I felt a terrible burst of love for those little fuckers. “And they left this one alive?”
“For questioning, I presume.”
Good call, I thought. A better one than I might have made. I glanced back at my grandfather, who was staring at the carnage: flat eyes, mouth set in a grim line. “You have anything to say about this?”
He said nothing. Just looked away, first at Grant—and then the crystal skull. I found it on the floor, but the blanket I’d tossed over it had been pulled off. Its surface gleamed; so did its eyes. I looked away, unnerved. Nauseous, too. But I blamed that on being pregnant and smelling so much blood.
“Cover the skull,” I told the Messenger. “Make sure my grandfather doesn’t go near it.”
Jack gave me a sharp look, as did the Messenger. I didn’t wait to see if she did as I asked—instead, I began to wade through the heaving, writhing mass of hissing Shurik that covered the living-room floor. It wasn’t easy—but that had everything to do with me. My entire body balked, joints so stiff I had to use real muscle to unlock them. Tin woman, rusting to a full stop. No pain, though. No fever. This was something else.
The boys.
I knelt, with difficulty, staring at the trembling man who had come to kidnap my husband. We looked at each other too long. Anger and revulsion flicked into his face, replacing the fear. Which was what I wanted.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Maxine Kiss.”
“Abomination,” he spat.
“That, too.” I smiled, and it felt so cold, cold as my heart when I thought about what these people would do to my husband and daughter if they had the chance.
I reached down—slow, unable to force my joints to relax—and picked up a Shurik. That hard, turgid body twisted in my hand: a seething worm, sharp teeth snapping, grinding, like a fistful of razor blades rubbing together. I gritted my own teeth, revolted, and held the little demon up to the man’s eyes.
He shied away—or tried. Mary appeared behind him. Her face was flush with fever, but she held the man’s shoulder in a sinewy grip that looked strong enough to break bone.
“You are going to talk to me,” I said.
“No.” He stared at the Shurik in my hand, twitching, as other demons began massing in his lap, wriggling beneath his robes. His gaze slid down to his companion: the dead man’s body deflating like a balloon as his bones and muscles were liquefied and consumed. The Shurik were hungry.
“You are going to talk,” I said again. “I want to know the name of the Aetar who sent you. I want to know what they have planned.”
His gaze snapped to mine, defiance trickling past the fear. “You cannot stop us.”
“I turned your friends into ash with just one touch.” I leaned forward, holding his gaze. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
I saw him remembering what I’d done, and his physical reaction made me queasy: His lips trembled, as did the delicate skin beneath his eyes—fluttering with his pulse.
“It does not matter,” he said, hoarse. “If we cannot take the Lightbringer or kill your child, we will destroy this world. Even you cannot stop that.”
Behind me, Jack spoke a ringing, melodic word. The man took a sharp, startled breath—flinching so hard he almost toppled sideways. All that defiance vanished, replaced with almost-childlike timidity. The transformation was disturbing.
“Please forgive me,” he whispered, so softly I could barely hear him above the hisses of the Shurik. “I am worthless for not feeling your presence.”
“He is no God,” said the Messenger, almost as quietly. The man didn’t seem to hear her. His head was bowed, shoulders hunched. He might have prostrated himself if I hadn’t been in the way.
“You are worthless,” Jack said, in a dry, professorial voice. “Answer her questions.”
The man shuddered. “The Divine Lord who sent for us had no name. We never were in his presence. We spoke only to his companion, who told us he had made arrangements with our master for our services.”
It was careful wording. “Who was the companion?”
The man finally looked up—at me, then Jack. In his eyes, confusion, uncertainty—like this was some terrible trick, and he was being forced to play the fool.
“It was him,” he said, looking at my grandfather. “It was the Wolf.”
DON’T believe everything you see or hear, my mother once told me. And don’t believe everything you feel, either. Our hearts are the best liars, baby. We know our weaknesses. We know what we want to hear. And those lies are the sweetest of all.
But they’ll kill you, in the end. All those deadly pretty lies.