“Jack,” I warned. “It’s not just Grant. Our daughter, too. Your great-granddaughter. What about her life?”
I had to give it to him—he actually looked ashamed. “I haven’t forgotten her.”
“Could have fooled me. You’re the one who’s going to kill us all—with that disease you designed.”
“A drop in the bucket,” he said, grim. “I don’t know who has cloned my life, but even that means nothing compared to the larger danger.”
The Devourer, I almost said, but the look on my grandfather’s face made me swallow that name. He said, “Something unexpected happened when I used the skull to spy on my kind. I had a vision—of the future.”
Fire flashed through my mind, the ominous heat and presence of that creature beyond the flames—staring at me, implacable and hungry. Full of menace, hate.
The darkness inside me was as hungry, and just as remorseless—but it felt different. Cleaner, somehow. Primal, a force of nature. Or maybe I was biased because the darkness was mine, on my side—my personal, inherited monster.
“We’re waiting,” I said.
Jack held my gaze, clear and unwavering. “I saw you undoing the chains that will release someone who would be best left chained.”
Grant stared at him. “I’m dying, Jack. We’re all sick. We don’t have time for this crap. Who is this you’re so afraid of?”
Death, I wanted to say, still feeling the crackle of heat. Remembering, too, another vision: my body, dismembered by fire, torn apart like a doll.
Jack didn’t look away from me, as if he were afraid I would disappear, or charge at him. He’d been so distant these past few days that having him present, focused on me, was unnerving.
He cleared his throat. “Let me set the scene: Imagine an eternity of the void. Imagine a million years, two million, three—spent in that terrible place. Imagine what that was like. And then, suddenly, imagine you are flesh again. Not just flesh, but any flesh you desire and can imagine for yourself—accompanied by every sensation. Endless water after an endless drought.”
His gaze ticked left to my husband. “Some might hoard that water, despite its eternal qualities; some might drink themselves to death, over and over. Some might drink to excess for a while, until realizing that is no way to live; while others, a few small others, might abstain entirely, except for the smallest sips, to draw out the exquisite pleasure.”
Jack smiled again, weakly. “But that one . . . his hungers were always a little too outré even for us. We reacted in different ways to having sensation. Some made the transition without suffering prolonged obsessions; some did not. Pleasure was one form of addiction; but for him, pain was the pleasure.” My grandfather coughed, and it occurred to me that he looked a bit feverish himself. “I remember, over the course of a thousand years, watching him pick himself slowly apart in the most terrible ways imaginable. His self-torture was unappetizing, to say the least. In the end, there was nothing left of his body—he had stretched, beyond any expectation, his ability to live. And still, the pain was not enough.”
“I suppose he tortured others.”
“It goes without saying. His craft was the delicate deconstruction, molecule by molecule, of the living. It amused him. He would take what he learned on himself and apply it to others.” Jack’s jaw tightened. “Including us.”
I couldn’t even imagine that kind of depravity. “If he’s so twisted, how come he’s the one with the cure to this disease, and you aren’t?”
“No one understood death better than he. Death, and its cures. It was his talent.” Exasperation dimmed his voice, and regret. “None of us are the same. And he was still one of us, no matter how much he had begun to change. We relied on him. We needed his . . . expertise . . . during the war with the demons. He was fascinated by their immunity to us. It became another obsession—the power that protected them.”
The power inside me, I thought. “But the Aetar imprisoned him.”
“He began to experiment on us too freely. Flesh became boring to him. He wanted new sensations.” Jack glanced at the Messenger, who had moved close to the porch, listening to him; her shaved head gleamed in the sunlight, her robes light in the breeze, and her eyes sharp. “We couldn’t trust him.”
“I need his knowledge,” I said.
Jack shook his head. “He won’t help. He’ll kill you, my dear. He’ll dissect you, your daughter—and the boys.”
“We could make him,” Grant said. “I could make him.”
A chill swept through me. Jack stood, slowly, from the stairs. “You’re a fool, lad. And you, my dear . . . for once, ignore your usual instincts. This time, be half as smart as I’d always wanted you to be. This time, listen to an old man and let it be.”
I stood, too. “If I let this be, my husband will die. So will the demons. The disease has already spread to humans. You mean to tell me that is preferable to—”
“Yes,” interrupted Jack. “That’s exactly what I mean to tell you. And even if you are foolish enough to make the attempt . . . if you enter the Labyrinth, you will be lost.”
“No,” I said.
“Listen to me.” Jack grabbed my arm “The Labyrinth is endless, and you do not know the way. You will wander, my dear. You will wander, without end. And this world . . . this world needs you.”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe you didn’t orchestrate this. Maybe you have been set up. But you still made the disease. You still lied. For whatever reason, you betrayed us.” I placed my hand on my stomach. “How can I trust anything you say?”
“Maxine,” he said, with that same cold frustration, “I could tell you how much I love you, or how profoundly I miss your mother and grandmother. I could make any number of melodramatic statements, defending myself. But in the end, all that matters is that you have no choice. You need me. Trust is irrelevant.”
“Like hell it is,” Grant said.
Jack gave him a withering look. But the Messenger, who had been standing just at the bottom of the stairs, said, “Hunter.”
