“Jack,” I said, and then louder: “Jack.”
Zee fell into a shadow—slipping in and out of this world through the gloom—and then reappeared on the other side of the room, beckoning me with a flash of his long claws. I followed, Aaz staying close, chewing on his teddy bear’s ear. I skirted books, paintings; a tall vase that I nudged with my shoulder and almost knocked over.
A smell hit me: more rot, but this time of the living; and I saw the rounded curve of a back, so hunched and still that at first I thought it was another piece of furniture. But no, there was an arm, pale and thick with muscle; and I heard, I felt, a slow exhalation. I took a step closer, and choked. The air was rancid with filth. My shoes stuck to the floor.
“Meddling Man,” Zee whispered.
I moved sideways and found the little demon crouched on top of a small table, his claws digging hard into the wood. All the spikes on his head flexed in agitation. Raw was there with him, and Aaz made a small, distressed sound. Dek and Mal coiled tighter around my throat.
A crystal skull was on the table.
It didn’t resemble anything human. Wide cranium, protruding crests at the cheeks. Thick jaw, filled with teeth as sharp as dagger points, like a piranha’s mouth. I could see the lines of that thing, all those spectral curves, as if a light were in my eyes, or its eyes, and it made me dizzy for a moment. I touched my stomach again, which felt warm. My right hand tingled, the armor encasing my skin coming alive.
Zee and the boys stared at the skull. If they destroyed it right now, I would not be surprised. That . . . thing . . . and twelve other similar artifacts were responsible for channeling the power that had been used to imprison my five little demons upon the body of my ancestor—and bind thousands of demons more into a prison outside this world.
My grandfather had been one of the prison-makers.
I watched the old man. It had been months. I barely recognized him. For a moment, I wondered if he’d found a new body to inhabit.
But I looked longer, harder, and all those rough edges were the same: cheekbones, nose, that broad, lined brow. His face was barely visible behind his matted beard and crusty shreds of silver hair. His shirt was rotting off him, filled with holes and stained yellow with sweat; and his boxer shorts were hideously filthy. He smelled like sewage. Made my skin crawl. Just standing there, breathing the same air: lethal.
He sat so still, eyes open, unblinking: staring at the crystal skull. I didn’t want to imagine how long he’d been like that. Long enough, maybe, to kill a normal human. His lips were crusted with blood.
Grant entered the room behind me. “Oh, my God.”
I ignored him, stepping in front of my grandfather—blocking his view of the skull.
“Jack,” I said.
Nothing. For a long moment I was sure he wouldn’t stir, that whatever had captured him would continue holding his spirit and flesh. He was in a coma, he was paralyzed, he was already gone from that body.
But just as I was about to call down Zee, the skin around his eye twitched. So did his hand, resting on his knee. I held my breath, waiting. I held my breath, so I wouldn’t vomit. Sweat rolled down my back. I thought about home and wanted to reach past the filth and shake my grandfather awake.
He twitched again, a jolt that ran from his feet into his legs. His fingers flexed, and his shoulders hitched with a sharp breath that wheezed into his lungs like rattling leaves. I heard popping sounds. His mouth cracked open. I expected him to speak, but instead his tongue emerged, and it was grotesque: shriveled, dry, bleeding.
I snapped my fingers at Raw. “Water.”
The little demon dropped his fist into the shadows; he pulled a bottle of water free, ice-cold and perspiring. I popped the cap, held my breath against the smell, and pressed the bottle against my grandfather’s broken lips. His eyes were still open, unresponsive. He stared right past me.
He didn’t drink at first. Water filled his mouth and spilled down the sides. I stood there, waiting. Dek and Mal pushed their heads free of my hair and slithered down my arms, peering at my grandfather’s face.
Grant stepped close, a low hum pouring from him, a heavy sound that made the air vibrate.
That did it. My grandfather choked. Water sputtered from his mouth over my hands, but I held his jaw and the bottle, and when he managed to swallow, I gave him more. He drank and drank, and when that bottle emptied, Raw put another in my hand. At some point, his eyes closed—and then at some point, his eyes opened—so that when we were at the end of the third bottle I realized he was looking at my face. And this time, he was seeing me.
“Hey,” I said, trying to smile.
My grandfather raised a shaking, filthy hand and touched my wrist. It happened to be my right wrist, covered in armor, and the organic metal reacted to his touch with a ripple. The old man shuddered, and leaned away from me. His gaze fell on the crystal skull. I moved sideways, blocking his view.