Labyrinth of Stars (A Hunter Kiss Novel) (19 page)

But they were slaves. Genetically engineered and brainwashed to be obedient to those they considered gods: the Aetar, who had captured their ancestors and raped their genes for millennia.

I had to stop them. Fast.

I ran down the hill. Almost tripped, stayed on my feet—then, moments later, felt a tremendous impact against my lower back. I went down so hard, the rocks cracked beneath my knees.

Going down that hard, that fast, made my head spin. But that wasn’t enough of a distraction to keep me from noticing one very strange, impossible thing.

The impact hurt.

I rolled over. And got stabbed in the stomach.

I couldn’t see my attacker—sunlight blinded me—but the tremendous force behind that blow pushed me so hard into the dirt, my body made a dent.

It should have been nothing. A feather should have made as much of an impact, pain-wise—I even heard the weapon break against my body. But none of that was important.

Because I felt it. I felt pain. In my back.

And in my stomach.

V
ULNERABILITY
does not run in my family.

That’s the lie we tell ourselves. It’s a good one. I think we’ve been clinging to it for ten thousand years. It’s as much a tradition as nameless fathers, bad tempers, and black hair.

But again, it’s a lie. Our skin is unbreakable, but not our hearts. And besides that, we do have one strategic weakness.

Our daughters.

Doesn’t matter that Zee and the boys are the most paranoid and dangerous nursemaids in existence. Some things are just out of their power. Nature. Accident. Freak stuff.

A volcano erupted in 1610
B.C
. on the island of Santorini. Mount Thera, it was called. An apocalyptic explosion, with the energy of several atomic bombs—followed by massive ash clouds, huge tsunamis, climate change. Totally fucked people up. Inspired myths. Changed history.

My ancestor was nearby when it happened, right in the middle of the Minoan settlement of Akrotiri. Actually, two of my ancestors were there: mother and young daughter. I don’t know why—that’s not part of the story that’s been passed down—and the boys have never been good about sharing details. All we know, all we’ve been told, is that right before the eruption happened—in the seconds before—my ancestor
knew
.

Sun was shining. She would have been safe. But not her daughter.

So she killed herself. Right there, on the spot. A knife straight through her eye, out the back of her skull, by her own hand. The boys could have stopped it, even asleep—but they didn’t. She died, so they could transfer their protection to the girl.

Because daughters must live.

Blood must live.

In the end,
as my mother once said,
what else are we fighting for?

JUST
feeling
someone strike me there—right where my daughter was growing—brought down a haze inside my head that had nothing to do with fever.

Something exploded in my heart, deeper than rage.

I lost time. Sprawled on the ground, then suddenly I wasn’t—on my feet, sun blazing in my eyes—only, the light no longer blinded. Darkness surrounded my vision, a blur of shadows as I stared at the two pale figures standing tall, still, close. Details escaped me. Faces didn’t matter. One of them, a woman, was holding pieces of a broken sword, and that was all I saw. All I cared about.

I didn’t think. I didn’t even feel my body move, but my hand was suddenly wrapped around her collared throat and I could see her eyes, her eyes and nothing else, bulging and staring in confusion. Her voice rattled. I heard another voice, a singing voice, filled with familiar power—but darkness rolled through me like a kiss, the sweetest kiss, pouring power into my muscles and bones, my bones and cells, through every inch of me like fire—and the woman’s throat exploded into ash beneath my hand.

Silver flashed. A whip, lashing around my waist. I felt the burn of it through the boys, but the sensation was far away, trapped beneath the power flowing through me. I turned, saw a bald man yanking on that whip with all his strength, muscles straining beneath the metal collar strapped to his neck. I just stood there, staring at him: my feet rooted as a mountain—my heart just as uncaring.

Loose robes swung out from his body; a series of red lines had been painted on his brow. Young face, smooth skin, eyes that looked at me through a startled haze of confusion. His mouth moved—he was singing. I knew what he was, from that alone.

A weapon.

I was surprised that weapon hadn’t already been sent after my husband.

I grabbed the whip, pulled hard with a strength not my own. The man staggered forward, eyes widening. He let go of the whip just before I would have been in arm’s reach, but I lunged forward and caught his wrist. A cry escaped his lips, deep and melodic—and his skin smoked beneath my grip.

Mercy,
part of me thought, but I felt an ache in my belly, and an image of my mother swept through me, eyes dark as death, face set in stone—beating a man to death for trying to hurt me. How many men had she killed for that reason alone? Had she ever regretted taking even one of their lives?

“No,” I said out loud, and the man screamed, screamed and screamed as he watched his arm turn to ash, a wave of disintegration that flowed through his flesh: across his ribs and down his legs, through his chest and shoulders, claiming his throat and head. His eyes died last. His eyes, watching mine with horror. I never looked away, not once.

Something hit me from behind. I felt the point of impact in the back of my neck—the edge of a blade. One blow, trying to cut my head off. I turned and found another man behind me, staring at the sword in his hands; the blade was dented.

“You,” I whispered, and my voice was deeper, hollow—but it was
my
voice, and not the darkness, even though that power strained against my skin—strained and pushed, then melted—into my muscles and bones, simmering me in heat.

“Kneel,” I said.

His large, pale hands tightened around the deformed sword, and his narrowed gaze flicked down to my stomach. His mouth tightened, twisted, with disgust, and disdain. “Abomination,” he said, voice smooth and melodic. “Dark woman. Hunter. Your usefulness has ended. We, the Messengers, have come to carry out the beloved desires of our Divine Lords.”

Ash flowed through my fingers, clinging to my jeans; what little touched my skin was immediately absorbed by the boys. I felt far away from them, far from my own body—drifting in warmth.

