Yes, I could do this.
Yes, I believed. Even if it only lasted as long as this moment, that belief was everything, my entire world. It was power.
My left hand touched my stomach.
“It’s okay,” I muttered breathlessly, knowing some part of my daughter would hear and understand, even four months formed. “Mommy is good at impossible things.”
Which was a lie. But for her, I could learn to be good at anything.
It was loud under the trees, but only because my heart was pounding so hard, it filled my ears with thunder. I saw flickers of movement, slender silver bodies slipping around the trees, but none came close. I thought again about the video playing on the news but couldn’t muster even the same iota of concern I’d felt just yesterday. If humans knew about the demons—well, fuck it. I just wanted us to survive the week without vomiting our guts out.
Dizziness hit. I leaned against a tree, then clung to it. The moment I was still, I felt that fever gouge me—burning my skin. Pain crept up the back of my neck into my skull. Dek and Mal began kneading my shoulders with their little vestigial arms.
“I’m sick,” I said to Zee.
“In us, too,” he replied, dragging his claws through the dirt. “But, bodies strong. Bodies fight. Bodies burn it out.”
“You can heal yourselves?”
“Already healing.” Zee shrugged. “Aetar not stronger than our blood.”
Relief filled me, but it was tainted with envy. Raw and Aaz pushed close, holding my hands. Zee tilted his head, studying me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, ashamed I couldn’t be more generous with my thoughts and emotions.
“No need,” rasped the little demon, with terrible gentleness. “Not now, not ever. We already burn some from you, in sleep. We burn more, when we sleep again. Keep you, little light, safe.”
I sagged against the tree. I didn’t know how our physiologies were bound together, just that the boys were more than tattoos when they were on my body—they were part of me, as much a part of me as my own blood and bones. In times of starvation, they could nourish me. If I were thrust to the bottom of the sea, they could breathe for me. I should have known they could heal me, too.
But if I was still sick, even after their protection, Grant couldn’t have much longer.
Just like that, exhaustion set in, tearing through me like a bomb. I’d never felt so drained, so fast. I sank down to the hard, uneven ground, and Raw and Aaz crawled into my lap. Zee hung back, looking into the trees, his expression thoughtful.
How do we survive this? I asked myself. How do we all come out alive?
I stared up through the trees, catching glimpses of the sky. I’d been alone for so long, sometimes it was difficult to remember I had friends, allies, people I could call on for help. Even now, desperate, I could still forget.
But I hadn’t forgotten him.
Oturu.
I’d been trying to keep the demon from my thoughts. Been fighting, with all my might. Because he couldn’t be here. Not now. It was too dangerous, too unpredictable. If he got sick, I’d never forgive myself.
All in vain, though. It was night, and my need had probably been broadcast across the stars—straight from my heart to his, or however we were connected.
Thunder first, but thunder without a sound. Just the rumble, a vibration in the air that purred through my bones and blood, settling in my chest, drifting down into my stomach. I looked up again and saw a shadow flash. Dek and Mal tensed with a chirp. Zee sighed.
Branches parted. I saw his feet first—a cluster of knives, shining and deadly—followed by the hungry folds of a flowing, drifting cloak. In the shadows, all the demon became was grace, a hush of space that his presence held, and swallowed.
“Oturu,” I said, gazing at that hard, pale jaw, the slant of his mouth, the abyss that hid his eyes beneath the brim of his wide, sloping hat. “Stay back.”
Tendrils of hair flowed through the air like crooked veins—twisting and floating down to my face. I staggered away from him, clawing at the trees to help me stay upright—but he made a sharp sound, and my body froze. No one else had that power over me. But Oturu was different. Oturu had the promise of my bloodline. That for him, we would be powerless, at his mercy, as a sign of the ultimate trust.
Our lives, as a pledge of friendship. A pledge that had created a bond that had transcended generations, all because of a single kindness my ancestor had shown him—one act of mercy that had created a link between our blood and his.
“Don’t,” I whispered, begging him with my voice. “I’m sick. You can’t be here. You might get infected.”
Oturu only drew closer, his floating tendrils of hair brushing my skin, lingering on my lips. He leaned in so close we could have kissed, and still I could not see his eyes. But I felt him, the weight of the abyss, the touch of his hair as it wound through my own. I should have been disgusted, disturbed, but I searched my heart and felt only fear for him—and a terrible, selfish, comfort.