Labyrinth of Stars(25)

I glanced at him, an unpleasant thrill in my gut. His eyes were so cold, so grim, I didn’t recognize him. Truly, for a moment, it was as if another man had stepped into my husband’s place. Even his face looked different: thinner, longer, lost in so many shadows he seemed to exist between here and there.

He looks like a demon, I thought.

Until, suddenly, he was my husband again. But that was almost as frightening.

The possessed woman’s eyes bulged; she clawed at my hand. Zee flowed from the darkness and grabbed her leg. She went totally, completely still.

“Little light is our light,” he whispered. “Cut her, we cut you. Cut you all dead.”

“Traitors,” she rasped. “False Kings. You reaped worlds and would lose this one to a child and a Lightbringer.”

Grant made a sharp, slicing sound with his tongue—I felt it scrape against my skin like a razor blade. Both the possessed women stiffened, dark auras tearing straight up—invisible hands ripping them from their stolen bodies. I imagined a tearing sound—but that was just the women sucking in their breath through their teeth, inhaling and inhaling, standing on their toes, rising as high as their stout, stolen bodies would take them. Backs arched. Bones cracked.

My husband spoke again, and those demon auras snapped free of their hosts. Zee leapt up, grabbing one of them. Raw took the other, holding that struggling wisp in his fist. He grinned, sharp teeth absolutely hideous—and stuffed the demon in his mouth. Zee did the same, swallowing with grim pleasure.

I had already released the human woman’s throat, but I touched her again, this time to hold her up as her knees buckled. Grant grabbed her companion, but he only had one hand free and she half fell to the sidewalk with a grunt. Zee and Raw were already gone, lost into the shadows.

Demons, parasites. For years, I’d called the hosts of these things zombies. Humans with weak minds, possessed by demons who fed on their pain and the pain they caused others. An old demon could possess absolutely. A weak demon was just a hitchhiker, influencing from the shadows of the unconscious. But either way, the host was always screwed. I’d known men and women forced to commit terrible crimes against their wills—and after an exorcism have no memory of it. No memory, but forced to live with the consequences, forever.

Both women were touching their heads, babbling to each other in Chinese. I didn’t understand a word, but Grant began humming, a soft melody that skimmed across my skin like a feather. The women calmed, staring blankly at each other.

I pulled Grant toward the apartment-building door. His hand was clammy. I said, “That wasn’t like you.”

“Does it matter?” he asked tightly.

I forced him to look at me. “You’re not a killer.”

He paled but stayed silent. I didn’t know what else to say except take his hand. I kissed the back of it, briefly pressing his palm against my cheek. Willing him to feel my concern.

I’m changing, whispered his voice inside my mind.

I caressed our bond, savoring the light and heat of it. You’re a father whose daughter is being threatened.

Grant drew in a sharp, pained breath. It’s more than that.

And then, carefully, gently, he pulled his hand from mine.

We went inside, blinking at the dim, buzzing fluorescent lights, which cast the world in a sick greenish gray. I heard televisions, shouts in Chinese, but tuned it all out, listening to my heart pound as I ran up the stairs two steps at a time.

Grant couldn’t keep up, but said, “Go on.”

So I did. Zee uncoiled from the shadows, dropping on all fours to race ahead of me. His claws left deep gouge marks in the stairs. He looked over his shoulder, hair spikes flexing with agitation.

“Maxine,” he rasped.

“Find Jack,” I said. “I’ve got Dek and Mal.”

But Zee did not leave me. Instead, he moved closer, so close I could reach out and touch him as I ran up the stairs; and I did, my palm skimming his sharp hair and the tips of the spikes jutting from his back. Comforting, having him near. I needed the reminder I was not alone. Even having Grant with me wasn’t reassurance enough.

We reached the top floor. No one was in the hall. I heard men speaking Chinese behind closed doors, a dog whining. My boots scuffed the stained tiles. I smelled hot oil, garlic, and something rotten, like the lingering vapor from a dirty toilet.

We stopped at the second-to-last apartment. Door was already cracked open, Aaz just on the other side, peering out at us. His eyes were huge, sharp ears pressed flat against his skull. He clutched a half-eaten teddy bear. Not a good sign. My heart dropped, and I pushed inside.

It was night; I expected darkness. But the apartment I found myself in felt worse than dark. I could taste the desolation, sickly sweet: plates of rotting food on the table, the buzz of flies, the oppressive ovenlike air so thick I could have been pushing through solid matter. I waded into that apartment, stomach churning, letting my eyes adjust to the shadows and faint neon light streaming through slivers in the blinds.