“Kneel,” I said again in a soft voice.

His gaze flicked down to the ash, then the crumpled body of the woman who lay beside his feet. “Surrender to your creator. Surrender to those who gave your ancestors life.”

I glanced down the hill and saw the woman I’d come to find, half–sitting up, hands bound behind her back, a leather gag covering the lower half of her face. Her eyes were furious, glancing from me to the robed men standing on either side of her—their expressions like stone: cold, remote, certain.

Nothing but masks. I’d seen how the others had died—astonished their entitlement to life had finally run out.

Stop playing games,
part of me thought, though it was difficult, through a haze. My brain was fogging up. I had come here to find the woman. I needed to speak with her. Games of power, forcing others to acknowledge power—that was a waste. I had no time to waste though I couldn’t remember why. I could barely remember the anger that had been so fresh only moments before.

I turned from the man and walked down the hill. I barely felt the ground beneath me—floating inside my own skin, floating on the edges of another world. A hand grabbed the back of my neck, fisting my hair—a touch I barely felt. A man’s scream filled the air, abruptly lapsing into silence. Ash floated past me.

I was facing the robed men when it happened, witnessed the widening of their eyes, the splash of color in their cheeks. One of them reached down for the woman on the ground—who rolled swiftly away to her feet. Chains dragged from her ankles; her attackers had not finished binding her.

I started running. Faster than I’d ever run before, nearly flying with each step. The men froze, staring at me—careful masks finally breaking into fear.

Just before I reached them, they disappeared. Blinked out. I was so close I felt the air suck inward to fill the space where they’d been standing. I should have been surprised, but I felt nothing at losing them. I kept moving toward the woman I’d come for and tore away the leather gag.

She spat on the ground, eyes bloodshot. “Hunter.”

Her name was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t reach for it through the haze. It didn’t seem important, either.

“Hunter,” said the woman again, but I ignored her. Something was still wrong.

I looked down at my arms, saw movement across my skin; obsidian muscles slithering in tight coils, veins of quicksilver pulsing, threading beneath shifting claws and glinting eyes.

My boys.

My head cleared a little, but that only made the uneasiness deepen. My boys rarely moved during the day, and only out of necessity. This was . . . pained. As if they were writhing in their sleep.

And as soon as I thought it, I felt it—that agonized pull against my body, the boys struggling against my skin. I stared at them, lost. My mind, still trapped in death, hunger, anger—part of me a million miles removed from my own body—as if I didn’t really exist. All of this, just a dream.

It is a dream,
whispered the darkness, so close inside my mind that for a moment I thought I’d spoken those words out loud.

Whose dream?
I asked, trying to remember why I was so angry, what had happened to bring me here to this moment. It shouldn’t have been difficult. I had to remember—

—my daughter.

Cold dread washed from my chest into my stomach, with such force my knees buckled. I didn’t fall down, but I might as well have; giant bears could have been kickboxing each other in the nuts, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

My daughter.

I yanked up my shirt, found my stomach covered in tattoos: a slow whirling churn of dark, gleaming bodies, spiraling around my navel like a demonic galaxy. I stared, running my hands over my stomach. My fingers lingered over my abdomen, a spot just to the left of my hip. I couldn’t see an injury beneath the boys—but I felt the tenderness of that spot, a soft deliberate ache.

“Fuck,” I muttered, and then again, louder.
“Fuck.”

My back was still sore—and now that I was paying attention to my body, so was my neck from the sword attack. My waist, as well, from that damn whip. I wasn’t really injured, not that I was aware. But I could feel pain.

Impossible.

I wasn’t as invulnerable as I should have been. Something was wrong with the boys. The disease, perhaps. Zee had said they could heal me once they were on my skin. But if it made them sick, too . . . if it hurt them . . .

I took a deep breath, but it didn’t calm the torment. Worse, the darkness was awake. The darkness had been awake for some time, but this was different: Its presence hummed through me like a current of black lightning. It didn’t hurt, but it made me feel . . . altered.

Alive,
whispered the darkness.
You are coming alive, Hunter.

I was alive before,
I replied, troubled and afraid at how easily I had reached for that power, how little remorse I felt using it. Not the first time that had happened, but never had it felt so seamless . . . as if I didn’t know where I began and the darkness ended. I couldn’t see the line. I couldn’t
feel
it.

And if I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t tear it apart.

You would break yourself,
came that soft hiss, coiling around my heart and squeezing, gently.
For nothing more than a mask. You cling to masks of who you think you should be. Who you believe is safe. But that is not being alive.

What is beneath the mask?
continued the darkness, softly.
Who is the Hunter and who is the Kiss? Who is the Queen and the mother, and the woman who bleeds?

“Enough,” I said out loud, to the darkness or myself, I wasn’t certain.

Movement, in the corner of my eye. I flinched, but it was only the woman—and her name, our history, flooded back into my mind.

When she saw me looking at her, impatience slid across her face—mixing with anger, exhaustion—and she turned in silence, showing me her bound wrists. Chains dangled; silver manacles flashed in the sun. Her robes had been torn off one shoulder, with blood and dirt rubbed into her short hair and pale skin; and the scratches, bruises, were deep. She had been beaten for a long time.

“Messenger,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

“You could not know,” she replied, giving me a cold, repressive glare over her shoulder. “Free me.”

I slid my left hand over the manacles, which were connected by a thin strip of metal, and started at that weakest point—digging in my blackened fingernails with a hard, sawing motion. My strength just wasn’t there, though—and neither were the boys. I was distracted by their slow, pained movement over my arm, and their slight shift in color; from obsidian to a dark charcoal gray. My nails were weak, too—
weaker
, anyway—and I felt pressure in them bordering on pain.