Labyrinth of Stars (A Hunter Kiss Novel) (12 page)

“You look better,” I said.

Grant hesitated. “It’s the Shurik. They’ve been wanting to . . . give back to me for some time. I refused before. I thought it was better that I try to influence them first, revert them to their original natures. It’s been a slow process.”

“And today?”

“Today I let them in. Just a little.” He spoke so quietly I barely heard him. “And yes, it helped.”

I couldn’t imagine what it cost him to say that. I turned to Oanu. “Thank you for coming to speak with us. You understand the situation?”

“Perfectly,” he said, with a low growl. “The Aetar attacked your consort, attempted to kill your child, then poisoned our army with disease. They are cowards, and we will murder them.”

“That’s right,” I deadpanned. “Shit’s gonna get
real
.”

A smile ghosted over Grant’s mouth. “We need to find a cure. And keep the rest of you healthy.”

“I’m sure war and destruction will fall neatly into place along the way,” I added.

Oanu’s claws flexed with pleasure. Behind him, one of the Yorana called out, with disdain, “We have heard from the Mahati that there
is
no cure.”

I shot the red-skinned demon a hard look. “Then you’ll die. And if you don’t start giving your lord what he needs, you’ll die even sooner.”

The Yorana stiffened. “He has promised us our freedom to choose.”

Oanu’s ears twitched with surprise. I didn’t even blink. Grant leaned forward on his cane, fixing his hard gaze on the red-skinned demons. Shurik dripped from his shoulders; several opened their terrible mouths and hissed.

“I’ll keep my word,” he said, with unexpected menace. “But if I die, so will you. And as I weaken, so will you.”

The Yorana held very still, all that seduction and glamour sliding off their faces like water. I blinked, and suddenly their perfect skin had lost its luster, pocked with nicks and scars; and their hair was dull, limp, their bodies no longer radiating strength, health. A startling transformation: I could see their bones poking through lean, starved muscle. The jewels in their chests turned black.

“We have nothing to give,” one of them said. “We eat, but it does not feed us. We need the hunt. We need the seduction.”

They needed the energy, I realized. But that was impossible.

“I can change that,” Grant said. “Let me help you.”

The Yorana male spat on him.

Oanu snarled, but I was faster. My fist slammed into the demon’s chest, cracking the embedded jewel. The demon dropped like a stone, limbs twitching, black foam at his lips. An instantaneous, violent reaction. I didn’t expect it. I almost wasn’t sorry, until I saw Grant’s face—and I remembered what he’d said, earlier.

Shame flushed my cheeks, but regret warred with anger: at myself, at him—at the demon dying on the ground. Grant dropped his cane, awkwardly falling to his good knee, power already rising in his voice.

Nothing to be done, though. Too far gone for saving.

I held my ground. Oanu growled, low and deep in his throat. “Respect or death. You know better.”

The surviving Yorana bowed their heads. Grant stopped singing, and closed his eyes. I didn’t want to look at him but steeled myself and held out my hand. Inside me, our bond was quiet.

But he took my hand, and with that touch: light, be- tween us.

You still have me,
I heard inside my head; his deep, soft voice.
No matter what. And I have you.

I drew in a deep, sharp breath—and pulled my husband to his feet. His gaze never left mine—those knowing eyes, that sadness that made me sad and aching with love for him.

Grant looked at the other Yorana. “Decide what you want.”

The red-skinned demons bowed their heads even more deeply—both to him and me. Then, without a word, they stooped and picked up their fallen companion, easily negotiating his twitching limbs. Blood ran freely from the cracked jewel.

Oanu watched them go, tail lashing. “Needed that.”

Grant said nothing. His silence, despite the light between us, made me tense. “I wish the lesson hadn’t been needed,” I said, and the demon lord glanced at me.

“You are too gentle,” he rumbled; then, “Is it true there is no cure?”

Grant’s expression became even grimmer. “That’s what we were told. I don’t believe it, though.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “There
will
be a cure, Oanu.”

