The Iron Hunt (11 page)

Masterful.
Hypnotic. I wanted to buy the damn thing. I wanted to put a pillow on the floor
and just lie there and stare.

There
were other paintings, and each one felt like gazing at a truth. As though a
unicorn
had
stood in battle, or upon the ramparts of an ancient desert
citadel, surrounded by archers—or in the ocean, a gray specter of what seemed
to be D-day, with the Allied forces fighting and dying upon the Normandy
beachhead, and that fantastical creature nearly lost in the foaming waves,
struggling with the men as they fought and died. I could feel it. In my gut.

The
paintings themselves were few in number, probably because they were massive,
and wall space was limited— but I was grateful for that. Staring at them too
long made me feel as though my heart were being laid bare—and that something
else might stare back.

“Remarkable,
aren’t they?” Jack murmured. “Sarai does get inspired sometimes.”

“Yes,”
I said, as Dek and Mal poked free of my hair to get their own good look. I
tensed, aware of Jack studying them, but all he did was reach out and scratch
under their chins. They giggled, purring, and it was just surreal enough to
make me want to sit down and put my head between my knees.

But
Jack suddenly stopped, and though he made no outward sign of alarm, his
stillness was enough to make my hackles rise.

Cold
air filled the gallery. Not a breeze or stirred breath, but an ambient rising
chill, as if someone had just dumped a thousand pounds of ice beneath our feet.
It was an unmistakable dip in temperature, a shock to the system—and not the
malfunction of any air conditioner.

Heat
was another kind of energy. Soak it up, leave only a chill. Like eating fire
and pissing ice. All those archetypal images of Hell—brimstone and pits of
lava, folks tap-dancing in flames—nothing but a manifestation of an old truth.
Some demons liked it hot.

Dek
and Mal rumbled. Zee and the others were still nowhere to be seen, but I felt
them pressed within the shadows like sharp ghosts. I felt like I was looking
for a ghost. I reached into my hair, fingers curling around a thick quivering
tail. “Jack, something’s wrong. We’re not alone.”

“It’s
nothing,” he said calmly.

“You
don’t understand.”

“But
I do.” Jack glanced at a spot over my right shoulder, the corner of his mouth
turning down. “Let it pass.”

He
knew too much. I should have found that exciting, but I did not. Maybe it was
because I felt a hard ugly gaze boring into the back of my skull. I wanted to
turn around more than anything, but I did not move a muscle. I pretended
ignorance. Played the game. Trusted the boys.

And
just like that, the cold snapped. Heat washed over us like the open door of a
giant oven, but it was superficial. My bones remained frozen. My heart, arctic.

Dek
and Mal stopped growling, but their straining tails were tense as tethers, and
I patted them both as Zee poked his head from a shadow—directly behind Jack,
out of the old man’s sight—and shook his head at me. Whatever had been here was
gone.

Jack
said, “I should keep more sweaters around.”

I
exhaled slowly, trying not to shake. “You sound used to this.”

He
shrugged, utterly nonchalant. Or maybe it was an act. “Certain associations
draw unwanted attention. Nothing can change that.”

Certain
associations.
My grandmother. But he
was too relaxed. I did not buy it. “Jack. Who
are
you?”

Surprise
flickered. “Why, an archaeologist. You know that.”

“And
I suppose, as a simple archaeologist, you’re aware of… demons.”

“Well,
no,” he replied, with faint exasperation. “That has
nothing
to do with
my profession.”

I
stared, perplexed. Afraid for him, even. But Jack merely waved his hand and led
me past a small rosewood screen carved in sparrows and cherry blossoms. Behind,
a narrow white door, and a narrow flight of stairs. We walked up to the second
floor, which was so unlike the first, I had to take another moment just to get
my bearings. And wonder whether I was going to be buried alive.

