid of what he was going to say.

  Until, very slowly, he leaned in and kissed me. His hand stroked my throat, his thumb sliding over my mouth, so gently I forgot to breathe.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Killy made another small noise. We pulled reluctantly apart, looking at her. She sat up, holding her head. Blood trickled from her nose.

  I helped Grant stand, and he leaned hard on his cane, wincing as he put weight on his bad leg. I strode to the kitchen and grabbed a rag. Tossed it to Killy, who wiped awkwardly at her nose.

  “Father Frank,” she muttered, looking at the bloodstains. “Goddamn you.”

  “You know how to contact him?” I asked her.

  “A landline number,” she said, giving me a pained, angry look. “I doubt he’s able to answer it at the moment.”

  “This wasn’t his fault,” Grant said reluctantly, with an added weariness that seemed born from the bone.

  Killy tried to find her feet, ignoring my outstretched hand. “But he’s part of it. He knew I wouldn’t say no when he asked for my help.”

  I did not understand her relationship with the priest, but the hurt on her face went deep—deeper than mere acquaintance would explain. Her eyes were cut with betrayal. I felt sorry for her.

  Something thumped in the guest bedroom. I reached inside my jacket for a knife—the same one I had used on Mr. King. I had not cleaned it well enough, but I held the steel in my right hand, and the boys began absorbing the blood. Killy looked at the tattoos and flinched. For once, I did not mind letting a stranger see them.

  I walked across the living room to the closed door. Pushed it open.

  A man sat on the edge of the bed. I knew his face, but there was no dark aura thundering over his head. Red cap askew, tool belt missing. Not Rex, not a zombie. Just a man, waking up for the first time in a long while.

  Even without the aura, I would have seen the difference. His face was slack, his eyes dull and tired. Not just from years of possession but from something deeper, more profound: as though breathing took too much effort.

  Grant came up behind me, staring. I said, “Did you ever wonder about his host?”

  “I always wondered,” he rumbled. “But I never found the right answer. To allow a possession is a terrible thing, but to commit murder against a creature simply trying to survive, and become something better, is equally unspeakable.”

  Once, not so long ago, I had suffered no such doubts. It was simple. You never let demons in. You cut them out when you found them. All those Archie Limbauds of the world had to die.

  But I did not move when a shadow suddenly flickered into the room. I did not remove my other glove and raise my tattooed hands to the demon hovering behind the sitting man’s head. I should have. I should not have hesitated. All I could see, though, were those tired eyes staring sight lessly through me, without question or concern about where he was, and why, and how—and I made a calculated decision. Strategy over morality.

  Grant did nothing, either, but his indecision ripped through me, and I grabbed his hand, squeezing tight as the demonic parasite seeped into the man’s body, leaving behind a trail of thunderclouds that hovered over his head. I watched the transformation. Sharp intelligence filled his eyes, and something I could describe only as the will to live carved new lines into his face.

  Rex. I should have felt disgusted—I should have worried for his host—but I was so fucked up all I could manage was an odd, tired relief. Rex was a demon. He was a bastard, and I might kill him one day. But he was a better bastard than Mr. King. I needed every ally I could muster, even if this zombie was dedicated only to Grant.

  But it was still too much. I turned around, pushed past Grant, and left the room.

  Killy was at the front door of the apartment, fumbling through her purse. Counting the cash in her wallet, which was entirely in Chinese currency. I said, “We’re in Seattle, in case you were wondering. Plenty of planes and buses.”

  “Overseas was convenient. I could get away with more.” She tapped her forehead, almost absently. “Dress up, mix drinks, act a little cheap. Men with money never look too deep. Don’t notice you picking their brains.”

  Who would pay attention? If I could live unnoticed with demons existing on my body, being a psychic should have been a breeze. “You can use my credit card to buy a ticket. Anywhere you like.”

  Killy gave me a sharp look. “Most of my money was tied up in that bar. I can’t pay you back.”

