The Iron Hunt (33 page)

“Small
things, small moments.” I picked up the seed ring and cradled it in my palm.
“Haven’t you ever loved, Oturu?”

“I
have loved,” he said. “If love is the desire to see others survive. If love is
the desire never to hunt alone.”

My
hand closed around the seed ring. “What was my mother hiding from me?”

“Only
she can tell you that. But take care. As soon as you use the seed ring, Ahsen
will feel it. She will come to the source.”

I
hesitated. “Will you stay with me?”

“I
cannot protect you from her.”

“I
know.” I stared at the brim of his hat, pretending I could see his eyes. “I
don’t want to be alone.”

“Ah.”
He sighed. “Ah, Hunter. You have others.”

“You’re
here,” I said, but it was more than that, more than I could face, or name. It
was hard for me. The longer I was around him, the more I suffered an unsettling
comfort, as though his presence was an old glove, a familiar knife, the weight
of my mother’s coat.

It
was wrong. He was a demon. I was sick.

Oturu
danced away, the daggers of his feet cutting the roof as he spun into a crouch.
His cloak spread across tar paper and steel. I knelt, just on the edge of the
abyss. It began to rain. Zee, Raw, and Aaz gathered close, while Dek and Mal
rested their chins on my ears. I held the seed ring, staring hard, fingers
tracing the engraved Labyrinth lines. I felt dizzy.

Oturu
whispered, “Take care where you fall, Hunter. It is a long way down into your
heart.”

Long
way down. But not to my heart. I thought about my mother. Stared hard at the
seed ring, those veins of silver and pearl. Against my finger the engraved
iron, the sword, burned.

Zee
grabbed my wrist. Oturu flinched, a tendril of his hair snaking out to touch
the metal.

“Wait,”
he breathed. “Hunter—”

But
it was too late. The seed ring swallowed up my mind.

And
spat me out.

I
opened my eyes somewhere else. The sun was up in a sky as big as the world,
casting a golden haze. Grassland, far as I could see, though against the
horizon I glimpsed jagged peaks, snow-riddled, haunted by clouds. I smelled
horses. I heard rough male laughter. Bells chiming.

I was
still dressed in my tank and sweats, but the boys were on my skin. I turned slowly
and saw I was on top of a small hill. Below me, quite near, squat round tents
had been erected near a snaking silver river. Sheep grazed. Four men sat on
horseback. One of them held a golden eagle on his arm, which rested inside a
padded brace that rose from the side of his saddle.

The
men stared at me. I stared back—lost, for a moment, in the intensity of their
clear honest gazes, and the sudden wonder of standing barefoot in the grass of
another time.

It
occurred to me, too, that I should be invisible. At least that was the way the
seed ring seemed to work.

“Well,”
said a gravelly voice. “This
is
different.”

I
flinched, hopping back on one foot. Sun cast daggers in my eyes, but I blinked,
holding up my hand—

—and
found myself face-to-face with my grandmother.

Jean
Kiss.

I
knew her only from old photographs, but those eyes were the same: dark,
intelligent, crisp with scrutiny. A woman who missed nothing. She was young,
too. In her late thirties, at most. Dressed like the men on horseback, a
combination of loose blue slacks that bunched into tall fur boots, as well as a
lightweight navy coat that clung to her slender frame. A fur hat framed her
face, enhancing the cream of her skin. She stood tall and regal. A brace of
knives hung across her chest. She was beautiful, noble. Naturally daunting.

“Oh,”
I said, heart racing. “Oh, boy.”

It
was a shock to see her. A raw blow to my heart.

I did
not expect her to attack me. My grandmother was incredibly fast, like a viper:
darting, furious, without mercy. Her blade was already skidding off my neck,
racing sparks across my skin, before I realized what she was doing. I fell, and
she traveled with me, riding me into the grass with her knee in my chest. Her
eyes were terrifying. Full of murder.