Tables
surrounded me, long wooden surfaces piled high with paper and books. Mountains
of them. Everywhere. Shelves lined the walls, but those were full, too, and the
only way through—as the floor was also covered in books— was a long, narrow
path that threatened to topple an avalanche of paperwork with every turn. I saw
wooden crates filled with packing material and metal, statues upon the tables,
and shards of pottery. I did not see windows. The room felt like being inside a
big papery cocoon, warm and messy. Lamps, already on, filled the air with
golden light. I heard Jimmy Durante singing softly.

“Make
yourself comfortable,” Jack said, then: “Zee, you can come out now. No need to
be so formal.”

I bit
my tongue. Zee appeared from beneath the tables, Raw and Aaz behind him. The
boys prowled, sniffing the air, and Jack watched them with that same sad smile
I had seen at the museum.

“Old
Wolf,” rasped Zee.

“Little
boy,” said the old man. “Still the same.”

“Like
you.” Zee flashed him a toothy grin. “Silly skin.”

I
folded my arms over my chest. Jack glanced at me and chuckled. “I know that
look.”

I
frowned. “I don’t see how.”

“Jeannie.”
Jack walked down the narrow path. “And your mother.”

I had
started to follow him, and stopped. “You knew my mother?”

“Briefly.
You were a baby.” Jack made some rattling noises, out of sight from me. “Tea?”

“No,”
I replied, still peevish about my close encounter downstairs. “How come I don’t
know any of this?”

“My
dear, I learned long ago never to question a woman in the rearing of her child,
especially
you
particular women. You are ornery creatures.”

I had
to sit down. My knees told me so. I perched on the edge of a table, my hip
brushing paperwork and a glass jar of old pennies. Aaz rested his head on my
knee, drooling slightly as I scratched behind his ears. “Sounds like you knew
them well.”

Jack
made a muffled sound that I took to be a yes. I heard cups rattling. I wanted
to ask him more—like,
Can I call you
Grandpa
?
—but that was too
much, absolutely crazy. But when I tried to ask something else, my mouth
refused to form the words. My body wanted silence. So I obeyed, floating in
gentle insanity, perusing the books I had been leaning against.

Most
of them, surprisingly, dealt with northern European mythic traditions;
specifically those of fairy, and, even more specific than that, something
called the Furious Host, the Wild Hunt.

I was
familiar with the concept. No expert, but I had come across it during all those
trips to the bookstores and libraries. I had a vague impression of a man
wearing antlers and a moss loincloth, leading ghosts and goblins and fairies on
some spectral hunt through the woods. Not something I had focused on all that
much. Hans Christian Andersen was more up my alley.

But I
was nervous and needed to feel busy—and these texts were new to me, with
inserts written by hand and typewriter. I found myself skimming, drawn to the
words—one page in particular, which I thought must have been written in Jack’s
hand.

It
is of us,
I read,
this hunt, this
wild raging hunt that takes upon itself the nature of an Age, and destroys so
that others may be reborn.

There
was more, but Jack appeared down the narrow path between stacked paper. He held
two steaming cups in his hands. “Ah. You’ve found the light reading, I see.”

“It’s
interesting.” I closed the book—and the page. “I thought you were an
archaeologist only. Not a folklorist.”

“I am
a man of many disciplines. And the two are not so dissimilar. There would be no
cities to find, my dear, without the hearts that shaped them.”

I
tapped the book. “Fairy tales?”

“Dreams
and portents,” he replied, and held out a cup. I wanted to ask him more, but
kept my mouth shut and carefully set aside the book. I took the hot drink. Tea.
The liquid was a dark rich red, and I sipped it, gingerly. Tasted good and
sweet.

“Jeannie
preferred sugar with hers,” said Jack. “I thought you might have similar
tastes.”

“It
feels weird to hear you talk about her. I was shocked when I saw that
photograph.”

“It’s
one of my favorites.” Jack leaned on the table opposite me and glanced down at
Zee. “There’s a toolbox beneath the sink if you’re hungry.”

