Inked

something big about the war that she was going to sell to the highest bidder. Information that would change everything. And that if they wanted it, they’d have to get to her first.”
    “You set her up.”
    Jean clenched her jaw. “That woman is probably having her fingernails pulled out as we speak.”
    I stared, stunned. “Jesus. And you were worried about not killing her?”
    “I made these arrangements before I knew the woman had been possessed,” she replied sharply. “Now, death would have been kinder. Demon blood or not.”
    I sagged against the wall, thinking about that. But less about torture and mercy than my own confusion. The future was still not adding up with the past.
    Jean leaned on the wall beside me. “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-seven,” I said absently.
    She seemed surprised. “You don’t have a kid yet.”
    “Is that a problem?”
    “My mother was sixteen when she had me. I keep waiting for Zee and the others to force the issue.”
    She looked so young. I hardly knew what to say. It was true, or so the family stories told, that if a Hunter waited too long to have a child, Zee and the boys would make certain the bloodline continued. One way or another. Lifelong celibacy was not an option, though I did not want to think about Zee condoning rape. I did not ever want to think about that.
    “I don’t…” I began, and then started again, more firmly. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. You’ll have a child in your own time, when you’re ready. I’m proof of that.”
    “I want love,” she said.
    “You’ll have love.”
    She gave me a sharp look. “Promise?”
    I forced myself to meet her gaze. “Yes.”
    Yes, you’ll have love, I thought. And he’ll love you. But you won’t stay together. You won’t grow old together. And neither of you will ever tell me why the hell not.
    I could not imagine that happening with me and Grant. I could not—I would not—let it happen.
    Jean looked away. I cleared my throat. “Do you have recent photographs of yourself?”
    “Some. Why?”
    I shook my head, unsure what to say. “I came back to save those kids from something that happens more than sixty years from now, and I don’t know if it worked. It all feels wrong. Winifred said—”
    “Winifred?” Jean straightened, frowning. “You talked with Winifred?”
    “Yes,” I said slowly. “In the future. I told you that earlier.”
    She shook her head. “Winifred is mute. It’s an actual deformity of her vocal cords, according to her family. She can’t talk.”
    “Surgery?”
    “I don’t know. No one seems to think so.”
    She can’t talk. I swayed, light-headed. Sixty years was a long time. A long, long time to find a cure.
    But if she hadn’t?
    Then who the hell were we talking to?
    “I gotta go,” I breathed, pushing away from the wall.
    Jean grabbed my arm. “Wait.”
    “I can’t,” I said, and flung my arms around her, squeezing so tightly she made a small grunt of protest. I had so much I wanted to say, but no time. It would take a lifetime. It would take more than I could spare, even though time was mine. The future was not going anywhere.
    My clock, however, was running faster than the rest of the universe. I needed to see Grant and that old woman. Now.
    I stripped off my glove, even as I stared into my grandmother’s eyes. “Write me a letter. Warn me. Keep warning Ernie to be careful. Same with Samuel and Lizbet. And Winifred. Make him promise to you, again, that he won’t come find me. No matter what.”
    “I’ll try,” she said, and then her eyes went distant, and she began mouthing numbers. “That year you gave me. You’d be my—”
    “Don’t,” I interrupted. “Just think of me as your friend.”
    Jean hesitated. “Will I ever see you again?”
    It was the same question Ernie had asked me, but this time I smiled and snared my grandmother in my arms, holding her tight.
    “You won’t be able to get rid of me,” I whispered.
    And then I pushed away, my eyes burning with tears. I could not look at her—I could not—but I did anyway, at the last moment. Soaking in her impossibly young face, those glittering eyes that were already grieving. My grandmother. Jean Kiss.
    “Be happy,” I said to her, grabbing my right hand, thinking of Grant and the hospital.
    And then she was gone—just like that—and the darkness took me.

11
    THE journey felt shorter this time, or perhaps I was finally becoming accustomed to the weight of