She
pinned me, pressing her blade against my throat. My heart hammered. It was hard
to breathe. I was too shocked to protest when she tried stabbing me—again. The
knife bounced off my skin.

Her
mouth twisted. “What are you?”

“Maxine,”
I stammered. “Your granddaughter.”

She
frowned, every line and angle of her face hard as rock. “Impossible. You’re a
demon.”

“Look
at me,” I pleaded. “Listen to the boys.”

My
grandmother recoiled, searching my face. My finger tingled. The iron ring.

Finally,
finally
, she very carefully eased off my body. Slumped in the grass at
my feet. Rage gone from her eyes. Replaced by something haunted. I heard bells,
close, it seemed, and felt the men on horseback drawing near. My grandmother
never looked away from me; only barked out one sharp word. A moment later I
heard the horses move again—in the opposite direction. The grass hissed with
the wind. An eagle screamed.

“How?”
asked my grandmother, hoarsely.

“I
don’t know.” My voice weak, breathless; my heart, still stunned. “I was… trying
to do something. But you shouldn’t be able to see me. I shouldn’t…” I stopped,
licking my lips. “Where am I?
When
am I?”

Her
frown deepened. “Mongolia—1972.”

I
exhaled, sharply. “I was in Seattle—2008.”

My
grandmother closed her eyes. Off to my left I heard a girl call out. Everything
in me stopped. I could not move. I could not breathe. I sat, frozen, listening
to that voice. My grandmother seemed petrified as well, but at the last moment
she leapt to her feet, turning, her hands outstretched.

Too
late. My mother appeared.

She
was only fourteen, already tall, but skinny as a rail. Hair in braids. Glowing
skin, shining eyes, a healthy flush to her cheeks that would have made a rose
jealous. Her arms were bare. No tattoos. Not yet. I felt a sob rise in my
throat. I wanted to melt into the grass.

She
went utterly still when she saw me. Dead stop. I did not know whether to laugh
or cry—or scream. It was too much. Three of us, together. Like this. I was
going crazy. The seed ring had twisted me up.

“Jolene,”
said my grandmother. “Sit down.”

My
mother gaped at me, taking in the tattoos on my arms. But she finally sat,
dropping into the grass as though her knees had stopped working. She was
gangly, awkward. I knew she would grow out of it. I was still learning how to
do that.

My
grandmother tapped my mother’s knee with her finger. “This is Maxine, baby.”

“Hello,”
said my mother uneasily.

“Hi,”
I breathed, and looked again at my grandmother. She was staring at me, rubbing
her cheek in that same way my mother had when I was growing up. I felt like a
butterfly with its wings pinned.

My
grandmother reached into her jacket and pulled out a small tin. Inside were
thin papers, loose tobacco. She rolled herself a cigarette. Found a match,
leaned forward, and struck it against my arm. Flame burst. She lit up, took a
long drag, then put the match out on her tongue. She showed no pain. I was
reasonably impressed.

“Well,”
said my grandmother, exhaling smoke in my face, “you pose a pretty problem, my
dear.”

The
smoke smelled acrid and good. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t even know
if this is real.”

She
grunted, leaning back on her elbow, relaxed as a leopard, claws sheathed. “A
man once told me that nothing is real. Just is. And right now you seem to think
you’re in the past, while I… I seem to think I’m right where I belong. So let’s
pretend we’re all sane here and get you figured out.”

“The
man who told you that,” I said slowly. “Don’t suppose his name was Jack?”

Jean
Kiss went very still. “How do you know that name?”

I
tried not to look at my mother. “I found him. Things are happening.”

The
older woman sat up and looked at her daughter. “Baby. Walk away.”

“Mom—”

“Now…
please.”

“No.”
I clambered to my feet, throwing my grandmother a look that felt raw,
desperate. “Give me a minute.”

Bitter
comprehension filled her eyes. I hesitated, then walked to Jolene. My mother.
She was on her feet, watching me warily. Ready to bolt. I swallowed hard. I
could see the woman I knew in her face: younger, softer, but still her. A
shadow of grit and fire.

