“You look better,” I said.
Grant hesitated. “It’s the Shurik. They’ve been wanting to . . . give back to me for some time. I refused before. I thought it was better that I try to influence them first, revert them to their original natures. It’s been a slow process.”
“And today?”
“Today I let them in. Just a little.” He spoke so quietly I barely heard him. “And yes, it helped.”
I couldn’t imagine what it cost him to say that. I turned to Oanu. “Thank you for coming to speak with us. You understand the situation?”
“Perfectly,” he said, with a low growl. “The Aetar attacked your consort, attempted to kill your child, then poisoned our army with disease. They are cowards, and we will murder them.”
“That’s right,” I deadpanned. “Shit’s gonna get real.”
A smile ghosted over Grant’s mouth. “We need to find a cure. And keep the rest of you healthy.”
“I’m sure war and destruction will fall neatly into place along the way,” I added.
Oanu’s claws flexed with pleasure. Behind him, one of the Yorana called out, with disdain, “We have heard from the Mahati that there is no cure.”
I shot the red-skinned demon a hard look. “Then you’ll die. And if you don’t start giving your lord what he needs, you’ll die even sooner.”
The Yorana stiffened. “He has promised us our freedom to choose.”
Oanu’s ears twitched with surprise. I didn’t even blink. Grant leaned forward on his cane, fixing his hard gaze on the red-skinned demons. Shurik dripped from his shoulders; several opened their terrible mouths and hissed.
“I’ll keep my word,” he said, with unexpected menace. “But if I die, so will you. And as I weaken, so will you.”
The Yorana held very still, all that seduction and glamour sliding off their faces like water. I blinked, and suddenly their perfect skin had lost its luster, pocked with nicks and scars; and their hair was dull, limp, their bodies no longer radiating strength, health. A startling transformation: I could see their bones poking through lean, starved muscle. The jewels in their chests turned black.
“We have nothing to give,” one of them said. “We eat, but it does not feed us. We need the hunt. We need the seduction.”
They needed the energy, I realized. But that was impossible.
“I can change that,” Grant said. “Let me help you.”
The Yorana male spat on him.
Oanu snarled, but I was faster. My fist slammed into the demon’s chest, cracking the embedded jewel. The demon dropped like a stone, limbs twitching, black foam at his lips. An instantaneous, violent reaction. I didn’t expect it. I almost wasn’t sorry, until I saw Grant’s face—and I remembered what he’d said, earlier.
Shame flushed my cheeks, but regret warred with anger: at myself, at him—at the demon dying on the ground. Grant dropped his cane, awkwardly falling to his good knee, power already rising in his voice.
Nothing to be done, though. Too far gone for saving.
I held my ground. Oanu growled, low and deep in his throat. “Respect or death. You know better.”
The surviving Yorana bowed their heads. Grant stopped singing, and closed his eyes. I didn’t want to look at him but steeled myself and held out my hand. Inside me, our bond was quiet.
But he took my hand, and with that touch: light, be- tween us.
You still have me, I heard inside my head; his deep, soft voice. No matter what. And I have you.
I drew in a deep, sharp breath—and pulled my husband to his feet. His gaze never left mine—those knowing eyes, that sadness that made me sad and aching with love for him.
Grant looked at the other Yorana. “Decide what you want.”
The red-skinned demons bowed their heads even more deeply—both to him and me. Then, without a word, they stooped and picked up their fallen companion, easily negotiating his twitching limbs. Blood ran freely from the cracked jewel.
Oanu watched them go, tail lashing. “Needed that.”
Grant said nothing. His silence, despite the light between us, made me tense. “I wish the lesson hadn’t been needed,” I said, and the demon lord glanced at me.
“You are too gentle,” he rumbled; then, “Is it true there is no cure?”
Grant’s expression became even grimmer. “That’s what we were told. I don’t believe it, though.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “There will be a cure, Oanu.”
There had to be. Maybe Jack was right, maybe no cure existed, but I didn’t believe that whoever had made this thing wouldn’t know how to fix it. The problem was finding its creator—and then making him help us. All without losing our lives, our freedom, and maybe this entire world.