The Iron Hunt (22 page)

“This
and that.”

“You’re
trying to hide something from me.”

“Am
I?” Blood Mama ate another raspberry. “Let us walk, Hunter. I have a desire to
travel amongst mortals and lower myself to their ignoble existence.”

“You
faker. You wish you were one of them.”

“Never,”
she protested. “I am a traveler, only. A nomad of souls. To be bound in one
body, from squalling babe to wrinkled incontinent prune, with no reward but
death… oh, Hunter.
That
is a prison. I do not envy you. Not now, not
ever.”

“But
you come and go as you please.” I stared out of the market at the ocean,
imagining all those prison rings folded upon one another, rubbing borders with
this dimension. An army of demons, hidden from sight. No telescopes, no eyes
keen enough to discern their beating hearts. If they had hearts. “The veil is
weak.”

“The
veil has always been weak.” Blood Mama smiled lushly at a gawky young man in
glasses who openly stared at her as she swayed past. “But the difference is
that the veil is
coming down
entirely, and when it does, this world will
have no one to protect it. Save you.”

“Right,”
I said, fingering the tingling skin below my ear. “And you care because you’re
afraid of the others.”

Her
smile slipped. “I risk a great deal by meeting with you. If Ahsen sees me—”

“Ahsen,”
I interrupted her. “The one who came through the veil?”

“Ahsen.
Avatar.” Blood Mama glanced sideways. “Wayward Prison Builder.”

I
stopped walking. She said, “Don’t pretend. I know you’re not surprised.”

Blood
Mama did not know me that well. I
was
surprised. But not as much as I
could have been. I rarely thought about the builders of the prison veil. They
were a force unknown, briefly mentioned in the family histories but never with
details. All I knew was that they had fought alongside humans against the
demons. All I was certain of was that they had created the prison veil.

After
that, nothing. Never another mention. Sometimes I thought they might never have
existed.

Until
today. Jack and Sarai had changed everything.

Blood
Mama was still eating her raspberries, savoring each bite like it was some long
kiss good-bye. Men were watching her.
Good luck,
I thought.
She’ll
eat you alive.

“Why,”
I said slowly, “are you here?”

She
smiled. “I have an interest in keeping you alive.”

“Because
you want me to save your babies from the big bad demons. Even though I take
them from you.”

“I am
willing to sacrifice a few lambs to keep your hunger satisfied.” Her aura
crackled, like her smile. “A Hunter must be fed.”

“And
distracted. Tamed into complacency.” I also smiled, grim. “How many angles do
you play, Blood Mama? What did you promise this Ahsen? What did she
make
you promise? ”

Blood
Mama’s aura danced. She tossed the rest of her raspberries on the ground,
container with them—even though a garbage can was nearby. No one complained,
but I noticed dirty, even incredulous, looks.

She
wiped her hands together. Her nails flashed crimson. “I promised nothing but a
temporary door. And, perhaps, some aid. If required.”

“You
ordered Badelt’s death. Jack and Sarai. The boy.”

Blood
Mama said nothing. I looked around. There were very few places to stand that
were out of the way. Ahead of us was the fish market. I saw men in orange overalls
lobbing a salmon at one another like a football, laughing and shouting.
Tourists everywhere. Cameras flashing, children squealing. Disneyland for
seafood lovers, and all the other fish sellers were looking at those jokers
like they wanted to stab red-hot pokers in their backs.

“A
good world,” murmured Blood Mama. “And I am queen of it.”

“One
day I’ll kill you. Or someone else will.”

She
gave me a sharp look. “You are not permitted to harm me. I made a bargain with
your ancestors. On your blood.”

“Maybe.
But I don’t have to
save
you.” I smiled, cold, hard; savoring the
calculation in her eyes, the reevaluation. I thought of my mother, my
grandmother… hundreds of women murdered by the demonic parasite inhabiting the
body in front of me. I could act civil because I had to. Because Blood Mama
might be useful. But it was shallow as a dry riverbed, and just as cracked.

