The Iron Hunt (24 page)

Zee
said a sharp word. He sounded angry. Behind, the man in the snow finally
climbed to his feet. He took a step toward us. His lips were no longer blue,
and the ice crystals had melted from his face. The leash of hair was gone, but
his movements were rough, as though compelled.

Zee
continued to rattle off a vicious litany, chittering with all the ire of some
demonic squirrel. Raw and the others were silent, but quivering; eyes blazing,
low-throated growls rumbling. The demon’s words burned.

He rose
to his feet, balanced effortlessly on the pointed tips of his long sharp toes.
“We hurt you.”

“Yes,”
I said.

“Ah,”
he breathed, then, softly: “The Hunt has begun. Our promise fulfilled, again.
You must lead us.”

“No,”
I said. “I’m not doing anything just because you say so.”

“You
do not trust us.”

“Never.”

The
demon went very still. “We have a bargain made in blood, Hunter. Your blood. My
blood. The blood of your wards.”

“I
don’t understand any of this, least of all some bargain. ”

His
mouth twisted with displeasure. “And if you never understand? Will you break
your word with us? The word of your ancestor?”

I
felt the boys tense. “No. But I need more.”

The
demon turned away. I struggled for my voice. “You can give me answers.”

He
looked back, the brim of his hat sharp, like a scythe. “The answers you want
are in your blood, and those we cannot give you. All we can do is leave you
with time. A little time.” His head tilted sharply toward the man. “Protect
her, Tracker.”

“No,”
said the man, and a thread of darkness lashed from the demon’s cloak, striking
the man’s face. He stumbled, holding his cheek. Blood seeped between his
fingers.

“Protect
her,” hissed the demon. “Whatever it takes.”

I
stepped toward the demon, the boys still clinging, bodies warm as coals, old
fires in an old hearth, seeping into my body. I held a hand toward him, not
meaning to touch, but desperate, determined.

A
hush fell over the demon, stillness heavy and rich as the weight of the starry
sky bearing down upon our heads. He swayed, slow and delicate, and inside my
heart I felt a dark squirm, a shadow behind my ribs, fluttering. Memory, déjà
vu, something old, cold, and hard; and I thought of wolves and swords, bells
ringing and women dying. I heard my blood. I heard my heart. Music, in my
veins.

The
demon leaned near, hair and cloak fanning around me—not touching, but embracing
the air above my body. Swallowed by the abyss, close to death. Kissed by death.

Coarse
fingers grabbed my hand. The man. Tracker. A dark, bleeding cut in his face. I
looked back at Oturu, the hard line of his mouth. “We’re not done.”

“Never,”
he murmured, and with a flourish that had more in common with Errol Flynn than
Freddy Krueger, leapt into the air. I craned my neck, startled, and watched him
fly into the light of the moon, gone like a whistle shot. Embraced by night.
Dek and Mal whispered in my ears. Zee and the others closed their eyes,
shoulders sagging.

My
heart felt strange. Tracker squeezed my hand. I looked up into his hard gaze
and felt stones gather in my chest, in the pit of my stomach. I was suddenly so
damned cold I could die, but I would not blink first. I refused.

His
jaw tightened. “This should be interesting.”

He
yanked hard. I slipped into darkness.

And
reemerged into the light.

SUNLIGHT.
Home. Four familiar walls, bricks and books; and windows the size of my car. I
had no idea how I had gotten here, but the boys were soft against my skin. I
was warm.

I
rolled over. Tracker stood by the motorcycle, a large sinewy hand poised over
the cherry red finish. His long, dark hair shimmered against his hawkish
features. He was a difficult man to place, with an exotic sophistication that
defied ethnicity. He could have fit in anywhere—and at the same time, no place
at all. Like Grant, like me. Outsiders.

He
glanced at me, and his gaze was dark, furious. I saw iron around his throat. I
expected him to say something, but he seemed content to murder me with his
eyes, in grim silence. I rubbed my hand over my face and turned away,
staggering to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I
hesitated, then tossed one at him. He let it fall and hit the floor.

I
ignored that, opened another, and took a long drink. My lips were cracked and
bleeding. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Tracker watched me,
unmoving. I finished the bottle, threw it in the garbage, then checked my
watch. Almost two hours late. My life, this treasured life, just might be over.

I
fumbled for my cell phone and tried calling Grant. I was transferred directly
to his voice mail. I did not leave a message. I tried calling again, but the
same thing happened. I was already on edge. I walked fast to the apartment
door. No car. I was going to have to catch a cab.

Tracker
appeared in front of me. Literally. I heard a puff of displaced air as he
manifested, and it was like watching the boys pour from shadows, except it was
broad daylight and there was not a shred of darkness in the apartment. “Where
are you going, Hunter?”

“None
of your business.”

Tracker
stabbed the band of iron around his throat. “You
are
my business.”

I
could not look away from that collar. I hated it with an intensity that
startled me; hated, too, the memory of this man on his knees. Felt familiar, like
déjà vu, but that was impossible, wrong—and not my fault.

I
hardened my heart. “You go tell Oturu that he can take his
protection
and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I don’t want you here. I don’t
need
you.”

Tracker
grabbed my arm and I broke his grip, punching his gut. I could shatter brick
with my fist—I should have been able to make him wheeze, at the very least. But
he did not budge. Just stood there, looking down at me, like my fist was light
as air. “Had enough?”

“Haven’t
gotten started,” I muttered, then: “I couldn’t have hurt you. I don’t
know
you.”

“You’re
all the same. All of you.”

“Last
I checked, there’s just one of me.”

“Just
one,” he said coldly. “But the culmination of countless ones. And your blood,
your
nature
, never changes, Hunter.”

