Labyrinth of Stars(75)

But not everything could be a lie. I told myself that as I looked at my grandfather, cold on the inside, cold as death, studying his eyes as I’d never studied anyone before.

The expression on his face was dazed—filled with shock, bewilderment. It was difficult for me to imagine it was fake. His eyes were so naked.

“No,” he said, tearing his gaze from the man to look at me. “No, my dear. That is not possible.”

I said nothing. I looked at the Messenger, who was also watching my grandfather. “He believes what he said,” she told me, finally, which was no guarantee at all that any kind of truth had just been told.

“Did you tell this man to attack us?” I asked Jack directly.

“No,” he replied, shaken. “I have never seen him before this moment.”

I looked back at the man, who had bowed his head again. “You’re sure it was the Wolf?”

“Yes,” he whispered, trembling. “The souls of the Divine Lords cannot be confused. Their light is unique, even if their flesh changes.”

“He also speaks the truth,” said the Messenger, unease in her voice.

Someone is playing us, I thought. “After you captured the Lightbringer, what then? Where were you supposed to take him?”

His trembling worsened. “Back into the Labyrinth.”

“Where?” Jack took a step toward him, his expression frightening. “Which gate?”

The man said something in a language I didn’t understand. Jack paled, rocking back on his heels. I stared at him, but instead of seeing my grandfather, that vision of fire flashed through my mind—and with it, a terrible foreboding.

“What is it?” I asked my grandfather, but he wouldn’t look at me. So I turned to the man, and said, “What is that place you would take my husband?”

“A world,” he said, looking at Jack with confused alarm.

“You are young and stupid,” added the Messenger in a tight voice. “That is not just any world. We are not permitted there. No one is. Not even other Aetar.”

I recognized that look in her eye. I’d seen it once before, not so long ago. My feeling of dread worsened. “Let me guess. This has something to do with the Devourer.”

The man’s reaction was almost comical in its violence. I could have stabbed him in the chest with gentler results—and the look he shot me was as if I’d become one part Satan, one part Satan’s clown, with a couple extra horns growing out of my forehead. Like he couldn’t imagine anyone’s being so stupid to even think that name, let alone say it.

Behind me, the Messenger made a disgusted sound. But I also heard a quiet sigh, and it wasn’t from Jack or Mary. I turned, slightly, and looked at my husband.

His eyes were open.

If a bomb had dropped, I wouldn’t have been able to move. All the Shurik stilled, even those burrowing into the dead man. The demon in my hand went limp, exhaling a little hiss.

Grant’s cheeks were hollow, his skin gray and flaking. But his posture was as relaxed as a crouched lion, and his eyes told no lies. His eyes were as cold as ice, so unlike him, so alien to his face, that for a moment I was afraid I was not looking at my husband at all.

But then his gaze met mine, and I saw the hint of a smile. And that smile warmed his eyes, and it was my man again. My man.

Grant’s gaze lingered on me—and then the kneeling man, the Shurik, all that blood and death, a pile of robes on the ground, covering the wriggling mush that was all that remained of a man.

“Well,” he said, hoarse, “this is interesting.”

The man took a breath—sharp, purposeful.

I swung my fist and slammed him in the chest. It took all my strength to move that fast, and he still managed to gasp out a single note—a sharp cut in the air that sliced through every living thing in his presence. But it was a broken sound, distorted from my blow—and Grant snapped out a word so raw with power I swayed, and the Shurik flattened to the floor.

The man gasped, clawing at his throat, fingers digging into the iron collar he wore—pulling until I thought he might break his own neck to get it off.

Grant lounged on the couch like he was watching some college football game. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Calm down.”

He didn’t answer. His voice broke through, another attempt at making power. I didn’t have to punch him down. Grant said another word, and the man shut his mouth, shuddering, staring at him with horror and revulsion. Even the Messenger gave him a sidelong, uneasy look. It wasn’t just words he spoke—it was all power, power that rolled through the room, over my shivering skin—as if the boys were trembling with fever.