Labyrinth of Stars
CHAPTER 1
I’LL be honest: I can’t recommend having a demon as your obstetrician.
Fight with them, live with them, feed their hungry stomachs all the M&M’s, chain saws, and small artillery they can handle—but when it comes to taking pregnancy advice, avoid at all costs. Even if they’ve been delivering the babies in your family for the last ten thousand years.
“Need ash,” Zee muttered, pressing his sharp little ear to my belly. “Volcanic. Hot. Fresh to eat.”
My husband, sprawled in the grass beside me, started laughing. I flinched. He was turned away from me, so he didn’t notice.
I took a quick breath, trying to stay calm, and focused on the rich, delighted sound of his voice. I tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d heard him laugh—and I certainly didn’t dwell on how starved I was for it. Instead, I listened, listened with all the strength I’d once spent fighting demons—and suffered a panged mix of relief and joy.
I placed a hand on my belly. “Oh, sure. You think it’s funny.”
Grant turned his head and flashed me a grin. For a moment I had the crazy hope things might be getting better. But then the shadows crept through his eyes, and his smile turned brittle. He was trying, though, which made it all worse.
I clutched my cold bottle of ginger ale and took a long swallow, using it as an excuse to look away and wash down a wave of nausea. Grant rolled over on his side and placed his hand over mine.
Softly, he said, “Breathe, Maxine.”
“You breathe,” I grumbled, finishing off the ginger ale. I heard a hungry chirp and passed the bottle to the demon nesting in my hair, listening to glass crunch.
It was a warm night. Moon had already set. Around us, demons: Raw and Aaz, sprawled on top of my grandmother’s grave, clutching teddy bears and gnawing on meat cleavers—dashing them with gunpowder, tobacco, to spice the metal. The scent put a burn in the air.
Zee leaned on my stomach, listening to unborn secrets. Playing doctor, nutritionist, making clicking sounds with his skinny black tongue and closing the second lid of his red eyes, as if in a trance. Dek nibbled my ear and hummed the melody to an old Pat Benatar song, “We Belong.” Mal joined him: a soft trill, lilting into the night.
Oak leaves hissed, joined by the tall grass: waves and waves of those delicate dry hisses, rising and falling in the night with the wind. I listened to Grant’s slow, even breaths—the rasp of scales and claws, my own heartbeat—all of it, together, something I tried hard to relax into. As if I could make them, with sheer willpower, the only sounds in the universe.
But nothing—nothing—could drown out the drums.
It wasn’t a beat. Nothing as hollow as a human instrument. A throb, maybe a pulse: organic and wet. Accompanying it, floating like a loose thread, an eerie lilting chorus that sounded like a Chinese opera married to some ancient tribal chant. A melodic, thrusting sound that made the hairs rise on my neck.
I hated it. My mother was probably turning in her grave.
Because here we were—dead center in the middle of three thousand prime Texas acres—and somewhere near us an army of demons was partying.
“If I find out they’re sacrificing virgins, I’m chopping off heads.”
“Yes,” Grant replied, and opened his eyes. “Do you smell blood?”
I waited a moment because when someone, anyone in my life, says they smell blood, it’s usually not their imagination.
“No,” I told him, and he closed his eyes again.
“It’s the link,” he muttered, sounding tired. “The Shurik are nesting inside that new herd of cows we brought in. It hit me, all of a sudden. The smell and . . . taste . . . of it.”
It was like both of us were pregnant. Me, I had a human baby inside me. Grant had demons. Not just one, but nearly a thousand—more than half of an entire demon army. Bonded to him: through his heart, through his power. Which meant they felt everything he did. A pyramid of influence and dominance, trickling into every living Shurik and Yorana—keeping them under control. Otherwise, humans would be on the menu—and not a herd of cattle.
The price was that Grant could feel them, as well: the force of a thousand lives, a constant presence in his heart and head. Buzzing, burning, crowding. Voices that whispered, voices begging, voices that brought migraines that showed no signs of abating.
I knotted my fingers around the soft, loose flannel of his shirt, and tugged, gently. “I would do anything to help you.”
“I know,” he said, scratching the rough beard he’d been growing for the last month—a symptom of exhaustion rather than fashion. “I’m learning to cope.”
