The Iron Hunt (14 page)

I saw
the boys watching us. Zee had one fist knotted against his chest. Raw and Aaz,
Dek and Mal—all of them, staring, deep in memory. I could always tell. It was
in their ears, their mouths. Slack, distracted.

I
held the boy. I held him a long time.

I
could not handle it on my own. Grant helped me put the boy to bed, and this time,
I let him use the flute. I stood by the door and watched him sit in a chair by
the nightstand and play his own music, his own creation. Invented on the spot
for Byron’s soul.

The
teen’s psyche sounded a little like the
Firebird Suite
, lilting and eerie
and sad. I could not see his aura—only, ever, the shadows of demons—but I felt
Grant’s power course through me and sink into my bones. I imagined what it must
be like to rearrange the colors of a boy’s soul—color that reflected energy,
energy that represented emotion. A nudge here, a prod there. Gentle. Subtle.
Healing. The boy slept. Grant had done that first. To make it easier.

After
a while, I left them.

Zee
and the others were in the bedroom. Their teddy bears were out, amputated limbs
leaking trails of white cotton stuffing. The boys started humming “Living on a
Prayer” when I walked in, voices high like some demonic version of Alvin and
the Chipmunks; but it was a mournful version, and when they started throwing
scissors, they only halfheartedly aimed for each other’s eyes. I watched them
for a moment, then stepped over their current issues of
Playboy
,
National
Geographic
, and the
Wall Street Journal
piled alongside coloring
books and half-chewed crayons.

I
stripped off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. Felt something heavy in my
pocket, and remembered, suddenly, the stone disc Jack had given me. A gift from
my mother. I looked at it, rubbing my palm over the smooth soft surface, my
fingers trailing through the engraved circular lines, nestled within one
another.

I
laid it down on the nightstand, heart aching.

I did
not look at myself in the mirror. I took a shower. It felt good. I tried not to
think too hard. I also tried not to freak out, but I was just not that lucky.

I
cried. I cried for myself, my mother. I cried for Badelt and Byron. I did not
know why. I had seen people die. I had killed. But I felt like I was coping
with my mother’s death all over again, and that was more than I could bear.
Even thinking about Jack Meddle was no distraction. Just another terrible ache.

I
turned off my brain. Stayed under the water a long time. Scalding hot. I could
hardly see the walls for the steam. I was dizzy.

When
I exited the bathroom, Grant was in bed. The lights were low. Boys, gone. I
pulled back the covers. Saw a lot of skin. I dropped my towel.

Grant,
very gently, said, “I’ll make it better.”

And
he did.

I was
a poor dreamer. I used to have nightmares—or better, visions of elephants
soaring, crickets in top hats singing—but since my mother’s death, my dreams
had been bereft, bullish in their simplicity; my life so terribly bizarre,
there was nothing left to conjure in my sleep. If I dreamed, then I was good at
forgetting. Mostly, there was only darkness in my mind.

But
when I fell asleep that night I dreamed of drums. I dreamed of a valley cast in
moonlight, spread beneath me like round cheeks, and there were wing tips
against my feet, like the cloak of a dragon, and a taste in my throat that was
cinnamon and spice, and something worse, awful and metallic—creamy like butter
made from blood.

I was
not alone in my dream. The boys were there, ranged about me like wolves, and I
was in the company of wolves, real and golden-eyed and sharp with silver fur. I
wore fur. I wore gold and silver, and against my brow a slender crown that
pricked my skin with thorns. In my hand, a sword.

And
behind me, soaring against my back, a wall of darkness, a cloak writhing and
twisting, a pale mouth smiling.

It
is time,
I thought.
This is blood.

So it
was.

WHEN
I woke, my skin was covered in tattoos. Sunrise. I had survived the night.

My
mouth tasted like cinnamon. I gazed down at my hand, nearly lost in the covers.
Red eyes stared back, unblinking and flat. Raw, silver on his chin, distorted
upon my skin. He had rested on my thigh yesterday, but the boys never slept in
the same spot twice. I rarely let others see my tattoos. Some things were hard
to explain.

A
warm foot nudged my leg. I rolled over. Grant was propped up on his pillows,
early morning sunlight warming his brown hair. He held the stone disc.

“Sorry,”
he said, absently. “I got curious.”

I lay
on my stomach, tucking pillows under me, and caught him checking out my
tattooed breasts, one of which was currently the bosom pillow for Zee. I looked
down and found his mercury hand frozen against my sternum, middle claw raised.

“Well,”
I said mildly, “I know he isn’t flipping
me
off.”

“Don’t
ask,” Grant muttered, and rolled the stone in his large palm. “What is this?”

“Limited-edition
garden ornament. The boys have been watching QVC again.”

His
mouth twitched. “Maxine.”

“Jack
Meddle gave it to me. He said it was from my mother.”

“Just
like that? Some coincidence.”

“You
know how I feel about those.” I ran my finger against the hard, thick muscles
of his forearm. “Do you believe in fairy tales?”

Grant
pushed deeper into the covers and turned on his side, placing the stone between
us, on the edge of my pillow. “I believe in you. And I know what I can do. I
suppose that means anything is possible.”

I
gazed at the stone, and in the morning light the edges of those circular lines
resembled veins quickened with glints of lavender and silver—crushed pearls—and
though it could have been a trick of the eye, I imagined a faint pulse, as
though a tiny heart beat inside the stone.

“Why?”
Grant asked.

“I
don’t know. It was in my head.” I turned, exposing my jaw. “See anything?”

He
peered closely. “A tattoo extending out of your hairline. Dek or Mal, I’m not
sure who. Just enough to cover the mark. I don’t feel it anymore, either. Can
the boys get rid of scarring?”

