The Iron Hunt (27 page)

He
stared for one long moment, then rose slowly to his feet. I did not move. I held
his gaze, watching as he glided across the floor, each step full of cold grace.
He stopped, so suddenly it was almost as though he balanced on the edge of a
cliff. The cut on his face, from Oturu’s hair, was still livid.

“Are
you thirsty?” he asked.

“Where
are Grant and Byron?” I replied. “Jack?”

“I
don’t know,” he said. “Coming, I suppose.”

There
was nothing dismissive about his answer, which was the only reason I kept my
mouth shut. I sat up, wiping spit off my face with the back of my hand. “Why
did you bring me here?”

“You
passed out. Old Wolf wanted you out of there.”

“Something
happened to me.” Both statement and question. I waited for him to decide which
it would be. He was a man who cared about control. I understood why. Demanding
answers would not get me any.

His
gaze flicked down. I looked, and saw the stone disc on the floor by the couch;
the little labyrinth, coiled and gleaming as though infused with black pearl.
Tracker crouched, and stretched his hand just over it, palm flat, as though
soaking in heat. “Here is your answer.”

“It’s
a rock.”

“A
rock,” he echoed disdainfully. “This is a seed ring, Hunter. Or call it what
you will. It has too many names to count.”

I
slid off the edge of the couch to sit on the floor beside him. “What does it
do?”

Tracker
leaned over the disc, almost protectively; his entire focus, now that it was
off me, very nearly soft with reverence. A startling thing to witness. I was
afraid to breathe, that I would break the spell.

“A
seed ring stores memories,” he said gravely. “Yours, or someone else’s. Size
determines how much can be retained. A large seed ring, something the size of
that wall, could hold the entirety of a person’s life. An imprint of her soul.
This here… perhaps a year at most. Or enough memories, chosen from a lifetime,
to fill a year.”

I had
to take a moment—lost, still, with my mother. “How is that possible? To retain
a person’s memories in stone?”

“Thought
is energy,” Tracker said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.
“And this isn’t stone. It’s a fragment from the Labyrinth.”

I
stared, blankly. Tracker raised his brow. “It’s physics, Hunter. Quantum
mechanics. Multiple-worlds theory. Except, it’s not a theory, and the Labyrinth
is not some hedgerow. It’s a place
between
, outside of time, outside of
space. A crossroads that connects every world, every dimension.” His gaze
turned dark, mocking. “You realize, don’t you, that Old Wolf and his kind made
the prison veil after the war with the demons? Folding reality is their game.
So is the Labyrinth.”

I
searched his face, wondering if he was lying to me. “That can’t be real.”

He
leaned back, bitter amusement touching his mouth. “A woman covered in living
tattoos that peel off her body when the sun goes down? How real is that? How
real is a creature with knives for feet, who dances when he kills? Or old men
who wear human skins like some comfortable coats?” Bitterness touched his
mouth. “You live in a world of wonder, Hunter, but you see none of it. Your
life is as small as this seed ring.”

“Don’t,”
I said softly. “My mother is in there. Don’t belittle that.”

He
looked away, jaw tight. Behind him, images of wreck and ruin scrolled across
the television screen: flashlights, children crying, haggard, sweating faces
filled with horror. Southeastern Iran had suffered another earthquake several
years before. Fifteen thousand had died, maybe more. Even now, here, with
everything gone wrong, I could not ignore that.

“You
said that was my fault.” I tore my gaze from the television to look at Tracker.
“What did you mean?”

“You
wouldn’t understand.” He rose to his feet and pointed at the seed ring. “Guard
that with your life, Hunter. Not just for your mother, but for the stone
itself. Pieces of the Labyrinth are fragments of possibility. And there is nothing
more dangerous than
maybe
.”

I
picked up the seed ring and found it warm, with a pulse. I held it to my heart,
thinking of my mother—wanting to see more. Desperate for it.