There had to be. Maybe Jack was right, maybe no cure existed, but I didn’t believe that whoever had made this thing wouldn’t know how to fix it. The problem was finding its creator—and then making him help us. All without losing our lives, our freedom, and maybe this entire world.

Rescuing demons is more difficult than murdering them,
I thought.

And definitely not as rewarding.

SUNSET
was on my heels. I told Grant that if he didn’t come back to the house for dinner, I would let the boys cook for him.

He had some experience with that. The last time hadn’t sent him to the hospital, but he’d lived in the bathroom for an entire day, making sounds that made me wonder if a bobcat was coming out both ends.

Grant sat beside me in the passenger seat. I didn’t say a word when the giggling Shurik came along for the ride. Some perched on his shoulders, while others were tucked inside his shirt, stuck to his ribs. I pretended not to notice, but it wasn’t easy. I remembered their former lord, who had taken near-sexual delight in inhabiting the bodies of humans, slowly eating them from the inside out until there was nothing left but loose skin, and viscous bone.

The six-wheeler bumped and rattled us across the grassy, rut-scarred pasture that separated the farmhouse from the wooded area of my land. Birds scattered before us, and several rabbits darted away, startled. I was surprised the smell of predators hadn’t already motivated them to get clear of this place. Or that the Osul hadn’t hunted them all dead.

A golden glow made the warm air shimmer; everywhere, a lush glint, a hush in the light itself as the day softened into that last evening gleam. My favorite time of day—though it was ruined by the feeling of something’s watching me. I glanced sideways at the Shurik on Grant’s shoulder. It didn’t have eyes, but its sharp little mole mouth was pointed in my direction. I stared past it at my husband’s strong, jagged profile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breaking the silence between us. “I shouldn’t have said those things. Earlier, I mean.”

My hands tightened around the wheel. “How long have you felt this way?”

“I don’t,” he said flatly. “I’ve never felt that way about you.”

“That, I know.” I suddenly felt nauseous, warm. “What I meant is . . . how long have
you
felt like a killer?”

Grant remained silent for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t until I had parked in front of the porch and was ready to slide out that he grabbed my wrist. It was my right wrist, and when his hand touched the armor, I felt a spark flash through me, followed by an oozing heat. He didn’t seem to feel it on his end—his hand remained where it was, and his fingers squeezed once, gently.

“I didn’t notice it at first.” A faint sheen of sweat touched his brow; and the bright flush was back, like a fever. “It started in my dreams. Nightmares that I was hurting people, nightmares that were so real that I was half-convinced I’d done those things.”

“Memories. Not yours.”

“I started feeling that same hunger while I was awake. Not to eat anyone,” he added quickly. “But thinking about people as food isn’t much different from looking at them as something disposable, that can be controlled, manipulated. The impulse is the same.”

I sat on that for a moment, unsurprised. “I feel like there’s more you’re not telling me.”

Grant pulled his cane from the seat behind us. “I don’t know how to fix this, Maxine. Using my gift to hurt others has always been
my
nightmare. What happened with the demon in Taiwan . . . I didn’t even think. It felt natural.”

He was still hiding something from me, but I played along. “It felt righteous.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Have you spoken to the demons?”

“The Shurik aren’t the problem,” he replied, as the fat little worm on his shoulder exhaled a rather pleased-sounding squeak and wriggled out of sight beneath his shirt. “They’re very . . . receptive. It’s the Yorana.”

“They can go fuck themselves,” I muttered, feeling the sun begin to set behind me. “Come on. I need pie.”

Mary was already in the kitchen when we walked inside. Television on, playing a Hallmark movie, one of those Westerns starring an unconvincingly grim and battle-hardened Kevin Sorbo.

“Where’s Jack?” I asked her. The boys were tugging hard on my skin, ready to wake. Soon, any minute now.

