Labyrinth of Stars(5)

“M’fine,” Grant told us, but he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Mary sniffed the darts—and her lips peeled back in disgust.

“Poisoned?” I asked her.

“Badder than,” she muttered, and threw the darts away. Rummaging around the big pocket of her housedress, she pulled out a clear plastic bag of fresh cannabis leaves, tore it open, and tried to stuff a handful into Grant’s mouth.

“Come on,” he said, still slurring his words—but obviously not that out of it. “Mary.”

“You gotta be kidding,” I said. “What are you doing, Mary?”

She ignored me, finally stuffing the leaves into his mouth. “Chew. Swallow.”

“Mary,” I said sharply.

“Antidote.” Mary poked Grant hard in the chest. “Hurry.”

I’d known the old woman for years, and while my opinion of her had transformed over time—from homeless, crazed, drug addict to a wiser-than-she-looked-even-when-she-sounded-crazy otherworldly assassin—she was never a fool.

Two other things that had never changed: her devotion to Grant—and her devotion to marijuana, in all its forms. In fact, I’d pretty much decided she needed weed for some biological function given that I never saw her when she wasn’t eating it, sniffing it, or cooking with it. Now I wondered if there was another reason why she was so paranoid about keeping it close.

Grant grimaced as he chewed, but when he finally swallowed the bundle of leaves, Mary shoved more into his mouth. He didn’t protest. In fact, he looked stronger.

I let myself breathe again and looked around. We were surrounded by giant corpses, all of them covered in blood, leaking blood, in some cases still spurting. The air smelled rotten. The dead stank, no matter what species they were.

Mahati warriors perched gracefully on top of bloated stomachs, examining bodies, poking at the heads. The Osul were sniffing the remains, tasting blood with the tips of their tongues and growling with satisfaction. The Yorana had already disappeared.

The sword still covered my right hand, absorbing the blood covering its blade like roots soaking up water. Time to sleep, I told the armor. I could almost hear its resistance in my head—just one presence out of many floating inside me—but the metal receded, shimmering in a soft light that revealed my hand. Mary watched the transformation and grunted with approval.

Zee and the boys pressed close. Raw and Aaz were grinning, each dragging a bloodied baseball bat behind them. I didn’t think they’d had this much fun in months. Zee, on the other hand, looked troubled.

I was terrified.

Too late to run, I thought. We’ve already been found.





CHAPTER 3




THE thing about demons is that they never lie.

They’ll hunt you, torture you, eat you—but that’s nature and habit, a particular need to consume the pain of others. Biology, really.

Also, they’re just assholes.

But they do have rules, a code of honor, and even though I should have slaughtered every single one of them when I had the chance (Zee and the boys being the exception—because it’s like that, with family), it was their honor that kept me from making that final, destructive decision.

Honor means dignity. And dignity is that common dream that seems to unite our disparate species.

Blame sentience, Grant once said. Blame hearts, blame the possibility that the universe, no matter how vast, doesn’t allow for a true separation of spirit.

All of us, one, in some way.

Which is a real pain in the ass.





“SO,” Grant said, staring up at the night sky, “this is awkward.”

“You’re my hero,” I told him, in total seriousness. “Now, can you stand?”

He could, and he did, picking up a dart in the process and smelling the tip. I took a whiff, too. Same stinging, vinegary scent—only ten times stronger. I sneezed again.

“You recognized this,” Grant said to Mary, holding up the dart to Mal, who ate it.

“Old weapon. Old, but effective. Doesn’t kill. Just scrambles mind.” The old woman tapped his head with a gnarled finger. “Keeps you from focusing. Makes you normal, with normal voice.”

“Permanently?” I asked, trying not to show my horror that something like this could exist.

“Maybe, sometimes.” Mary kicked at some of the darts with disgust. “Poisoned many Lightbringers before we knew what happened. Poisoned them, stole them, studied them. Aetar could not have won war without it.”

I risked a glance at Grant, who had reached inside his shirt to touch a pendant that had belonged to his mother—and his father. His father, whom he had never known. His father, who was not of this world, just as Grant’s mother wasn’t—or even Mary. Their world, gone, destroyed in a war with the same immortal creatures who had made my bloodline and fought the demons.