I
hated her. I hated her so bad I could taste it.

“Why?”
I said again. “Why hurt them?”

“Because
it served a purpose.” Blood Mama stepped out from under the market awning, into
the sun. She raised her hand, and a black sedan rolled into sight. “Ahsen is
dangerous, Hunter. She is old and powerful—but her anger makes her weak, easily
manipulated.”

The
sedan parked beside us, and the back door opened from inside. I glimpsed Edik
in the shadows. Blood Mama balanced a red patent-leather stiletto against the
edge of the interior and looked back at me. “If you know what Ahsen wants,
Hunter, you can use it against her. You can
stall.
Keep her so hungry, she
will not
want
to return to the veil.”

Her
face showed nothing, but I heard the hint of urgency in her voice, perhaps
fear. I swayed close. “You haven’t told the other demons in the veil, have
you?”

Blood
Mama looked at me with disdain. “Told them what? That the Wardens are dead?
That the Avatars, the creatures who built the veil, have abandoned this world?
Or perhaps I should explain how my children have managed to roam free all these
millennia, while
they
stay locked within their cells. Oh, they would
take that well, indeed.”

“You’ve
played them.”

“I
have avoided them, when I can.” Blood Mama leaned against the open car door,
staring hard into my eyes. “Understand your enemy, Hunter.”

I
also leaned on the door. I removed my glove, and rested my naked hand against
hers. Blood Mama did not flinch. Her aura remained steady. Raw hummed against
her skin. Hungry, but holding steady.

“There
is nothing more intimate than death,” said Blood Mama, tilting closer, voice
husky. “I have taught that lesson to more than one of your ancestors.”

“And
did you tell them what
you’re
afraid of? You, Blood Mama?” I also
lowered my voice, but only because tourists were walking particularly close to
the car, staring. “Maybe you could share with
me
what is so particularly
worrisome about the secret my mother left? Because I think you know.”

Blood
Mama’s gaze faltered, and she withdrew her hand—sliding into the sedan with
careless grace. Edik sat in the shadows beside her—a spare, silent figure,
still pushing his glasses up his nose. He could not look me in the eyes, but
Blood Mama held my gaze, the cold, sleek beauty of her host body fading beneath
the storm of her immense aura.

“The
truth is simple,” she said quietly. “There is a fine line between salvation and
damnation, Hunter. And you, I am afraid, are it.”

She
shut the door. The sedan pulled away. I stood at the side of the cobblestone
street, watching her go, and pulled the stone disc from my back pocket.

In
the sunlight, nestled in the black leather of my mother’s gloves, the engraved
lines glowed like smashed pearls inlaid with veins of silver fire, flickering
over the surface as though the aurora borealis were skimming stone.

Labyrinth
, Sarai had whispered.

Some
mysteries. I was in so much trouble.

I
heard the roar of a large engine. I turned, and the sun blinded my eyes. Hands
touched my back.

Someone
pushed.

And a
bus hit me.

I had
never been hit by anything larger than a dune buggy—and that was under
extenuating circumstances involving a runaway donkey, a one-legged zombie with
a shotgun, and the unfortunate arrival of a freak sandstorm. All of which
contributed to my sudden and intimate connection with the wheels of a
fast-moving vehicle.

A bus
was infinitely larger.

I
went down hard. Felt the boys move in the split second before impact, shifting
their sleeping bodies across my face. My nose and jaw slammed into the
cobblestones with enough force to crush bone, but I felt no pain.

I
must have dropped the stone disc. I saw it in front of me, and my hand closed
over it just as a bumper slammed into my shoulder and head. I flew; I spun;
wheels rolled over my legs—and the sun disappeared beneath a steel chassis that
was long and dark, and choked me with exhaust.

Bad
day. Very bad day.

