Labyrinth of Stars(60)

Sun was shining. She would have been safe. But not her daughter.

So she killed herself. Right there, on the spot. A knife straight through her eye, out the back of her skull, by her own hand. The boys could have stopped it, even asleep—but they didn’t. She died, so they could transfer their protection to the girl.

Because daughters must live.

Blood must live.

In the end, as my mother once said, what else are we fighting for?



JUST feeling someone strike me there—right where my daughter was growing—brought down a haze inside my head that had nothing to do with fever.

Something exploded in my heart, deeper than rage.

I lost time. Sprawled on the ground, then suddenly I wasn’t—on my feet, sun blazing in my eyes—only, the light no longer blinded. Darkness surrounded my vision, a blur of shadows as I stared at the two pale figures standing tall, still, close. Details escaped me. Faces didn’t matter. One of them, a woman, was holding pieces of a broken sword, and that was all I saw. All I cared about.

I didn’t think. I didn’t even feel my body move, but my hand was suddenly wrapped around her collared throat and I could see her eyes, her eyes and nothing else, bulging and staring in confusion. Her voice rattled. I heard another voice, a singing voice, filled with familiar power—but darkness rolled through me like a kiss, the sweetest kiss, pouring power into my muscles and bones, my bones and cells, through every inch of me like fire—and the woman’s throat exploded into ash beneath my hand.

Silver flashed. A whip, lashing around my waist. I felt the burn of it through the boys, but the sensation was far away, trapped beneath the power flowing through me. I turned, saw a bald man yanking on that whip with all his strength, muscles straining beneath the metal collar strapped to his neck. I just stood there, staring at him: my feet rooted as a mountain—my heart just as uncaring.

Loose robes swung out from his body; a series of red lines had been painted on his brow. Young face, smooth skin, eyes that looked at me through a startled haze of confusion. His mouth moved—he was singing. I knew what he was, from that alone.

A weapon.

I was surprised that weapon hadn’t already been sent after my husband.

I grabbed the whip, pulled hard with a strength not my own. The man staggered forward, eyes widening. He let go of the whip just before I would have been in arm’s reach, but I lunged forward and caught his wrist. A cry escaped his lips, deep and melodic—and his skin smoked beneath my grip.

Mercy, part of me thought, but I felt an ache in my belly, and an image of my mother swept through me, eyes dark as death, face set in stone—beating a man to death for trying to hurt me. How many men had she killed for that reason alone? Had she ever regretted taking even one of their lives?

“No,” I said out loud, and the man screamed, screamed and screamed as he watched his arm turn to ash, a wave of disintegration that flowed through his flesh: across his ribs and down his legs, through his chest and shoulders, claiming his throat and head. His eyes died last. His eyes, watching mine with horror. I never looked away, not once.

Something hit me from behind. I felt the point of impact in the back of my neck—the edge of a blade. One blow, trying to cut my head off. I turned and found another man behind me, staring at the sword in his hands; the blade was dented.

“You,” I whispered, and my voice was deeper, hollow—but it was my voice, and not the darkness, even though that power strained against my skin—strained and pushed, then melted—into my muscles and bones, simmering me in heat.

“Kneel,” I said.

His large, pale hands tightened around the deformed sword, and his narrowed gaze flicked down to my stomach. His mouth tightened, twisted, with disgust, and disdain. “Abomination,” he said, voice smooth and melodic. “Dark woman. Hunter. Your usefulness has ended. We, the Messengers, have come to carry out the beloved desires of our Divine Lords.”

Ash flowed through my fingers, clinging to my jeans; what little touched my skin was immediately absorbed by the boys. I felt far away from them, far from my own body—drifting in warmth.

“Kneel,” I said again in a soft voice.

His gaze flicked down to the ash, then the crumpled body of the woman who lay beside his feet. “Surrender to your creator. Surrender to those who gave your ancestors life.”

I glanced down the hill and saw the woman I’d come to find, half–sitting up, hands bound behind her back, a leather gag covering the lower half of her face. Her eyes were furious, glancing from me to the robed men standing on either side of her—their expressions like stone: cold, remote, certain.