Labyrinth of Stars

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Jack,” I said, and then louder: “Jack.”

  Zee fell into a shadow—slipping in and out of this world through the gloom—and then reappeared on the other side of the room, beckoning me with a flash of his long claws. I followed, Aaz staying close, chewing on his teddy bear’s ear. I skirted books, paintings; a tall vase that I nudged with my shoulder and almost knocked over.

  A smell hit me: more rot, but this time of the living; and I saw the rounded curve of a back, so hunched and still that at first I thought it was another piece of furniture. But no, there was an arm, pale and thick with muscle; and I heard, I felt, a slow exhalation. I took a step closer, and choked. The air was rancid with filth. My shoes stuck to the floor.

  “Meddling Man,” Zee whispered.

  I moved sideways and found the little demon crouched on top of a small table, his claws digging hard into the wood. All the spikes on his head flexed in agitation. Raw was there with him, and Aaz made a small, distressed sound. Dek and Mal coiled tighter around my throat.

  A crystal skull was on the table.

  It didn’t resemble anything human. Wide cranium, protruding crests at the cheeks. Thick jaw, filled with teeth as sharp as dagger points, like a piranha’s mouth. I could see the lines of that thing, all those spectral curves, as if a light were in my eyes, or its eyes, and it made me dizzy for a moment. I touched my stomach again, which felt warm. My right hand tingled, the armor encasing my skin coming alive.

  Zee and the boys stared at the skull. If they destroyed it right now, I would not be surprised. That . . . thing . . . and twelve other similar artifacts were responsible for channeling the power that had been used to imprison my five little demons upon the body of my ancestor—and bind thousands of demons more into a prison outside this world.

  My grandfather had been one of the prison-makers.

  I watched the old man. It had been months. I barely recognized him. For a moment, I wondered if he’d found a new body to inhabit.

  But I looked longer, harder, and all those rough edges were the same: cheekbones, nose, that broad, lined brow. His face was barely visible behind his matted beard and crusty shreds of silver hair. His shirt was rotting off him, filled with holes and stained yellow with sweat; and his boxer shorts were hideously filthy. He smelled like sewage. Made my skin crawl. Just standing there, breathing the same air: lethal.

  He sat so still, eyes open, unblinking: staring at the crystal skull. I didn’t want to imagine how long he’d been like that. Long enough, maybe, to kill a normal human. His lips were crusted with blood.

  Grant entered the room behind me. “Oh, my God.”

  I ignored him, stepping in front of my grandfather—blocking his view of the skull.

  “Jack,” I said.

  Nothing. For a long moment I was sure he wouldn’t stir, that whatever had captured him would continue holding his spirit and flesh. He was in a coma, he was paralyzed, he was already gone from that body.

  But just as I was about to call down Zee, the skin around his eye twitched. So did his hand, resting on his knee. I held my breath, waiting. I held my breath, so I wouldn’t vomit. Sweat rolled down my back. I thought about home and wanted to reach past the filth and shake my grandfather awake.

  He twitched again, a jolt that ran from his feet into his legs. His fingers flexed, and his shoulders hitched with a sharp breath that wheezed into his lungs like rattling leaves. I heard popping sounds. His mouth cracked open. I expected him to speak, but instead his tongue emerged, and it was grotesque: shriveled, dry, bleeding.

  I snapped my fingers at Raw. “Water.”

  The little demon dropped his fist into the shadows; he pulled a bottle of water free, ice-cold and perspiring. I popped the cap, held my breath against the smell, and pressed the bottle against my grandfather’s broken lips. His eyes were still open, unresponsive. He stared right past me.

  He didn’t drink at first. Water filled his mouth and spilled down the sides. I stood there, waiting. Dek and Mal pushed their heads free of my hair and slithered down my arms, peering at my grandfather’s face.

  Grant stepped close, a low hum pouring from him, a heavy sound that made the air vibrate.

