Labyrinth of Stars (A Hunter Kiss Novel) (18 page)

The little demon gave me a helpless shrug. “Do not know. Scent sick. Yours, too. But less. Dying still . . . but less.”

Which was a nice way of saying we were still fucked.

Grant’s shirt moved; a small, pale nub poked free, glinting with jagged teeth that were barely tucked inside that wormlike mouth. Even that tiny movement seemed tired; the Shurik looked thinner than I remembered, pale flesh tinted gray.

I peered at the Shurik, more frustrated than relieved. If it was alive, then the link between Grant and his demons was still active; and if the link was active, then why the hell wasn’t my husband reaping the benefits of being a demon lord? Even if the rest of his demons suffered the illness, that link alone should have protected him—long before he’d even
felt
sick. I didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand how he could still be connected to an army of demons—and not me.

Resentment wasn’t a feeling I’d often indulged, but I let it bloom, briefly, as I stared at the Shurik, still half hiding beneath Grant’s chest.

Doesn’t matter,
I told myself, as my husband, the couch—the whole room—swayed sideways. I sagged against the floor, violently dizzy. Terrible pressure gathered around my skull, like it was being crushed in a clamp, and shadows pushed into the edges of my vision—shadows that moved, and breathed, and seemed to bring with them the nagging sense that I had forgotten something.

Alter the disease. And I will fashion a cure.

That voice. That terrible, awful voice. I went very still. Had I glimpsed the origins of what was killing us? Had I listened to its creators? And if so . . . if so . . . what could I do with that information?

You are the Devourer. And ever wise.

“The Devourer,” I murmured, trying to stand. “Zee, where’s Jack?”

Silence. Stillness. As if I were suddenly alone. But I looked up, and Zee was right there, staring past me, as were Raw and Aaz. Mary’s large, strong hands slid around my arm, keeping me upright. I glimpsed her face—furious and grief-stricken—and turned to look at what had captured Zee’s attention.

It was my grandfather. Staring at me. For a long, agonizing moment, I didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t the shower or the change of clothes, or even the fact that I still wasn’t used to this body he’d possessed for the last several months.

It was his eyes. The way he was looking at me. As if a million years of trauma had just coalesced into a living thing, and that living thing was represented by me.

I struggled to straighten up, to stand like I was strong—which I wasn’t, not even a little. “Jack. Did you hear me? I said a name.”

“Yes,” he replied, quietly. “Yes, you did.”

I took a breath. “Who is the Devourer?”

Jack stared at me, then turned and walked right out the front door. Mary swore, releasing me so suddenly I staggered. I didn’t care. I watched her stride after my grandfather, one hand loosening the machete strapped to her massive belt.

“Zee,” I whispered, trying to follow—but I was too slow, too pained—and too reluctant to leave Grant’s side. The demon was already moving, though, intent on my grandfather. He slipped into the shadows, disappearing entirely. I forced myself to follow, almost falling against the front door, then staggering outside. Cool air flowed against my face; the night tasted sweet. All around me, faint hisses from the Shurik and the grinding sounds of their sharp teeth.

Mary stood in the middle of the front yard, holding her machete. I didn’t see Zee. No sign of Jack, either.

He was gone. He’d run. All because of a name.

T
HERE
are plenty of things in this life that really piss me off, and that’s fine. I’m a grumpy person. I don’t like steaks that are too tough to chew, or the condensation that gathers on a cold glass in summer. Something about that wet feeling on my fingers. I hate dirty public restrooms. Passive-aggressive behavior makes me crazy. I don’t like crowds, I can’t stand guns, and I not so secretly want to bury anyone who remakes my favorite action movies of the eighties.

Also, demons. Demons piss me off.

And my grandfather.

The first time I ever met him, he was full of secrets and half-truths—riddles, mysteries. Annoying, but also cute. I trusted him more, then. But after all these years, I’d come to the reluctant conclusion that it wasn’t
just
benevolence that made him so damn secretive. It was self-preservation. Not of his life, but his identity. A man unwilling to face his own demons was a man who could go on wearing a mask, able to justify, rationalize, moralize—all the bad decisions, the trauma, every bit of fucked-up-ness.

I sometimes also suspected that Jack still thought of himself as a god.

And gods don’t have to answer for shit.

Not even to family.

I
dribbled water into Grant’s mouth from a soaked, ice-chilled, washrag—and said to Zee, “Ask the Shurik what it feels through its link with him.”

The Shurik started hissing as soon as I asked the question, and Zee leaned in close, eyes narrowed. Aaz and Raw were sprawled on the back of the couch above my husband, little legs dangling, teddy bears and bars of soap speared on their claws. The little demons were chewing on them with the sort of contagious mindless anxiety that made me want to rock into the fetal position alongside them.