“Not
to my knowledge.” I wondered why the boys would prefer to expose themselves
than allow that brand to remain on my face. Or how Jack had recognized it.

Grant
grunted. “I talked to Zee last night. Tried to get some answers out of him.”

“And?”

“He
told me they made some promises.”

I
buried my head in the pillows. “I got the same line. Did they give you
anything
useful?”

He
smiled. “Guilt. Something I’m well versed in.”

I
could not laugh. “When you were a priest, did you take confessions?”

“Sure.
Have something you want to get off your chest?”

“Ha.”
I rubbed the stone with my finger. “Just wondered if you ever… encountered
anything truly bizarre. So horrible you had trouble keeping it to yourself.”

“Haven’t
you kept secrets?”

“Not
the kind that mess up a person’s life.”

Grant
pulled me close. “Confession, the sacrament, penance… all of that is supposed
to help sinners commune with God. Self-examination, with me, as priest,
standing in for Jesus to exercise forgiveness. It was never my place to judge.
And as for repeating what I heard… that’s something I could never do, not even
to save my life. Or anyone else’s.”

“But
you did judge. You acted.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You knew you could
fix the most troubled. And you used the confessional to find them.”

He
did not deny it. He had said as much to me in the past, and it was one of the
reasons he had left the priesthood. Too much conflict. Too much danger. Not
from himself, but from the Church.

Grant
closed his eyes. “You just had to bring that up.”

“Sorry,”
I said.

“Don’t
be. I just… couldn’t let some of them go. Not as they were. And maybe that was
wrong of me. Could be everything I do is wrong. But you can’t compare that to
Zee and the others, what they’re keeping from you…” He stopped, sighing. “There
must be a good reason for it. They love you, Maxine. And not just because they
need you to survive.”

I
hoped so. I picked up the stone and cradled it above our heads, trying to be
careful. My mother had wanted me to have this. My mother. I could hardly
imagine it.

I
could not understand why.

“It’s
a labyrinth,” Grant said, tapping the edge of the disc. “At least, I think so.
It’s a bit different from what I’m used to.”

I stared
at him, surprised. “You’ve seen something like this before?”

“The
imagery is a mainstay of the Church. Symbolizes the path to salvation,
enlightenment.”

Interesting.
“So what’s different about it?”

Grant’s
gaze was sharp, thoughtful. “A labyrinth has only one beginning, and one end.
See where these lines meet the edge? There are nine of them. Nine ways in.”

“It’s
probably not literal.”

“I’m
sure it isn’t. But the symbolism is the same across cultures, from ancient
Greece, to Iran and China. Relics have been found in pre-Columbian North and
South America. Australia, even. And in all those places, labyrinths are
depicted a certain way. Not like this.”

“Expert
much?”

“Had
to be.”

“You’ve
got that glint in your eye.”

He
grinned. “It’s a fascinating topic. And a very appropriate gift. Your mother
knew what she was doing.”

“She
usually did,” I replied dryly.

“But
see, look at this.” He tapped the stone, tracing his finger around the
concentric lines. “There may be nine ways in, but there’s only one way to the
center, once you slip into this opening… right here. One single path. A
unicursal maze. And all it takes is faith to reach the end. Not logic. Just
endurance.”

“My
mother would have appreciated the sentiment.”

“There’s
something else she would have liked more. The archetype of the warrior.” Grant
looked into my eyes. “If you study the myths associated with labyrinths,
there’s always a malevolent presence within it—the Minotaur, Satan, Khumbaba.
But where there is evil…”

“There’s
someone fighting against it.”

“In
the labyrinth, the warrior will defeat the darkness,” he said quietly. “And win
salvation for all.”

I
closed my eyes, imagining my mother gazing at the stone and its engraving.
Contemplating her daughter’s future. “That doesn’t explain why she didn’t just
give this to me herself.”

“Part
of the message?” Grant raised his brow. “Leaving things to faith, the
convoluted path? Maybe she thought it would mean more if you received it…
later.”

After
she was dead. A message beyond the grave. That, too, made sense. My mother had
been esoteric in life; death, apparently, had not changed a thing.

“You
know,” said Grant thoughtfully, “from a human consciousness standpoint, a
labyrinth is seen as a door between two worlds. Some also believe that
prehistoric labyrinths might have served as traps, symbolic or not, for…
malevolent spirits.”

I
shook my head. “I’m convinced. Message received.”

Grant’s
mouth twitched. “Still doesn’t explain the deviation in the iconography. The
lack of order, the nine points of entry.”

I snuggled
deeper into his side. “You sound like a professor. ”

“Does
it turn you on?”

“Keep
talking.”

He
began to smile, but a faint line gathered between his eyes. He held up the
stone disc, turning it in the light.

“What?”
I asked.

“Something
that doesn’t make sense. I keep thinking it’s my imagination.” He hesitated,
still staring at the stone. “A person in a coma has an aura. Deep indicators.
But the longer and harder someone sleeps, the shallower that light becomes. And
those who are damaged beyond repair…”

“They
pulse,” I said quietly, reaching out to touch the engraving, the glints of
silver. I traced the lines, feeling something shift inside my mind; a dark
flutter. “Reduced to heartbeats.”

Grant
stared. “You see it.”

“Something.”
My gaze was drawn to my hand: another kind of snarl, a jam of knots and
complications, a maze of flesh and time and death. Each line in my skin,
evidence of a life I was responsible for. No running, either. I was the bars of
my own cage. Jailer and the jailed.

The
phone rang. Grant did not pick it up. He pulled me close and leaned over my
body until I was covered in his skin. I hooked my leg around his. I felt small
when he held me. Safer than I should. Warm. Grant was the only thing the boys
allowed me to feel when they slept.