He
was full of shit. Men with grudges were like men with rocks for brains: knock,
hit, scream all you wanted. Nothing but a wasted effort, and I had no energy to
argue. I felt like pieces of my heart were flopping around my chest, bleeding
and useless, and if Tracker had not been standing in front of me, I might have
been able to convince myself that it had never happened, that I had imagined
sitting in the snows of the North Pole, faced by a demon who wanted to be my
hand, my deadly sword.

“Fine,”
I said. “Stick around. But you start being a little less angry, then
maybe
I’ll cooperate. Maybe I’ll give a damn.”

“You
want to bargain.” He said it like I was asking him to clean dog poo with his
bare hands.

“I’m
willing to
talk
. But not here. I have to go.”

He
was a handsome man, but there was nothing attractive about rage—and it hurt
more than it should. I almost expected him to make another move against me—he
seemed to be one big raw nerve—but I watched a shift of light pass through his
eyes, a moment of calculation, and he inclined his head, just so.

I
turned, let out my breath, and left the apartment at a run. Outside, I headed
down the garden path to the front of the Coop. No cab parked out front. I
started dialing through my cell-phone contacts for the number of the taxi
company. Tracker matched my pace. “What are you doing? ”

“Trying
to get to the hospital.”

“Which
one?”

His
curiosity, however acerbic, made me suspicious. “University Medical Center.”

He
grabbed my arm and the world disappeared—as though swallowed, lost deep in the
dark thunder of the sea. I could not struggle, could not move. My heart
screamed.

And
then I found myself free, returned to the world. Concrete. Cars. Voices nearby.
I staggered, blinking hard, jamming my palm against my eye. Tracker stood
beside me, a look of cold amusement on his face.

“You’re
an asshole,” I rasped. An effective asshole. We were at the hospital. Standing
in a landscaped alcove of gravel and bushes just off the small drive leading up
to the emergency room. An ambulance was parked in front of the glass doors. No
one seemed to have noticed our appearing act.

Ten
miles covered in a heartbeat. Up to the North Pole and back in the blink of an
eye. Never dreamed, never imagined. Not human. Not demon.

Something
else. Something like magic.

I
took a deep breath and started walking. Tracker followed. He moved with a
particular grace that reminded me of a dancer—rolling, light, almost like
Oturu. As though he could spin on his toes at a moment’s notice; spin and kill,
with just one touch.

Dangerous
man. The boys rumbled in their sleep. Dek, resting on my right arm, kept
pulling toward Tracker. He was stubborn about it. I had to concentrate not to
brush against the man.

I
tried calling Grant again. No answer. I started running. My heart felt very
small and hard. I passed through the sliding doors and entered a waiting room
paneled in dark wood, lighting turned down just enough to create an atmosphere
of shadowed calm, helped in part by large windows that bordered a small garden.
Several flat-screen televisions hung from the walls. A major news network was
on. Images of crying children and collapsed buildings flashed. Massive
earthquake. Iran.

The
woman behind the admitting desk glanced from me to Tracker, and her gaze stayed
there, staring, open-mouthed.

“Hey,”
I said, then snapped my fingers. “Ma’am.”

She
blinked, a flush staining her cheeks. Flustered. I did not dare look at
Tracker. Wolf in wolf’s clothing, that was him. He stayed silent as I spoke to
the woman and got Byron’s room number. Grant had registered the boy under his
own last name, Cooperon.

Byron
had been assigned a room on the fifth floor. No one else stood in the elevator
with us. I leaned against a metal bar, looked at Tracker, and said, “Why did
you push me in front of the bus?”

His
mouth crooked. “Because I felt like it. Because I wanted to watch.”

“You’re
crazy.”

“Maybe,”
he replied. “After all these years, yes, I think so.”

I
pushed away from the wall. “You listen. I don’t know what kind of history you
think we’ve got, but right here, right now,
it doesn’t matter.
Bad
things are happening, and I might find another in this hospital. You get in my
way, you try to hurt the people I love, and I’ll bury you.”

“Hunter,”
said Tracker, as the elevator stopped, “I would expect nothing less.”

We
walked into a waiting room. Grant was not there. Neither were the police, nor
an army of Russian gunmen waiting to assassinate one teenage boy. The only
occupant was an old woman huddled on a chair in the corner. She was watching the
news. The focus was still on Iran. Big red letters that spelled QUAKE! scrolled
across the bottom of the screen, cutting into disturbing video of a screaming
man shaking his fists at the night sky.

The
doors were locked. I picked up a phone hanging from the wall and dialed zero.
Listened to two rings, then a woman answered. Crisp, no-nonsense. I asked for
Byron Cooperon, and she said, “Yes, some family is already here. Room Two. Are
you his uncle’s wife?”

“Yes,”
I lied.

“Come
on in,” she replied, and the door clicked.

The
air smelled cold on the other side. Cold and thick with disinfectant, so much
that the air almost felt dirty instead of clean, raw with chemical. I hated it.
I had hardly ever been in a hospital, and never for myself. Only hunting. Medical
professionals made frightening zombies.

Ahead,
at the nurses’ station, several women stood together, leaning on the counter
with charts spread in front of them.

“—it’s
awful,” I heard one of the nurses say. “There were earthquakes early this
morning all
over
the Middle East. And those people dead? You
know
the Red Cross is going to start asking for volunteers.”

“I
did my tour with Katrina,” said another woman. “But that was in the States. I’m
not
going overseas, not with my kids still in school.”

“Mount
St. Helens will blow next,” replied the third woman, with a hint of grim
amusement. “Seattle is due for the big one.”

“Or
perhaps locusts will fall from the sky,” Tracker whispered in my ear. “Or water
turn to blood?”

I
gave him a hard look, trying to understand what kind of man I was dealing with.
“You don’t mean to say that earthquake can be blamed on demons?”