Everything
stopped. My body. The bus. All I could hear was the engine dripping and my
blood thundering. My hands clutched the stone to my chest, my fingers digging
into the engraved lines, and for a moment an odd sensation passed over me, as
though I was fading away. I saw my mother inside my head—and beyond her, other
women, all of them wearing my face. All of them afraid.

Afraid
of themselves.

The
vision faded, but was replaced: I saw the demon in his cloak—Oturu—and in front
of him a woman with my face—wearing tattoos and little else. They stood
together, close, leaning in with such comfort, such ease, it was clear they had
done so often, for a long time. Behind them I saw a purple sky, two moons. Big
moons. Moons totally unlike the single moon I enjoyed staring at when the sun
went down.

I
snapped out of it. The world poured back in. I sucked in a deep breath. Still
under the bus, staring at an engine. Stone clutched tightly in my hand.

But
for a moment, all I could see was that vision. Oturu, one of my ancestors—
not
me, not me
—standing beneath an alien sky.

Sounds
intruded: some woman, screaming so violently she might have been the one under
the bus. My hands started to shake. I returned the disc to my pocket, then took
a deep breath and rolled carefully on my stomach. Men were scooting under the
bus to help me. I let them, trying to ignore their stares as they saw my face.
Took me a moment to realize why they seemed so taken aback.

The
boys. The boys had covered my face. And they had not shifted away. My face was
covered in tattoos.

I
took another deep breath. My rescuers were talking, saying my spine might be
broken, my legs crushed. I could have brain damage. They told me not to move.

Like
hell. I started crawling. People dragged me free. I heard a collective hiss
from the crowd as soon as they saw me—whether from my miraculous survival or my
face, I had no idea. A camera flash went off, though. Cell phones pointed in my
direction. I was spectacle.

“We’ve
called an ambulance,” said one of the men, crouching beside me. His gaze could
not seem to fix on any one part of my face. “Don’t move.”

“Thank
you,” I told him, standing. I pretended to wobble. Hands caught me and people
stared. There were so many people. I tried to look through the crowd, but all I
could see were eyes, countless eyes, watching my face, my every move. Mouths
hanging open.

Something
ugly crawled into my gut, and I remembered a hand on my back just before I
spilled into the road. I needed to find out what that was about.

I
lurched forward, pushing past men and women who tried to stop me. I heard words
like
miracle
and
careful
, then turned around, just once, to look
at the bus that had hit me. A tourist caravan, not public transport; the driver
in the road, on his hands and knees, puking up his guts. I felt bad for him. He
could not help that someone had tried to murder me.

In
the distance, sirens wailed. Too many of those today. The boys were restless on
my skin. I reached the spot where I had been pushed.

And
found a man. Tall, broad. Skin the color of a cat’s eye, golden and tawny, his
hair black and long, wild around his angular face. I normally did not notice
men’s noses, but his was large, hooked, close to being ugly, closer still to
handsome. Black eyes. Aggressive stare.

He
wore jeans, a black turtleneck, and gloves, and a belt buckle the size of my
hand, silver and inlaid with enough lapis to make it appear, at first glance,
that he carried a solid sheet of precious stone on his belt. Hard to look away,
but I did, and glimpsed a band of iron beneath his chin, peeking from the edge
of his collar.

I had
never seen the man before in my life, but I knew those eyes. I knew that face.
I knew him as though he were part of a dream I could not quite recall, but even
that much was enough. This was not a coincidence.

“You
pushed me,” I said.

“You
survived.” He smiled coldly. “But then, your kind always does.”

His
voice was craggy and hard, effortlessly masculine. I thought of my mother’s
knives. “How do you know who I am?”

“The
world is full of mysteries.” He started walking. I stared after him, torn, then
followed without looking back. I had little choice. The sirens were louder, and
people still watched me. Might as well leave in the same direction. Pushing me
under a bus was not the best way to get my attention, but knowing I was invulnerable
certainly was. And it seemed to me that too many individuals were well aware of
that rather important personal fact. I had kept secrets all my life. For
nothing.