She made a face and dug into a little plastic bag of weed. Which had taken on a whole new meaning for me. When she offered some to Grant, he hesitated—and then took a pinch to chew. Made him grimace, but he didn’t spit it out. I wondered if his physiology was just different enough to keep him from getting high on the stuff.

Mary also stuffed a pinch of that shit into her mouth. “Wolf is cutting off dirt.”

So, he was finally taking a bath. Hallelujah.

Grant sank into a chair with a sigh. I ruffled his hair as I walked to the fridge—then stopped, frowning, and came back to him. I felt his forehead again.

“You have a fever,” I said, feeling dumb. Yes, his face had been red. But I’d thought it was some symptom of the strain the demons were putting him under. Maybe it still was. But his skin was hot.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” he said, leaning his elbow on the table. Mary frowned, drawing close. She bent, peering at his face, and her hand darted out to grab his jaw. He tried to pull away, but she held him still, peering into his eyes.

The Shurik nosed free of his shirt, the tip of its sharp mouth peeling back just slightly to reveal tiny, needlelike teeth covered in slime.

“None of those are inside you, right?” I asked warily.

Grant, still held in place by Mary, gave me an exasperated look. I shrugged at him, totally not sorry for asking.

“Not right,” Mary muttered, and tore her gaze from him to give me the same hard stare.

“What?” I asked, always a bit unnerved when she looked at me like that. Mary’s scrutiny was usually just a prelude to extreme amounts of violence.

She didn’t get a chance to answer. My phone started ringing. Made me jump. Even Grant flinched.

I didn’t recognize the number. Almost didn’t answer. But my instincts tickled.

“Yes?” I said.

“Fucking Hunter,” replied a woman on the other end. I didn’t recognize the voice, but the anger was familiar. Definitely some human possessed by a demon.

I stayed silent, waiting. The woman let out a ragged sigh. “You tackled me last night. I’m the waitress from Houston.”

“You have my number?”

She made a wet, hacking noise that sounded like she was gargling wet fur. “Forget that. I’m sick, you
bitch
.”

“What?”

“Don’t you understand?” Her voice broke. I heard another wretched cough, and I realized she was vomiting.

I didn’t understand at first. I was in denial. All I could think was that she hadn’t been anywhere near those dead bodies. It took me a long, confused moment before the truth hit: It wasn’t her, it was me. The boys had been tramping all over those dead humans, touching them—then touching
me
. So had Zee.

Me, me, me. And I had touched
her
.

“Wait,” I said, almost stuttering. “Which part of you is sick? Your host?”

“What the fuck do you think?” she snarled weakly. “Yes, my host. My host, who I feed from.”

I looked at Grant, and his fever suddenly meant something totally different to me.

Jack had said this thing couldn’t infect humans. But what if he was wrong? If I had infected the demon-possessed waitress in Houston, then perhaps she’d gone back into her restaurant and infected her customers. If they’d gone out and infected others . . .

I touched that possessed old woman in Taiwan.

“Damn,” I said. “Oh, damn.”

Grant had been watching me the entire time, his expression becoming ever more grave. But something else passed over his face—a tightening of his throat, his lips pressing so hard together they turned white.

That was the only warning we got. He stood so fast his chair fell over, and he lurched toward the kitchen sink. He was in such a rush, he didn’t grab his cane. Mary caught him before he toppled over, but that happened anyway—he fell against the sink and started puking.

I stared, horrified. I heard the demon-possessed woman saying something to me, but I hung up on her and was next to Grant in moments. He had stopped vomiting, but was still spitting, coughing. I looked down into the sink and all I saw was normal puke—a swimmy goop of food fragments and bile. Relief sank through me.

“It’s ok—” I began, just as a violent shudder rolled him up on his toes, and he bent over, again. The sound he made was terrible, like someone had shoved a barbed hook down his throat into his guts and was yanking up, yanking and tearing him inside out.

What rushed from his mouth was a blur, but I saw the glint of darkness, a splash of red in the sink—and parts of my vision blacked out.