Nothing
happened. Tracker turned away and walked back to the television. Stared at the
screen.

I
pressed my cheek to the stone, and then slid it into my pocket. Took out my
cell phone and dialed Grant. He answered on the second ring, breathless.
“Maxine.”

“I’m
fine,” I said, aware of Tracker listening. “You?”

“We’re
in the car. Byron, me, Jack. Coming home.”

I
exhaled slowly. “Any trouble?”

“Just
you. Are you safe?”

“As
much as I ever am. Just get here.”

“Hang
tight,” he said, and I heard a low voice in the background, groggy and young.
“I’m with you.”

We
hung up. I found Tracker watching me instead of the television.

“What?”
I asked, when he did not look away.

A
faint line formed in his brow. “Your man. Who is he?”

“Don’t.”

“It’s
a simple question.”

“No.”
I leaned in, holding his gaze. “You hurt him, you even look at him funny, and
I’ll rip every limb off your body.”

His
mouth tilted. “And beat me to death with them?”

“I’ll
let the boys do that.”

Tracker’s
smile widened—just a fraction. “Who is he?”

I
reached inside my jacket. My mother’s knives were still there. Tracker turned
his back on me and studied the television, a wall of sleek hair hiding his
strong features. I did not relax. I stood, then joined him, glimpsing, just
before his expression hardened, sorrow: profound and heavy, a helplessness that
turned to ash every hateful word and look, every preconception. Tracker, born
again inside my mind—but I still did not know what to make of him.

“You
want to help those people,” I said. “You want to be there.”

“If I
did?” He glanced down at me, so proud. “Would you, if you could?”

“Go
there?” I hesitated, thinking of Grant and Jack. Byron. Ahsen, loose and
hunting. Tracker shook his head in disgust.

“It’s
not so easy,” I protested. “There are people who need me. Right now. Here.”

“And
they don’t?” His gaze searched mine. “How do you judge, Hunter? How many deaths
are required before one reaches the end of the world? Just one? A thousand? Or
does it ever end, only when the last heart is dead?”

“No,”
I said, grim. “But I’m just one person.”

“Ah,”
he replied. “And I suppose just one person never did any good at all. Hunter.
Last Warden of this lonely, caged world.”

I
stared, torn. Tracker, after a moment, held out his hand.

I
thought of Grant and Byron. Jack. Coming here. Expecting to find me. They would
be worried. If it were me, I would be terrified.

Tracker’s
expression hardened. He began to pull back his hand. I grabbed his wrist,
fingers squeezing tight. Holding his gaze.

I did
not let go. I found my cell phone, and called Grant.

“Change
of plans,” I said.

IT
was night on the other side of the world. I heard screams. I saw flashlights
and smelled smoke, listened to children crying. Made out the slide and broken
stone of rubble. The air choked me with dust, the acrid scent of blood and
bowels loosened in death. The boys peeled off my body, tumbling to the ground,
nearly taking me with them, in pain.

Tracker
stood beside me. I did not waste time asking questions, and neither did the
boys. I heard a woman groaning and followed the sound to a pile of stone and
wires. I had excellent night vision—better than human— and saw an ankle, a
twitching hand.

I
snapped my fingers. Zee and Raw began digging into the rubble. Aaz prowled past
them, like a small dragon, sniffing the air. I followed him, stumbling, and
when he started to dig, I followed without question. Dek and Mal slithered off
my shoulders, disappearing inside crevices too small for my hands. Rock
crunched, their jaws chewing and grinding. Within moments they made a hole big
enough to reach into, and I did, blindly, patting the ground. I felt something
soft—a stuffed toy—and then a small hand.

I
pulled gently, and Aaz disappeared into the shadows to wriggle the child free,
from beneath.

It
was a little girl. I tugged her into my arms, and she began to cough, crying. I
rocked her in my lap, and Mal dragged a rag doll from the hole, one little
patchy arm between his sharp teeth. I placed the toy in the girl’s arms, and
stood. Found Tracker staring, his expression utterly unreadable.

