Labyrinth of Stars(58)

But the price was that none of them could remain the same; forced to change into something else, something darker, harder, fiercer. Filled with hunger. Filled with rage.

Though my husband had never said so, maybe he felt the same fear of being swallowed up. Turned into the monster he’d always had nightmares of becoming because the power to alter and control others was too sweet, and so was the temptation. Even good intentions could lead straight to hell.

Mary walked from the kitchen holding a pan of water filled with ice. Her wrinkles had deepened, her hair even more wild—tangled and matted. Mouth set in a grim, hard line. I stood as she neared and let her take my place beside Grant. She was as much his family as I was—born from the same world, with memories of his family and history no one else would ever have.

Standing wasn’t easy. Dizziness swept over me, and Mary caught my hand. But she didn’t look at my face—just my belly.

“Grant’s woman,” she whispered. “You must stay alive. For her.”

Tears bit my eyes; unexpected, hot. “I will.”

Mary’s gaze finally flicked to mine. “Use every weapon. No mercy. Must end now, or all begins again. War. Death.” Her hand found mine, squeezing. “Grief.”

I stood very still, staring at her, unable to pull away. Zee slipped between us, his claws hovering above Mary’s grip. He gave her a long look, which I thought she didn’t notice—until, slowly, her hand loosened, and she released me. She leaned back, looking at the little demon.

“Become Kings again,” she whispered. “For your Hunter. For us all.”

He stared at her, but I didn’t wait to hear what he might say. My skin crawled. My heart was pounding too hard. I wanted to vomit or scream—scream at Grant to open his fucking eyes—scream at myself for living.

But I had no time to be that stupid.

I snapped my fingers. Aaz hopped down from the couch, reached into the shadows, and pulled out an ice-cold bottle of ginger ale. He gave it to me, I took a long swallow, and moments later he handed me a wooden geta tray covered in sushi. I didn’t ask where it was from, and I was too tired to feel amused—the rice was light and filled with avocado, just right for my queasy stomach.

My grandfather had run. I could hunt him down, but there was no guarantee he would talk when I found him. There was someone else, though. Someone I could talk to, who was almost as intimately familiar with the ways of the Aetar—and their myths, and names.

I set aside the sushi and looked at my right hand, armored and glinting silver. Veins of engraved roses flowed across its surface, threading down my wrist between my fingers. I felt no heat from the quicksilver in my bones—but it was alive, and waiting. Listening. I’d learned the hard way that even fragments of the Labyrinth were alive.

Are you going to betray me again? I thought at the armor.

Not even a tingle in response. My gaze fell on Grant. My husband, dying. And me, dying alongside him.

Unless I found a cure.

I touched Mary’s shoulder. “The Aetar might try to take him again.”

The Shurik rose up and hissed. Just outside the open door, from the porch, more hisses: an undulating sound of fury that, for once, I found comforting. Anyone who tried to enter this house was going to get eaten from the inside out—slowly.

Mary touched the machete hanging from her belt and gave me a grim look. I nodded and stepped back. Aaz and Raw gathered close. Zee touched my left hand.

I closed my eyes, and stars bled into my mind: stars, and the glint of a silver figure haunting the edge of my memories. But on its heels was the darkness, winding its coils around my heart, choking out the light. Filling me with a hunger that I knew no human meal would satisfy.

Do not make your mate’s mistake, it whispered. Release your resistance. Accept your transcendence.

I gritted my teeth and curled my right hand into a fist. Held my breath. Dreamed my need, dreamed it hard.

We fell into the void.

It was almost a relief. In the void, I felt none of the ravages of the disease—no flesh, no bone, no blood hot with fever. Nothing at all, just the emptiness, the endless, chilling drift. But my reprieve lasted only a moment because I couldn’t feel my daughter—not the weight, however subtle, of her body in mine—not the pressure and heat, and swell.

Not gone, I told myself, but the alarm had already risen. Panic and memory—of blood gushing, pain and loss—and it was a terrible thing to panic without a body, to feel fear and not be able to do, to just feel and feel without the relief of flesh as a distraction, an anchor, a foundation. Fear was finite within the flesh. I could die, and it would be done.

In the void, I’d go on forever.