Labyrinth of Stars(56)

I staggered inside. Lights were on. Mary knelt by the couch, blocking my view of Grant. I wanted to knock her aside, and half a second later Aaz did just that. I barely noticed. I could finally see my husband. He was so still, a corpse shade of white that was almost gray: and the rest of him, hollow, covered in a blanket half-tossed aside.

I collapsed beside the couch, touching his face. Warm. Warm skin. His chest rose and fell, and my entire spirit rose and fell with that solid, living movement. I tried again to reach for our link, closing my eyes, trying to force myself to relax, breathe, sink deep. All that meditative shit I’d never needed to find my husband’s soul.

Nothing. I found nothing. Just a gaping hole inside my heart, so real I could feel it—as if the void had settled part of itself inside me. And I realized that it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t find the link.

The link was gone.

“Grant,” I said, frightened.

I spoke his name again, louder, but he didn’t open his eyes. He was breathing, alive, but not feeling him inside me—that golden, shining tether—made it seem like he was gone. The emptiness was devastating. I felt as though the light had gone out inside me, and all that was left was . . . the void.

I looked at Zee, so shaken I could barely speak. “What can you tell me? Is this a coma?”

The little demon gave me a helpless shrug. “Do not know. Scent sick. Yours, too. But less. Dying still . . . but less.”

Which was a nice way of saying we were still fucked.

Grant’s shirt moved; a small, pale nub poked free, glinting with jagged teeth that were barely tucked inside that wormlike mouth. Even that tiny movement seemed tired; the Shurik looked thinner than I remembered, pale flesh tinted gray.

I peered at the Shurik, more frustrated than relieved. If it was alive, then the link between Grant and his demons was still active; and if the link was active, then why the hell wasn’t my husband reaping the benefits of being a demon lord? Even if the rest of his demons suffered the illness, that link alone should have protected him—long before he’d even felt sick. I didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand how he could still be connected to an army of demons—and not me.

Resentment wasn’t a feeling I’d often indulged, but I let it bloom, briefly, as I stared at the Shurik, still half hiding beneath Grant’s chest.

Doesn’t matter, I told myself, as my husband, the couch—the whole room—swayed sideways. I sagged against the floor, violently dizzy. Terrible pressure gathered around my skull, like it was being crushed in a clamp, and shadows pushed into the edges of my vision—shadows that moved, and breathed, and seemed to bring with them the nagging sense that I had forgotten something.

Alter the disease. And I will fashion a cure.

That voice. That terrible, awful voice. I went very still. Had I glimpsed the origins of what was killing us? Had I listened to its creators? And if so . . . if so . . . what could I do with that information?

You are the Devourer. And ever wise.

“The Devourer,” I murmured, trying to stand. “Zee, where’s Jack?”

Silence. Stillness. As if I were suddenly alone. But I looked up, and Zee was right there, staring past me, as were Raw and Aaz. Mary’s large, strong hands slid around my arm, keeping me upright. I glimpsed her face—furious and grief-stricken—and turned to look at what had captured Zee’s attention.

It was my grandfather. Staring at me. For a long, agonizing moment, I didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t the shower or the change of clothes, or even the fact that I still wasn’t used to this body he’d possessed for the last several months.

It was his eyes. The way he was looking at me. As if a million years of trauma had just coalesced into a living thing, and that living thing was represented by me.

I struggled to straighten up, to stand like I was strong—which I wasn’t, not even a little. “Jack. Did you hear me? I said a name.”

“Yes,” he replied, quietly. “Yes, you did.”

I took a breath. “Who is the Devourer?”

Jack stared at me, then turned and walked right out the front door. Mary swore, releasing me so suddenly I staggered. I didn’t care. I watched her stride after my grandfather, one hand loosening the machete strapped to her massive belt.

“Zee,” I whispered, trying to follow—but I was too slow, too pained—and too reluctant to leave Grant’s side. The demon was already moving, though, intent on my grandfather. He slipped into the shadows, disappearing entirely. I forced myself to follow, almost falling against the front door, then staggering outside. Cool air flowed against my face; the night tasted sweet. All around me, faint hisses from the Shurik and the grinding sounds of their sharp teeth.