Dek and Mal’s soft-throated singing didn’t help, either. It was an eerie, mournful version of “Against All Odds”—the one breakup song I
really
didn’t need to hear right now. I patted their heads, but that only made them sing louder.

The Shurik snapped its teeth. Zee grunted, ears flattening against his skull. I said, “What?”

“Shurik trying to heal him,” he rasped, dragging his claws around his feet, so hard and deep he almost cut the floorboard in half. “If cannot heal, then slow down sickness. But, resistance.”

“Resistance,” I muttered. “From what?”

Zee’s gaze flicked to Grant. “Him.”

I sat back, surprised—reaching instinctively for our link. Old habit. More of a habit than I had realized, before now. Of course, our connection was still missing, but I was taken off guard again by the hole left behind, the emptiness. Cut off my leg, arm, and it would have felt the same. Phantoms, echoes of memory, taking the place of what had been real, vibrant, and alive.

I laid my fingertips against Grant’s feverish brow, wishing he would wake up. “That doesn’t make sense. I thought he was moving past that. Why would he resist being healed now?”

The Shurik wriggled free of his shirt: a pasty, wrinkled worm with sharp teeth. It stretched across my husband’s chest, writhing toward my hand. I forced myself not to pull away, holding my breath as it nudged my fingertips. Low hisses exploded from its mouth. I felt the heat of its breath.

Zee cocked his head. “Says he always resisted. Before this. Since first bonded. Resisted link. Created wall.”

“But he feels the Shurik and Yorana in his head.”

“Feels, but not accepts. Same as resistance. Part of him . . . is afraid. Yorana sense that fear, makes them disdain. Shurik sense . . . and understand.”

The last creatures I would have expected to understand the fear of becoming one with demons would be the Shurik. Maybe that disbelief showed on my face, maybe it was in my scent or in my silence, because the little, wormlike creature flopped itself heavily across my husband’s neck and let out a hissy little sigh.

Raw and Aaz stilled. Zee flinched. Even Dek and Mal finally fell silent.

Zee murmured, “Shurik remember old days, before we bonded to them. Old days, on old world, when nothing mattered but sun, nothing but water, nothing but peace. Ate plants. Explored sea. Got fat on light.” He fell silent for a moment, staring at his claws. “Then we brought darkness.”

We brought darkness.
My boys, who were the last survivors of their world, who had prayed to their gods for help in fighting an enemy they still would not name but that had swept across planets, civilizations, and destroyed them.

Maybe there were no gods, but
something
had answered my boys. Answered, and invaded them, giving them power and the strength to gather together the last surviving clans of the last surviving worlds, to form an army that would push back the force that had come to destroy them.

But the price was that none of them could remain the same; forced to change into something else, something darker, harder, fiercer. Filled with hunger. Filled with rage.

Though my husband had never said so, maybe he felt the same fear of being swallowed up. Turned into the monster he’d always had nightmares of becoming because the power to alter and control others was too sweet, and so was the temptation. Even good intentions could lead straight to hell.

Mary walked from the kitchen holding a pan of water filled with ice. Her wrinkles had deepened, her hair even more wild—tangled and matted. Mouth set in a grim, hard line. I stood as she neared and let her take my place beside Grant. She was as much his family as I was—born from the same world, with memories of his family and history no one else would ever have.

Standing wasn’t easy. Dizziness swept over me, and Mary caught my hand. But she didn’t look at my face—just my belly.

“Grant’s woman,” she whispered. “You must stay alive. For her.”

Tears bit my eyes; unexpected, hot. “I will.”

Mary’s gaze finally flicked to mine. “Use every weapon. No mercy. Must end now, or all begins again. War. Death.” Her hand found mine, squeezing. “Grief.”

I stood very still, staring at her, unable to pull away. Zee slipped between us, his claws hovering above Mary’s grip. He gave her a long look, which I thought she didn’t notice—until, slowly, her hand loosened, and she released me. She leaned back, looking at the little demon.

“Become Kings again,” she whispered. “For your Hunter. For us all.”

He stared at her, but I didn’t wait to hear what he might say. My skin crawled. My heart was pounding too hard. I wanted to vomit or scream—scream at Grant to open his fucking eyes—scream at myself for living.

But I had no time to be that stupid.

I snapped my fingers. Aaz hopped down from the couch, reached into the shadows, and pulled out an ice-cold bottle of ginger ale. He gave it to me, I took a long swallow, and moments later he handed me a wooden geta tray covered in sushi. I didn’t ask where it was from, and I was too tired to feel amused—the rice was light and filled with avocado, just right for my queasy stomach.