I’LL be honest: I can’t recommend having a demon as your obstetrician.
Fight with them, live with them, feed their hungry stomachs all the M&M’s, chain saws, and small artillery they can handle—but when it comes to taking pregnancy advice, avoid at all costs. Even if they’ve been delivering the babies in your family for the last ten thousand years.
“Need ash,” Zee muttered, pressing his sharp little ear to my belly. “Volcanic. Hot. Fresh to eat.”
My husband, sprawled in the grass beside me, started laughing. I flinched. He was turned away from me, so he didn’t notice.
I took a quick breath, trying to stay calm, and focused on the rich, delighted sound of his voice. I tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d heard him laugh—and I certainly didn’t dwell on how starved I was for it. Instead, I listened, listened with all the strength I’d once spent fighting demons—and suffered a panged mix of relief and joy.
I placed a hand on my belly. “Oh, sure. You think it’s funny.”
Grant turned his head and flashed me a grin. For a moment I had the crazy hope things might be getting better. But then the shadows crept through his eyes, and his smile turned brittle. He was trying, though, which made it all worse.
I clutched my cold bottle of ginger ale and took a long swallow, using it as an excuse to look away and wash down a wave of nausea. Grant rolled over on his side and placed his hand over mine.
Softly, he said, “Breathe, Maxine.”
“You breathe,” I grumbled, finishing off the ginger ale. I heard a hungry chirp and passed the bottle to the demon nesting in my hair, listening to glass crunch.
It was a warm night. Moon had already set. Around us, demons: Raw and Aaz, sprawled on top of my grandmother’s grave, clutching teddy bears and gnawing on meat cleavers—dashing them with gunpowder, tobacco, to spice the metal. The scent put a burn in the air.
Zee leaned on my stomach, listening to unborn secrets. Playing doctor, nutritionist, making clicking sounds with his skinny black tongue and closing the second lid of his red eyes, as if in a trance. Dek nibbled my ear and hummed the melody to an old Pat Benatar song, “We Belong.” Mal joined him: a soft trill, lilting into the night.
Oak leaves hissed, joined by the tall grass: waves and waves of those delicate dry hisses, rising and falling in the night with the wind. I listened to Grant’s slow, even breaths—the rasp of scales and claws, my own heartbeat—all of it, together, something I tried hard to relax into. As if I could make them, with sheer willpower, the only sounds in the universe.
But nothing—nothing—could drown out the drums.
It wasn’t a beat. Nothing as hollow as a human instrument. A throb, maybe a pulse: organic and wet. Accompanying it, floating like a loose thread, an eerie lilting chorus that sounded like a Chinese opera married to some ancient tribal chant. A melodic, thrusting sound that made the hairs rise on my neck.
I hated it. My mother was probably turning in her grave.
Because here we were—dead center in the middle of three thousand prime Texas acres—and somewhere near us an army of demons was partying.
“If I find out they’re sacrificing virgins, I’m chopping off heads.”
“Yes,” Grant replied, and opened his eyes. “Do you smell blood?”
I waited a moment because when someone, anyone in my life, says they smell blood, it’s usually not their imagination.
“No,” I told him, and he closed his eyes again.
“It’s the link,” he muttered, sounding tired. “The Shurik are nesting inside that new herd of cows we brought in. It hit me, all of a sudden. The smell and . . . taste . . . of it.”
It was like both of us were pregnant. Me, I had a human baby inside me. Grant had demons. Not just one, but nearly a thousand—more than half of an entire demon army. Bonded to him: through his heart, through his power. Which meant they felt everything he did. A pyramid of influence and dominance, trickling into every living Shurik and Yorana—keeping them under control. Otherwise, humans would be on the menu—and not a herd of cattle.
The price was that Grant could feel them, as well: the force of a thousand lives, a constant presence in his heart and head. Buzzing, burning, crowding. Voices that whispered, voices begging, voices that brought migraines that showed no signs of abating.
I knotted my fingers around the soft, loose flannel of his shirt, and tugged, gently. “I would do anything to help you.”
“I know,” he said, scratching the rough beard he’d been growing for the last month—a symptom of exhaustion rather than fashion. “I’m learning to cope.”