  That did it. My grandfather choked. Water sputtered from his mouth over my hands, but I held his jaw and the bottle, and when he managed to swallow, I gave him more. He drank and drank, and when that bottle emptied, Raw put another in my hand. At some point, his eyes closed—and then at some point, his eyes opened—so that when we were at the end of the third bottle I realized he was looking at my face. And this time, he was seeing me.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to smile.

  My grandfather raised a shaking, filthy hand and touched my wrist. It happened to be my right wrist, covered in armor, and the organic metal reacted to his touch with a ripple. The old man shuddered, and leaned away from me. His gaze fell on the crystal skull. I moved sideways, blocking his view.

  He closed his eyes. “Sweet girl. How long has it been?”

  “Months since I saw you. But I don’t know how long you’ve been . . . like this.”

  “Too long.” Jack opened his eyes and looked at me. “Thank you for finding me. I was . . . not in my right mind.”

  And then his gaze fell down to my stomach.

  “Ah,” he said. “Time has passed.”

  I frowned. “Can you walk?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. He tore his gaze from my stomach, then looked slowly around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. I thought for sure he’d already noticed Grant—given that my husband was standing right in front of him—but when my grandfather finally looked at him, directly, a bolt of tension ran right through his jaw, down into his grimy hands. He stayed like that, unblinking. Until, finally, I realized he wasn’t really seeing my husband at all.

  “Jack,” Grant said sharply. “Focus.”

  No reaction. Zee made an impatient sound and grabbed the old man’s wrist. I had never seen the little demon touch him, and the contact seemed to startle my grandfather almost as much as me. He recoiled, trying to pull free, but Zee was relentless.

  “Meddling Man,” he rasped, eyes glowing. “Be here. Be now.”

  Jack stared at him, then exhaled sharply. “What has happened?”

  I glanced at the skull. “You tell me.”

  He still looked dazed. I almost touched him but was afraid of catching a disease.

  “Can you walk?” I asked him. “We need to leave.”

  Jack didn’t move. His gaze flickered back to the skull.

  “Fuck it,” I said, reaching for him. “Let’s go.”

  My grandfather held up a trembling hand, stopping me. “Don’t. I’m not an invalid. Just old and stupid.” He slid forward on the chair, and that small movement released an odor that made me stop breathing. Grant bent his head and covered his mouth.

  When Jack stood, his knees wobbled. So did the rest of him. I gritted my teeth, held him up. My skin crawled, but I didn’t let go. He felt so frail. My hands softened, and so did my heart.

  “Hey,” I said, in a gentler voice. “Grandfather.”

  Jack closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Have you ever called me that?”

  “I can’t remember.” I looked at the skull. “Anything I need to know?”

  “Of course not,” he said tersely, then hesitated. “We should leave . . . that . . . here.”

  Zee gave him a doubtful look. Jack said, “Yes, yes, you’re right. We’ll bring it.”

  I opened my mouth. My grandfather shook his head, confusion marring his grizzled face. “No, that’s wrong. It’s safer here.”

  Even Raw and Aaz stared at him. Grant frowned, studying the skull with an uneasy glint in his eye.

  “It’s alive,” he said, quietly. “Full of light.”

  “What does that mean to us?”

  “I don’t know.” He tore his gaze from it, blinking hard. “But it can’t just be left behind.”

  I wouldn’t have left it, anyw
ay. I took a deep breath—through my mouth—and looked at Zee. “Find a box to put it in.”

  My grandfather’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue. Or agree.

  Zee reached into the shadows beneath the table. I heard a clank, scraping; he pulled free a metal box.

  Jack said, in that same terse voice, “Why are you both here?”

  I almost snapped at him but swallowed hard at the last moment, kept my voice steady.

  “We couldn’t hide forever,” I told him, which wasn’t what I intended to say at all. But Jack stared at me, and in a heartbeat he was fully himself, fully present, and he straightened up and grabbed my hand.

  “Maxine,” he said.

  I squeezed his fingers, and all the pain, fear, and dread that had been hovering just outside my heart, hovering on the cusp, spilled into me and kept spilling.

  “Jack,” I said. “They tried to poison Grant. And kill our baby.”

  “They,” he echoed, but it wasn’t a question. He knew to whom I was referring. He was one of them, after all.