I
found a safe place for the little girl, and left her curled around her rag
doll. I did not want to leave her, but I could hear cries beneath the stone,
young voices, and I ran to them, the boys at my back. It was so dark, and there
were so few people searching the rubble, I did not worry about them being seen.
Only once did someone lock eyes with Zee. An old man, bleeding from a head
wound and half-delirious. He looked into Zee’s face as the little demon chewed
through the crude metal beam pinning his legs, and said a word I did not
understand.

“It’s
Persian for
djinn
,” Tracker muttered, near my shoulder. “He thinks Zee
is a spirit, something that can possess a human.”

I
grunted, wiping sweat from my brow. “Close enough to the truth.”

“You’ll
find a lot of zombies here,” Tracker said.

“Zombies
everywhere,” I replied carefully.

“Only
one of you,” he said, a hard note creeping back into his voice.

I dug
my knuckles into stone, then reached over Zee to help cushion the old man’s
head, which was lacerated with cuts. “That’s not my fault.”

Tracker’s
silence implied he disagreed. I was too tired to argue. Instead, I said,
“Oturu. Are there others like him?”

“He’s
the last of his kind. A wanderer, before he was brought here.”

“Where
is he now?”

“Somewhere
between,” he said distantly, shoving rocks away. “Beyond this world. His time
on this earth is limited to fragments. Too long, and his hunger to hunt will
overwhelm. He won’t risk breaking his word.” He straightened, pushing back his
hair, staring down his nose at me. “I was sold to him. One of your ancestors
needed a favor. I was the prize.”

I
felt dizzy and tried to focus on the old man. I hardly dared to pull him free.
His legs were crushed. “Where was this?”

“Sumeria.”

I
risked a quick glance. “Sumeria hasn’t existed in five thousand years.”

“Remarkable,”
he replied. “It thinks.”

I bit
my tongue. The old man was no longer making any sounds. I checked his pulse,
and it was still strong. He had fainted.

“Help
me,” I said, as Zee finished clearing rubble from around his feet. I glimpsed
Raw and Aaz carrying a small boy between them, their little bodies disjointed
and hunched, like wolves trying to walk on two feet.

Tracker
followed my gaze. “How long did it take you to train them?”

I
gave him a sharp look, as did Zee. “They’re not dogs.”

“They
obey you, don’t they?”

“They’re
my friends. Family.”

Zee
flipped his middle claw at the man and melted into shadow. I saw him reappear
some distance on my right, burrowing through stone. Sparks flew from his claws.
I heard sirens, distantly, and voices shouting, screaming out names. More
activity. If the boys were not careful, someone else would see them soon, even
in the dark.

I
said, “Tell me about the woman.”

“Look
in the mirror.”

“I
think they’re all cracked,” I muttered. “You’ll just have to settle for words.”

Tracker
pushed me aside, poles in his hands. He grabbed wire from beneath some rubble
and pulled hard until he had a decent amount coiled at his feet. He began
binding the old man’s crushed legs together to hold them steady. Quick,
efficient. “She went insane. Too much power. It changed her.”

“Changed
her like Oturu thinks I’ll be changed?”

Tracker’s
hands faltered, then resumed tying knots. “He gave you his mark. Which means he
sees something of her in you.”

“You
must, too. Unless you hate all of my bloodline, just on principle.”

He
turned from me before I could see his face. Dek appeared at my feet, dragging a
bottle of water in his mouth. I had no clue where he had found it, but I was
grateful. I tried pouring some into the old man’s mouth. He did not wake up,
but I was satisfied with the tiny dribble I got past his lips. I found Tracker
watching me again.

I
handed him the water. “Whoever she was, I’m not her.”

He
took a sip, his gaze never leaving my face. “We’ll see, Hunter.”