I looked at her, dreading the note of surprise in her voice. “What now?”
She stared back at me, frowning. “The sun has set.”
I looked down at my arms, at the boys still sleeping on my skin—tugging now, but with no more strength than before.
“Shit,” I said.
CHAPTER 24
“SHIT,” my mother replied, the one and only time I asked her to tell me about God. Live with demons long enough, and the subject is bound to come up—even if we never talked much about religion. It might as well not have existed between my mother and me. We had rules, history—a mission—and that was our religion.
Still, God.
“Listen,” said my mother, placing her gun on the kitchen table and strapping on a flour-dusted apron. “I don’t know.”
I was peeling apples—ten years old and handy with a switchblade. My mother began scooping flour into the mixing bowl, her forearms a tangle of scales and muscular tattoos. “God is the first mystery. There’s no answer until we die.”
“Um,” I replied.
“But before that happens,” she added, forking in the butter, “you can always count on all the other higher powers to really fuck you up.”
FIFTEEN minutes later, the boys were still imprisoned on my skin.
The pain should have been crippling—and it was—but I was pretending like nothing was wrong even though it felt like I was being gnawed on by a thousand starving rats. Each bite of pain, each tug on my skin as the boys fought to wake, made me dizzy. Much more, and my pride would have to go, along with the contents of my stomach.
My grandfather was inside the house, sitting with Mary. I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight—I didn’t trust him not to make a run for it—but I couldn’t juggle him, the boys, and Grant, all together. I couldn’t even take care of myself.
Grant said, “They’re weak. As if their auras are being diluted.”
“Don’t tell me that,” I r
eplied. No matter Zee’s assurances, I was afraid this was the start of something horrifying—such as the boys’ dying—and me, forced to wear their corpses for the rest of my life. Not even the worst-case scenario.
Grant stood from the porch chair. Two steps with his cane, and he had to lean against the rail. Better color in his face, a deeper clarity in his eyes, but there was no confusing him for a healthy man. Not even a little. Even the Shurik seemed tired. They rested in little clumps across the porch, making soft, rhythmic, purring sounds—like snores. The light in the sky was still pale, but shadows were lengthening and before long it would be dark. Another day, our deaths postponed.
He and I shared a long look. I swallowed hard, heart so tight, barely able to form a sentence against the pain. “Time does run out, doesn’t it?”
A bitter smile touched his mouth. “Sometimes I feel like we’ve stayed alive by luck and the tips of our fingers.”
I was seated on the old porch floorboards, leaning against the house beside the front door. I turned a little, which only made the pain worse, and looked in. I glimpsed the Messenger standing in the corner of the living room, her face pale except for a faint red burn on her cheeks. She was watching my grandfather, who was seated beside Mary on the couch—pressing a wet cloth to her head and dribbling water into her mouth. I had been listening to the old woman puke, which was less and less often. Not because she was getting better, either.
“You could do something,” I’d said to Jack, just before he escaped from me into the house. “What’s the point of being able to manipulate genetic material if you can’t make someone stronger against a disease?”
“It doesn’t work like that, not with this disease,” was his reply, which drove me crazy. One seemed inextricably linked to the other. Aetar knew how to craft immortality—I’d seen it, again and again.
I glanced at the blanket-wrapped lump across from me: the crystal skull, which I’d had the Messenger take from Mary as soon as Jack went inside. Grant looked at it as well.
“You saw something, too,” he said. “The skull is different than it used to be. The energies surrounding it are more . . . alive.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him because I couldn’t bear to explain what I’d seen or how that might validate Jack’s behavior. “We have something else to talk about.”
He waited, and the way he looked at me was almost as much of a distraction as my enflamed skin: He was drinking me in, his gaze running so deep it made my heart ache.
I took in the gauntness of his body, the feverish hollowness; remembering how for months he had deteriorated before my eyes. I wanted to be angry for him—at him—but all I felt was tired, and still in love. God, I loved this man.
“The only reason you’re still standing is because of the Messenger,” I told him. “But it didn’t have to be that way. I know you’re keeping the demons out. You’re refusing to let them help you stay strong.”
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “But it’s not easy. So let it go, Maxine. Please.”
“How can I?” I gripped my right wrist, squeezing, fighting to keep my voice steady. I hurt so much I could barely see straight—gripping the armor, feeling its cool softness beneath my left hand, was like a balm. “You’re not doing everything you can to stay alive.”
Anger flicked through his eyes. “Maxine. If I’m going to die, I want to die as me. If the wall comes fully down between me and the demons, I’ll be a different man. It won’t be me and them. It’ll be us. I’m afraid of who I’ll become when that happens. The . . . hungers I might have.” He looked away, jaw tight. “I can feel them chewing the bones of those dead men. I can taste the blood in my mouth. What will it be like if I let them all the way in?”
“If it’s a matter of life or death, wouldn’t you rather take the risk?”
“It can’t be undone.” Grant limped to my side and slid down against the wall to sit with me. He twined his fingers with mine—those big, strong, human hands, and my hands: covered in hurting, struggling tattoos and silver armor. “Will I be safe with you and our daughter? I could be a monster, Maxine.”