  “It almost worked,” Grant said. “Too close, Jack. Too damn close.”

  “Well,” replied my grandfather, sounding shaken. “Well, now.”

  Zee gestured at him with one long claw. I didn’t know if it was a threat, but there was certainly menace in his glinting gaze; a bitterness that gave way to something old and calculated, and devastatingly fierce.

  “Meddling Man,” he rasped. “Choose now, or never. Choose, who.”

  I had never thought to ask that question. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need to. But Zee had known my grandfather at his worst. He had known him, battled him, been imprisoned and tortured by him. Yes, he would ask. Yes, he would doubt his loyalties. I should have, too.

  A preternatural stillness fell over my grandfather, deeper and quieter than death. For a moment, he seemed erased—as if, though I was looking at him, smelling him, he ceased to exist.

  Jack said in a soft voice, “There’s no choice. Not anymore.”

  I felt oddly vulnerable, hearing those words. I should have expected them. He was my grandfather, after all. But Jack was unpredictable. Jack had his own way. And sometimes that had nothing to do with my own notions of safety, or with loyalty.

  I went to the table. The metal box was open, but Zee was looking at the crystal skull like it might burn him.

  Behind me, my grandfather cleared his throat. “I’ll do that.”

  He sounded a little too eager. I glared at him. “Just got you out of a coma.”

  “Maxine,” Grant warned.

  “It’s okay,” I muttered, already reaching for the thing. I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking about the maker of this weapon, this tool that had caused so much harm and damage—and contributed to my existence. I felt no wonder or longing. Just frustration, aggravation. My mother had inspired these emotions, once upon a time. Now, so did my father.

  I stared into the cavernous eyes of that carved, inhuman skull—and touched the crystal.

  Why did you give this to them? I thought, hoping my father could hear me, wherever his spirit resided in the Labyrinth. I need your help, too, you know.

  But nothing happened. That was how it worked with these things—never, ever, predictable. I was ready for that. For anything.

  Except for the image that passed through my mind, sharp and clear as memory.

  It was me. I saw myself. Gaunt, hollow-eyed.

  Being dismembered by fire.

  CHAPTER 10

  TEXAS. It was still daylight.

  I had never actually seen the boys lose their bodies in the sun. The transformation always happened too fast. Maybe, sometimes, if I watched closely at sunrise, I might glimpse the edges of their bodies shred into some unnatural haze. But that was rare: a blink, then gone. Far easier to fall into prison than out of it. Which didn’t seem fair.

  I felt their weight settle on me as soon as we slipped from the void. My boys. Imprisoned on my body until sunfall. Protecting me with their flesh.

  Jack stumbled, shielding his eyes against the light. Corpse-like, all bone, so starved and dehydrated it was hard to look at him. His beard and wild, matted hair stuck out at crazy angles—which, alone, wouldn’t have drawn my attention. Except that something seemed to be moving in there.

  “Yes?” he said. His beard twitched. Grant coughed and looked away.

  So did I, scanning the farmhouse and the dusty, long drive. I half expected to see more police, or neighbors with pitchforks, burning torches, and shotguns.

  Mary opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. An Osul child pushed past her, looking like an extra big tiger cub—puffy fur, big eyes, even bigger ears—the kind of face that had a certain amount of awwww built in. Right behind it was a very young Mahati, naked, with a soft round belly and some chub in her cheeks. Good eating at the Kiss house.

  “Old Wolf,” Mary said, and spat at him. The young demons craned their necks to look at her face and backed away.

  “Yes, Maritine. It’s lovely to see you, too.” Jack folded his arms over his chest. “Although you might refrain from spitting at me in front of the young ones. We don’t want them learning bad habits. Or seeing bloodshed.”

  “We like blood,” said the little Mahati, with absolute seriousness—and the Osul nodded furiously, letting out a fierce squeak and lashing its tail around.

  I looked at Grant. “That’s superadorable, right? Not just my hormones?”

  “No, darling,” he said. “I also want to squee.”