My grandfather had run. I could hunt him down, but there was no guarantee he would talk when I found him. There was someone else, though. Someone I could talk to, who was almost as intimately familiar with the ways of the Aetar—and their myths, and names.

I set aside the sushi and looked at my right hand, armored and glinting silver. Veins of engraved roses flowed across its surface, threading down my wrist between my fingers. I felt no heat from the quicksilver in my bones—but it was alive, and waiting. Listening. I’d learned the hard way that even fragments of the Labyrinth were alive.

Are you going to betray me again?
I thought at the armor.

Not even a tingle in response. My gaze fell on Grant. My husband, dying. And me, dying alongside him.

Unless I found a cure.

I touched Mary’s shoulder. “The Aetar might try to take him again.”

The Shurik rose up and hissed. Just outside the open door, from the porch, more hisses: an undulating sound of fury that, for once, I found comforting. Anyone who tried to enter this house was going to get eaten from the inside out—slowly.

Mary touched the machete hanging from her belt and gave me a grim look. I nodded and stepped back. Aaz and Raw gathered close. Zee touched my left hand.

I closed my eyes, and stars bled into my mind: stars, and the glint of a silver figure haunting the edge of my memories. But on its heels was the darkness, winding its coils around my heart, choking out the light. Filling me with a hunger that I knew no human meal would satisfy.

Do not make your mate’s mistake,
it whispered.
Release your resistance. Accept your transcendence.

I gritted my teeth and curled my right hand into a fist. Held my breath. Dreamed my need, dreamed it hard.

We fell into the void.

It was almost a relief. In the void, I felt none of the ravages of the disease—no flesh, no bone, no blood hot with fever. Nothing at all, just the emptiness, the endless, chilling drift. But my reprieve lasted only a moment because I couldn’t feel my daughter—not the weight, however subtle, of her body in mine—not the pressure and heat, and swell.

Not gone,
I told myself, but the alarm had already risen. Panic and memory—of blood gushing, pain and loss—and it was a terrible thing to panic without a body, to feel fear and not be able to
do
, to just feel and feel without the relief of flesh as a distraction, an anchor, a foundation. Fear was finite within the flesh. I could die, and it would be done.

In the void, I’d go on forever.

But the void ended. I fell from it with a cry, my voice alien and small in my ears. Not like me at all.

I landed on my stomach, skidding several feet as if thrown headfirst from a moving car. I was too stunned to fight it—I just went limp, letting momentum carry me across hard-packed dirt. I didn’t feel a thing—no pain, not even the impact. It was the sunlight that immobilized me. So bright, so unexpected, I had to close my eyes. Hot air blazed through my lungs, but I felt no heat on my skin. Through my lashes I glimpsed my arms, black with the boys. All muscle and claw, cut with veins of silver—and those red eyes, glinting at me, wide open in their dreams.

I rolled over, sat up. Had to catch myself, dizzy. Still sick. For a moment, I did feel hot—but it was internal, gathered in my chest and back, in my gut, and head. The heat faded, replaced by a chill—and then it swelled again, full force. Made me nauseous, like a bomb was going off, contained within my skin.

I looked around without trying to stand. Had to shield my eyes. Found nothing but rocky desert filled with cactus and scrub. Blue skies shone without a cloud, and the mountains in the distance were cut with shadows. Felt like the American Southwest, but I’d just left Texas in the night.

So. Somewhere else, on the other side of the world.

I glimpsed movement on my left, so quick and fast it was as if the world shivered. I knew it wasn’t my imagination—not with the boys tugging against my skin, raging to wake. Never a good sign. I looked again, harder, holding my breath.

I didn’t see anything. But I heard a scream of rage.

I staggered to my feet, blinking hard, ramming the heel of my palm into the side of my head—like that would somehow keep me upright. Or at least stop the pain throbbing in my skull. I did manage to stay standing, but the headache was a total fucking beast.

I ignored the pain and started running. Kept my hand pressed to my skull, eyes little more than slits against the bright sun. The boys kept struggling, rippling across my skin in flat, obsidian waves that shimmered and sucked at the light.

Another sharp crack hit the desert air—the detonation of a woman’s voice, still shouting in anger. I stopped at the crest of a shallow outcropping, staring down at a small oasis: a line of green grass, a few stubbly trees casting diminutive shadows—and a woman held on the ground by three robed figures, fighting like crazy as one of them muzzled her. A Mahati warrior lay near them, sprawled face-first in the dirt.

I knew who those robed figures were even though I’d never laid eyes on them before. Scouts. Soldiers. All with the same gift as my husband: able to control and kill, with just their voices.