Raw
and Aaz looked at each other, ears perked, and disappeared into the shadows.
Zee stayed where he was, regarding the old man with a thoughtfulness that made
me nervous. I heard metal rattle. Dek and Mal chirped softly, and I reached
into my hair to give them a gentle push. They winked off my shoulders, and the
missing weight made me feel naked.

“My
grandmother trusted you,” I said. Just as my mother must have trusted him. I
wished I understood why she had never mentioned his name. Or why the boys had
refused to discuss him when I first showed them his picture in Badelt’s office.

I
thought of the demon. Oturu. Jack said, “We met in 1955. I had been working in
Persia for some time, cataloging certain artifacts, evidence of cultural
migration between China and the Middle East, and I happened to bump into
Jeannie in the market. She was buying grapes, and was very angry at the price
she had been quoted.” Jack smiled into his teacup. “I came to her rescue.”

I
found myself covering my mouth, hiding my own smile. I bit my bottom lip. “What
happened then?”

“She
and I started talking. It turned out she had traveled extensively throughout
Central Asia, and was quite familiar with certain archaeologically significant
areas unknown to me—or any other outsider. She offered to take me to them. For
a fee. She liked money, that one.”

“And
the boys? How did you find out about them?”

“We
were attacked.” Jack’s gaze turned distant. “Desert raiders. One of them shot
at me. He was too close to miss. Jeannie… shielded me… with her body. Those
bullets tore her clothing to shreds, but she remained unharmed. Scared the
daylights out of the raiders, I can tell you that much. We were the only ones
left alive.” He smiled again, but it was not quite as happy. “She explained the
rest. No choice, really.”

“How
long—” I had to stop, and steadied myself with a sip of tea. “How long were you
together?”

“Oh,
years.” Jack faltered, staring down at his tea. “I assume your mother passed
away.”

I
hesitated. “Five years ago.”

Jack’s
face was still turned from me, but his chin dipped deeper against his chest,
and his hands tightened around the teacup. A tremor raced through him. So faint
it could have been nothing more than a breath.

“You
were so lovely,” he said quietly, and I thought he might be speaking to the
memory of my mother until he added, “Not a cry out of you. A sweet baby.”

I did
not know what to say. Maybe he
was
speaking of my mother. Maybe me.
Maybe, maybe. Too many maybes. “She brought me to you?”

“Just
after you were born. It was one of her last visits.” Jack set down his tea.
“Come. I have something for you.”

He
stepped carefully down the path. I watched him intently, his words still
ringing, said so casually.
It was one of her last visits.

I
started to follow, but Zee stopped me, holding up his hands. I swung him into
my arms, and he pressed his mouth to my ear. “We promised, Maxine. Mommy made
us. No talking about the Meddling Man.”

“Why?”
I whispered.

Zee
hesitated. “Look deep, beneath the skin. Meddling Man is all skin.”

A
riddle. Not the worst. But it made me uneasy, when all I wanted was joy.

I
found Jack on the other side of the room, around a freestanding bookshelf that
served as a dividing wall. I saw a sink, a stove, a dishwasher—four little
demons eating the remains of a toolkit—a table that was, remarkably, only
half-covered in books—one refrigerator that was twenty years too old, and a
door to what I assumed was either a bedroom or a toilet.

Jack
was mumbling to himself, and I tried to memorize every detail of the old
man—still in a tuxedo, lost in a maze of books and paper. It was a treasure, a
delight. Better than what I could have imagined.

I
almost asked—right then, right there. The question almost slipped free. Took
all my willpower to hold it in, but I was too scared not to. Too frightened of
myself. Jack Meddle was a stranger. I had no reason to trust him. No cause to
believe.

But I
wanted to. I wanted Jack to say yes. I wanted him to be family, so badly I
could taste it.

And
if it was someone else, and not him… I did not want to know. Not yet. I could
pretend, just for a little while.