  “Ha,” I said. Except for a few Osul crouched almost out of sight in the pasture—acting as guards—nothing else moved other than some birds that flitted over the rail of the old, sagging fence. I smelled cows, but the herd was gone.

  A chill raced through me, a shiver. Grant bumped his shoulder against mine, and I leaned on him. He hadn’t asked what I’d seen in the skull, and I couldn’t speak of it.

  But I remembered: the fire and blood, the sound of my flesh tearing, and the horrified, cutting scream ripping from my throat. No boys, no protection. My pregnant belly exposed.

  “My dear,” said Jack in a mild voice, and I twitched, giving him a look I hoped wasn’t too wild. He paused, studying me, cradling the metal box under one arm. “I expected a nuclear arsenal. Commandos with guns. At the very least, some reporters. There isn’t even a helicopter, or a barking dog.”

  I gave him a dirty look. Grant said, “Blood Mama’s parasites are helping us. They’ve possessed enough police and investigators, and media, to keep this thing as controlled as possible. Which won’t be enough, but it might buy us time.”

  Surprise flickered through Jack’s eyes. “You both sanctioned the possession of humans?”

  “Temporarily,” I said, ashamed.

  Temporary or not, it was wrong, all of it. I’d hated the gleam in Blood Mama’s human eyes as I’d called her back for help—compelling more possessions, violating more lives. That should have been the line in the sand, one I’d never cross. But I had, without more than a moment’s thought.

  Because there was another line in the sand. Humans on one side, demons on the other. And God if I hadn’t made a choice that I still couldn’t face, or speak of out loud. It wasn’t shame I felt every time I sided with the demons—it was self-loathing.

  Grant squeezed my hand. I kissed his shoulder, wishing I could just stay there, leaning up against him for the rest of my life. Instead, I nudged him away. “We’ll meet you in the camp. Lord Ha’an has to be warned that Jack is coming. The other clans will have to prepare, too.”

  Demons might want to eat humans, but there was no hate involved. Jack, on the other hand, was one of the architects of the prison. He and his kind had committed atrocities against the demons. Fought them in a thousand-year war.

  This was not going to be cute.

  Grant didn’t smile. I wasn’t sure he could. I realized right then how tired he appeared, and his dry lips were close to cracking. He still had that odd
flush in his cheeks, which stood out against his pale, drawn skin.

  I regretted I’d said anything. “Never mind, it can wait. Come inside. You shouldn’t be alone, anyway.”

  He shook his head. “It has to be done.”

  “We’ll get Mary to do it. She needs to take the kids back anyway.”

  Jack squinted, staring hard at my husband. I wondered how awake he really was because he seemed to have trouble focusing. But when he did lock in on Grant, all the considerable lines in his face seemed to get only deeper, and harder.

  “My dear boy,” he said. “You are being cannibalized.”

  Grant flashed him a hard look. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

  I stared. “What?”

  Jack scowled. “I knew there would be consequences to those bonds. I had hoped otherwise, but you, lad, are no demon. No matter how powerful you are. You were not made for the burden you bear.”

  Grant shook his head and limped toward the power-charged six-wheeler parked in front of the porch: the only vehicle that could transport him around the full three thousand acres of our land.

  I blocked his path. “Jack,” I said, holding my husband’s gaze. “Talk.”

  “He won’t die,” said my grandfather, still watching him with those piercing, searching eyes. “The bond he shares with you won’t let him. But the bond with those demons is different. He’s not . . . taking. He’s only giving. And that’s not the way it works.”

  “How do you know?” Grant snapped, but all that anger deflated as a coughing fit hit him, and he turned away, bent over, covering his mouth as his entire frame rattled. It was an ugly, wet sound—and when it eased, I wanted to check his hand for blood.

  “Lad,” said Jack in a gentle voice, “I spent a thousand years studying these creatures. I had to because we were trying to kill them. What you are doing will leave you a walking corpse. I can see it. Surely others can, too. I’m surprised your . . . people . . . haven’t warned you.”

  “Grant,” I said.

  “Another hour won’t turn me into a zombie, Maxine. Let it go.”