“Someone, protect my virginity.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I eased down to lie on my back, speaking now through gritted teeth. The pain was getting worse. “I’m completely terrified.”
“You’re in pain,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“You’re dying, Grant. Maybe we all are. There’s no more later.” And then, after a moment’s hesitation, I added: “You cut our bond.”
If I expected remorse, I didn’t get it. What I saw instead was a lack of anything resembling emotion: His gaze went flat, empty. Dead, even. I felt cold, looking at him—cold and lonely.
“Losing our bond was what almost killed me,” he said. “I’ve never felt so hollow. Like half of me died when you went away.”
“I’m still here.” I reached for him, which took more strength than it should have. “And so are you. Why haven’t you linked us together again?”
He said nothing. I squeezed his hand, hard.
His jaw tightened, unhappiness and frustration flickering through his eyes. “If I die while we’re still connected, you could be hurt—or worse. That’s why I severed us before . . . and that’s why I haven’t put us back together again.”
“Grant—”
“I don’t need our bond anymore to stay alive. I have the demons. It’s not the same, but I can make it work.”
“Demons aren’t me,” I replied, hurt. “I’m your wife.”
“You’re my wife,” he agreed softly. “I’m lonely for you, Maxine. I don’t know what I am, without you inside me. But doing anything that might hurt you, just to have that feeling of you and me . . . I can’t do that.”
“Asshole.”
Grant kissed me. “I’m your asshole.”
I shook my head. “Just what I need.”
He said nothing, taking my left hand and holding it—light, gentle. Melancholy bloomed inside me; a profound, devastating, wistfulness. We’d had so little time together, but all of it—all of it—transformative and good.
In a voice just as soft as his touch, I said: “Grant. I made a bargain with the darkness. When our daughter was dying. I promised it me. My life, my soul. So what happens when it finally makes its claim? What will I become?”
He said nothing. I gathered my courage and met his gaze. I couldn’t read him, not at first—he was too still, his gaze too dark. I didn’t know if that was anger or tenderness, and I held my breath, waiting.
“She was dying,” he echoed, in a quiet voice. “I felt it. I saw her light slipping away, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t touch her. And I knew . . . I knew we wouldn’t have another chance to make another.” A bitter smile touched his mouth. “I’m glad, Maxine. I’m glad you made that bargain. For her, for you. Whatever it brings. Whoever you become. I’ll love you.”
The hard knot broke. “You think I won’t love you? No matter what you become? Who else could I ever love?”
“If one of those cartoon Thundercats ever sprang to life, you’d leave me in a red-hot second.”
“Well,” I said. “Yeah.”
Grant laughed, leaning in to kiss me. But his smile faded, and a shudder raced through him. I said, “I’m scared, too. If I turn into Satan, I’m going to be a terrible mother.”
“Huh,” he replied. “She’ll have a demon lord as a daddy, enslaving the entire world. Just for her.”
“Why stop at one world? We need to think about her future.”
“Queen of the universe.” Grant kissed my brow just as the Messenger emerged from the house. She stared at me with a hint of disdain, but that was her normal bitch-face—what she really felt was impossible to tell.
“You should not be able to speak,” she said, studying the air around me. “You are in tremendous pain.”
“Yes,” I replied. I could almost hear my flesh crackling as the boys fought
to free themselves. “Grant knows I don’t like to be fussed over.”
She raised one cold brow. “You will hunt the beast?”
“I’ll find him. I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m going with you,” Grant said. “We don’t know how strong the boys will be when they wake up. And you’re too trusting of your grandfather. I don’t have that problem.”
I looked to the Messenger, but all she said was, “As ill as the Lightbringer might be, his power is still greater than mine. His strength has returned for a short time, Hunter. He should not waste it by staying here.”
“I wasn’t going to disagree,” I said, closing my eyes again, turning inward as a shield against the pain—focusing on the boys, pouring my heart into them—as if that might help. “Someone . . . go and harass my grandfather.”
“Rest, Maxine,” Grant said. “I’ll take care of it.”
I believed him. I folded my hands over my hard, round stomach. Sleep would be impossible, I told myself. Just ten minutes of doing nothing would have to suffice. Ten minutes only. Maybe in that time, the boys would wake up. Maybe things would get back to normal, just a little, and I’d be able to begin the hunt.
Into the Labyrinth. Into the unknown, chasing fire, and eyes that wanted nothing more than to devour. I was terrified of those eyes. Frightened of what Jack might have seen, frightened that his own fear of the possibilities had led him so far astray from me. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t just let everyone I loved waste away without trying, even if the attempt was crazy, even if it was a long shot and made no sense.
You will risk everything, whispered the darkness. Do nothing, and you will at least save something.
You can see the future now? I asked, uneasy.
But the darkness said nothing—merely curled even tighter around my heart, crushing it in its cool coils. My pulse skipped a beat, my breath caught, but then I found my rhythm again and relaxed.
The pain came in waves. The boys continued to pull against me. I rode with them, flowed into their fight, and that, too, was another kind of rhythm.
Labyrinth of Stars (A Hunter Kiss Novel) Page 22
