“Ha’an.”
“It is not a merciful God,” he whispered, and darkness stirred inside me, deep below my heart. A slow awakening, a fullness that bloomed within my chest and rose into my throat.
There is no mercy in hunger, whispered a sinuous voice, curling around my mind until it rested far behind my eyes. No mercy when you are past the size of dreaming.
I pushed that presence away, pushed hard, ignoring its quiet satisfaction. But the air was suddenly too hot beneath the trees: on my face, in my throat, inside me—burning, suffocating. Lord Ha’an leaned away, watching my face with narrowed eyes. I could smell the fresh human blood surrounding us. I could taste it, the spice in the air—wet and soft, and warm. My mouth watered.
The armor on my right hand flared to life: the heat of it sliced through me like a sword, from crown to belly. I felt that jolt, and flinched, sucking in such a sharp breath it was almost a gasp. My cheeks were hot. I felt naked to the bone.
No, I said to the darkness. I’m not yours.
You have always been mine, it replied. This is our dance, and it is sweet.
The dance is over. But it was like pulling my will from the jaws of a dragon—my soul stretched until it was rubber, until there was no more give—but I kept pulling, hearing myself cry out in pain—
—until I tore free.
Free, and the terrible hunger was gone. I wiped my mouth.
“Young Queen,” Ha’an murmured, bowing his head. I couldn’t look at him. My eyes felt wet. Fear hammered my heart, but I swallowed it down, down where I felt soft laughter—nothing but a vibration against my ribs. The sleeping God, the darkness and its slow coil around my heart. That slow, tightening coil.
I felt Grant near me. I turned and found him standing near the bodies, leaning hard on his cane—knuckles white, face gaunt, eyes too dark as he watched me. He needed a haircut, I thought idly. I needed to run my hands through his hair and hold him close. He was slipping away, right in front of me. Maybe I was, too, in a different way.
I touched my stomach and walked to him. Dek and Mal were quiet, squeezing my ears between their claws until it hurt. Zee watched me from the shadows.
“You okay?” Grant asked, as I reached up to rub the heads of the two little demons coiled around my throat.
“You tell me,” I replied, and the corner of his mouth softened as his gaze flicked over me, reading my aura, my light. His gift, and his curse.
“Still beautiful.” His mouth relaxed into a gentle smile. “Sorry it took me so long. I had to settle my demons. The Shurik were disappointed they missed the fight, and the Yorana were . . . same as usual.”
“Assholes?”
His smile widened. “Divas.”
“Some of them were there when we were attacked. They didn’t lift a finger.”
“I know.” Grant took a deep breath. “They all heard about these dead humans.”
“I bet they wanted some.”
Grant grunted and opened his shirt.
“Fuck,” I said.
A maggot the size of a hot dog clung to my husband’s chest. Several of them, in fact: one on his rib cage, and the other pressed tight to his shoulder. All of them were the corpse color of zombie white, glistening with a snakelike sheen and pulsing with such violent force I half expected them to launch right off his body.
Dek and Mal extended their heads from my hair and let out a hungry chirp. The maggots immediately went still.
“I’m never having sex with you again,” I said.
“They understand you.”
“Good.” I pointed at his chest. “Are you insane?”
“I’m trying to teach them not to crave human flesh.”
I loved my husband, but I was going to kill him. I hated the Shurik. Their previous lord had been a malevolent, giggling . . . turd . . . and I had killed him with deep and probably disturbing pleasure. I didn’t feel much better about the rest of his people, and I wasn’t a big enough person to find any kind of connection or redeeming value in slugs that burrowed inside living creatures and ate them from the inside out. They certainly weren’t worth more than my husband’s life.
I pointed to the mutilated corpses. “Close your shirt, please, and let’s focus.”
Grant shook his head—still smiling—and covered the pulsating little demons. As he did, he looked down at the mutilated corpses. The smile faded. And then he swayed, so far to the right I thought he might fall.
“Hey,” I said, reaching for him.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, still looking away.
I froze. He managed to straighten, with an effort, and murmured, “Look at them, Maxine.”
I almost didn’t. I wanted to drill holes into his head and find out what the hell was going on with him. But instead I knelt, running my gaze over the corpses. Bones, blood, and skin. Heads. Hands. I saw jewelry. Gold glinted on the left hand of one body.