Labyrinth of Stars(37)

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Do not be,” he replied. “Do not, young Queen. You were as helpless as I. A good lesson for us both, I think.” And then he lifted his head, but it wasn’t to look at me. He stared at Jack, and his eyes were rimmed in blood and hate, his face stone cold, stone hard.

“All we suffered,” he said softly. “And yet, there will never be peace for us.”

Jack didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at me with both horrified dismay—and unabashed, unconcealed, fascination. It made me afraid all over again.

I tried to find my voice. Grant squeezed my hand. “Jack.”

My grandfather blinked, tearing his gaze from me just long enough to take in the black sand. “Yes.”

Grant glanced at Lord Ha’an. “What about a cure for this disease?”

Jack crouched, running his hands over the sand. “There won’t be one.”

Mary gave him a disgusted look. I felt my own dismay—partially at his answer, but also with the distracted way he said it. This was life or death, and he didn’t seem to care.

“Jack,” I snapped, and finally he looked up, alert and fully present. “You’re certain there’s no cure?”

“We don’t make cures. When we decide to take a life, we take it. And then we replace it with something else.”

“Of course you do,” Grant muttered. “But you must still be able to make a cure.”

Jack gave him an incredulous look. “You’d have more luck, lad. Killing is easier than curing, I promise you that. And creating viruses is not the same as modifying flesh. That’s not my strength.”

I thought about the Mahati who had vomited herself to death and the others lying sick not far from here. “Then whose is it? We have to do something.”

Jack said nothing. Lord Ha’an walked from the sand, but it was without his usual grace.

“He will not lift a hand,” said the demon. “He would rather see us die.”

Without another word, he strode away into the woods.

“Well,” Jack murmured. “Temper, temper.”

I briefly closed my eyes. “We don’t have time for you to find a new body, or else I would have let him kill you.”

Silence. I finally looked at him, and his expression was surprisingly serious. “I am sorry, my dear.”

I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, I almost told him, but there was no point. Damage was done. Now, at the very moment when we all needed to be strong.

Grant gave him a scathing look and squeezed my hand. “More are falling ill.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “It’s begun, then.”

“Does it only affect demons?” My voice sounded flat, dead. I wanted to hear his voice tell me the truth.

“Yes.

“You’re sure.”

“I am sure,” he replied. “Only demons will be hurt by this disease, poison . . . whatever you want to call it. Those six humans who died here were living bombs.”

Boom, I thought. We were all going to hell.





CHAPTER 12




IN hindsight, we were more than stupid: We were pretty much a lethal combination of dumb and dumber. But that’s what happens when you get used to thinking you’re invincible. You become careless. You don’t think about consequences. By the time you do, it’s always too late.

Regret doesn’t have the power of the resurrection, wrote my grandmother in her journal. Someone dies because of you, they stay dead.

And the part of you that killed them stays dead, too.



WE buried those human bodies.

It was Mary and I. Grant went back to tend the sick with his voice. I wanted him to take a nap and eat, but that was a lost battle before I even opened my mouth.

I got shovels from the barn, and we spent two hours digging a hole. Fire would have been better, but I didn’t want to attract anyone with the smoke. Folks in this area took wildfires seriously. It would bring a cop or a neighbor out here faster than if I had a gun battle on the front porch of the old house.

It was quiet. No demons around. When I wasn’t looking at corpses I could focus on other things—genocide, murder, baby names, what I wanted for dinner.

Visions of fire and death. Circles of ash. Not necessarily in that order.

Most of the time, though, I thought about these ravaged dead and the people they had been—who was mourning them, or sick out of their minds with fear because these loved ones couldn’t be found. So much grief, so much terror. And for what? Because someone wanted to commit an act of genocide?

Turn it around. Innocents were murdered to feed the Mahati on their killing sprees. Dead is dead. Intent is just the window dressing.

But it still wasn’t right. Life couldn’t be that cheap.