  I had never stayed long enough in one place for anyone to return anything. “Not necessary. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

  She stared at me like I had beans for brains. Maybe I did. But I didn’t like it when people looked at me as though I was stupid. I dug into the back pocket of my new jeans and pulled out my wallet. Grabbed a credit card without looking and tossed it at her.

  “Keep it,” I said. “Run it up to the limit, then burn the damn thing. Start your life over, but get out now while you can.”

  “What—” she began, and glanced down at the card. “Anne Jovi?”

  “I think we’ve got another problem,” Grant said, behind us. I had not heard him crossing the room, but he stood by the kitchen counter and had the phone pressed to his ear. Rex was with him, watching me thoughtfully.

  “What?” I asked carefully.

  “We have messages. From the police. Social services.” Grant’s jaw tightened, something cold flickering through his eyes. “Byron is gone. And so is Mary.”

  TWO days. We had been gone for two days, out of touch, and a man had come asking about the boy.

  He had been here before, some of the volunteers told Grant. A tall skinny man, a priest, who spoke with an Italian accent. He claimed he had reason to believe that the boy was being abused, and he wanted to ask some questions. Social services had arrived with him, on a related issue: underage children were not supposed to live in adult homeless shelters.

  But Byron had already left the shelter.

  I stood in his room. It was located in the private wing of the warehouse complex, which had been set aside for some of the Coop’s permanent residents: individuals and families with special needs, who needed a place to call home. Only a handful lived here. It was a special privilege that Grant could not afford to give everyone.

  I had been in Byron’s room only a handful of times in the past three months. His bed was unmade, surrounded by stacked books and paper. Movie posters hung on the walls: Lord of the Rings, Hellboy, and Blade Runner. Clothes were piled on the floor. He had not taken much with him, if anything.

  “The police got involved because Mary attacked Antony,” Grant said quietly, standing in the doorway with that gold pendant flashing against his chest. “She tried to claw his eyes out.”

  I fingered Byron’s sweater. “When did t
hat happen?”

  “Early this morning. No one’s seen them since.”

  I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. Cribari had been in bad shape, but it was possible. And China was only seconds away if you knew someone who could cut space. “Police want to question you?”

  “Eventually. But they’re not here right now.” Grant dangled his car keys over my shoulder. “You drive.”

  We left the Coop. Scattered sunlight warmed my face. I did not see anyone watching us, and the boys were quiet. I could not relax, though. We were running on borrowed time. Everything, falling apart.

  I felt like a moving target as we crossed the parking lot. My car was still somewhere near Pike Place Market, if it hadn’t already been towed, but Grant had a Jeep.

  We found Killy leaning against its back door, arms folded over her chest. Blood dotted her nostrils. She was too pale to be wearing so much black. Made her look like death warmed over.

  “So I was thinking,” she said, watching us carefully. “I was thinking about what that . . . thing . . . told me in the bar. That he had my scent. And it occurred to me that getting away from the two of you wouldn’t necessarily make me safer.”

  It was not a question, but she seemed to want an answer I had no interest in giving. I shared a quick look with Grant, found a similar reticence on his face, and turned from the woman to unlock the Jeep’s doors. I said nothing when she climbed in behind me. Not Get lost or Run like hell.

  All I did was drive.

  John Parr played on the radio. Some acoustic version of “St. Elmo’s Fire.” I liked the song, but it did little for my nerves. I drove into downtown Seattle, and near the museum found a parking spot outside a narrow brick building faced with a glass display and a delicate door, upon which had been etched the script: SARAI SOARS: ART GALLERY.

  The gallery had been closed since its owner’s death—or long vacation, depending on whom you spoke to—but I had a key. So did others. I went in, and found myself in another world: bathed in shadows and cool, filtered air, light with the scent of orchids. Paintings hung on the walls. Massive, intricate masterpieces of an incongruous subject: unicorns, lost in scenes of human battles, medieval and modern—covered in blood and sea foam, surrounded by swords and guns. Innocence, in the heart of murder. Purity in death.