“It
was nice to meet you,” I said lamely. “Take care of yourself.”

“Sure,”
said my mother, looking past me at Jean Kiss. Searching for an escape, answers
to the riddle of the weird woman standing in front of her—tattooed to the gills
in Zee and the boys. Tattoos no one else was supposed to have. Made me smile,
made my eyes burn with tears.

I
flung my arms around the girl. Holding tight.

“I
love you,” I breathed in her ear. “Remember that when you meet me again. I’ll
always love you.”

She
shoved me away. Eyes huge. I felt like a fool, standing there. Bereft. But I
did not regret a word. Not one.

“Go,”
said my grandmother, hoarse. “Jolene, baby. Run along.”

My
mother hesitated, then took off like a little mustang, racing across the grass
toward the men on horseback. One of them kicked his mount to meet her, and
midgallop, reached down with one long arm to sweep her up into the saddle
behind him. She hugged his waist, but turned to stare back at us as he carried
her toward the others. I could not look away.

My
grandmother stepped close. Smoke leaked from her nostrils. She looked like a
hard-living woman. Her gloves were off. I had not noticed her removing them.

“Seeing
you means she’s dead,” said Jean Kiss. “Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“At
least you won’t watch it happen.”

“Fair
enough.” She stabbed the cigarette into her palm. “Let’s walk, Maxine.”

Grass
sang beneath the wind. My grandmother removed her knife brace and handed it to
me while she unbuttoned her jacket. She wore a sleeveless linen sheath beneath,
and slung her jacket over one shoulder, along with her knives. Tattoos covered
her arms. Red eyes glinted in her skin. The boys tugged. Straining hard.

My
grandmother smiled briefly. “Feel that?”

“They
always did love themselves.”

“Cheeky
brats. More so now than before. Time was, the other Hunters treated them as
mindless, like dogs with teeth. Stupid bitches.”

I
stared. “Never heard that.”

“Didn’t
you?” My grandmother made a small sound. “Well. I guess every mother shares
something different.”

I
rubbed my arms, trying to calm Aaz and Raw. Zee shifted against my sternum,
restless. “Why am I here?”

“I
have no idea,” she muttered. “What were you doing? ”

“Holding
a seed ring. My mot—your daughter—” I stopped, unsure how to explain. How much
to say.

My
grandmother stared up at the sky. “I know about seed rings. Jack gave you one,
didn’t he?”

“You
worked together.”

“He
told you that, too?”

“Is
he my grandfather?”

A
slip of the tongue. I could not stop myself. Jean Kiss paused in midstep and
gave me a long, inscrutable look. “Do you have a man?”

I
hesitated. “Yes.”

“Do
you love him?”

“More
than anything.”

“Poor
girl,” she replied immediately.

I
shook my head. “You loved Jack. I saw a picture.”

“I
still love him,” admitted my grandmother, surprising me. “Hard man not to. But
there’s a reason we don’t stick around.”

“It’s
not safe. I know.”

“No.
You don’t.” Jean Kiss turned in a full circle and looked back at the encampment
behind us. I saw very distant figures on horseback. I imagined a
fourteen-year-old girl, watching us. Wondered if this was real.

My
grandmother said, “I was only ever with one man. Never had another since.”

“Jack,”
I said.

“Old
Wolf,” she muttered, and gave me a sharp look. “You know what he is, don’t
you?”

“Avatar.”
I paused, trying to find the right words, and settled for being blunt. “They’re
like demons. Possessors. Manipulators.”

“So
are some humans. Don’t fool yourself.” Jean Kiss stepped close, searching my
face. “Lines are always blurry, my dear. You
know
what people will do to
each other, simply to satisfy a need. They will justify it, they will praise
it, they will sanctify the worst of crimes as a means to whatever outcome they
desire. How can you fault demons for doing the same? Or the Avatars?”