Labyrinth of Stars(21)

A monster. A God. Passed down from woman to woman—biding its time in dreams. Until me.

I had resisted its presence for years. Fought its destructive possession with all my strength, and won. Again and again, I had won.

Young Queen, whispered a soft, sibilant voice.

Grant reached out but stopped a hairsbreadth from touching my hand. I was glad. So glad he didn’t touch me. It would make me remember him and think about consequences—and I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t.

I closed my eyes, took a breath. Whatever you want. Just save her.

A sigh passed through me, deep and hideous with pleasure, sliding like smoke into my throat. My mouth curved into a smile, but that wasn’t me. It wasn’t me at all.

Yes, whispered the darkness. It is done.

I didn’t ask the price. I already knew it would be horrible. No bargains with the devil ever turned out good.

But the bleeding stopped. So did that tugging pain. Inside my belly, heat coiled around and around like a sun-warm snake making its nest, and the sensation only grew and strengthened, weighing me down until my back sank into the old linoleum, and the floorboards creaked. Sparks lit behind my eyes, sparks and stars, rushing at me: a torrent of light, as if my mind were traveling through space.

This is the path, I heard a quiet whisper. This is the promise for your child’s blood.

Then, nothing. No stars. No presence. No heat in my stomach. Gone as if it never existed. I felt light as air, and my hand groped the floor, as if I could stop myself from floating away. Grant grabbed my wrist, held on tight. It didn’t help.

What brought me back, what finally anchored me, was a new sensation. A tickle in my belly. A hum.

“Grant,” I whispered, hoarse, my voice sounding far away. “What do you see?”

It took him a moment. When he spoke, he sounded old and tired, and broken.

“Light,” he breathed. “A strong light. She’s okay, Maxine.”

I smiled.

Little light, I thought, touching my stomach with a hand that felt heavy as death. I feel you, little light.

I thought about my mother.

And passed the fuck out.





CHAPTER 8




MAYBE there’s a God. I don’t know. What I’m certain of is there are plenty of pretenders. No bigger con in the universe. No stakes higher. Power is the measure by which they live or die. But even so, they aren’t that different from humans.

Gods love. Gods kill.

And then there’s me.



WHEN I opened my eyes, I found an old woman sharpening her machete against my arm. Sparks popped, and the grind of the metal against those obsidian tattoos was soft and cold.

“Mary,” I said, slowly.

Her smile was lopsided, eyes a little too bright, too intense, to be completely, absolutely sane. “Teeth need sharper blades.”

“Some other time.” I pushed myself up. It wasn’t hard. I was strong. If the memory of what had happened weren’t still horrifically real inside me, I would have thought it was nothing more harmless than a nightmare.

I was on the couch, soft pillows piled under my knees. Naked beneath a light sheet. The front door of the farmhouse had been propped open, letting in a warm breeze that I felt only on my face. I heard chimes tinkling, and young, inhuman laughter, like a growl tickling the air.

A strong, familiar hand appeared in front of me, holding a glass of water.

“Glad you’re awake,” Grant said, quietly. “Mary, go outside.”

The old woman tilted her head, studying him. She was wearing a housedress embroidered with poodles, a wide leather belt cinched tight around her nonexistent waist. Weapons hung from it: knives, two hammers, and a second machete. The dress was too large; the neck gaped so much I could see her breastbone, and the flat, circular stone embedded there in her flesh.

It was engraved: a knotted tangle of lines that had no beginning, no end. Same emblem as the pendant Grant wore around his neck: a mark of his family line.

“Must be strong,” Mary murmured to him. “Lightbringer. Inheritor of blood.”

Father, I thought. Still a father.

Grant’s gaze met mine. He’d heard my thought, I was sure of it. And I was glad.

Warmth crept into his eyes. He did not look away from me as Mary slid the machete one last time over my arm and stood. I didn’t look at her either as she walked from us on the tips of her toes, gliding gracefully through the open farmhouse door. Her voice hummed a tuneless, eerie melody.

“Move over,” Grant said.

It was an old couch, wide and deep enough for several families, and their demons. I scooted sideways, and my husband lay down heavily beside me, using both hands to pull his bad leg onto the couch. We lay together, me on my side, him on his back. My head rested on his warm chest. I could feel his ribs beneath his flannel shirt but pretended not to notice. My arms were bare against him, black with the bodies of the boys, who slept soft and heavy. I stared for a moment. I always stared because it was always new.