Labyrinth of Stars(76)

My grandfather had remarked, more than once, that Grant had the most raw, wild talent of any Lightbringer he’d ever encountered—and given all of them he’d killed, I guessed he might know.

The man beside me had no chance. It wasn’t his fault. Any chance had been bred out of him.

“The Devourer,” I said, forcing myself to focus, to look away from Grant at the Messenger and Jack. “Have you both known all along where he is?”

Of course they had. I could see it on their faces. But before I could press them, a loud crack filled the air, with such violence I felt the wave of that sound push against my back.

I twisted, ready to fight—but there was no enemy. The floorboards had split, was all. The floor, right below the crystal skull. The old dark boards had broken apart only a few inches, but it looked like someone had powered a fist through that spot. The skull was still there, sunken slightly—and once again, the blanket had slid off. Carved eyes, watching us.

“No,” whispered Jack. “Maxine, what have you done?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw the man reach beneath his robes. His hand was a shining blur; the gleam of a bright edge flying toward my face as he threw himself at me.

Shurik burrowed into him, but he had momentum. Even when Grant’s voice rang out, it wasn’t enough—the man’s body was committed to the blow. I flung myself sideways, feeling the boys charge up my face. That sensation, their urgency, gave me new strength—I turned my head at the last second so that the knife skittered across my cheek instead of plunging into my forehead.

But I felt the blade. I felt the heat.

I was yanked away, so hard I flew across the floor. The Messenger crouched beside me, her hands still knotted in my clothing—staring with fury past my head. I turned, found Mary standing over the man. A machete jutted from his shoulder, buried so deep the entire right side of his body had nearly been severed. Shurik swarmed around the spurting blood, burrowing into his belly.

But the man was still alive, wheezing for breath; an agonized sound accompanied by blood, foaming and trickling down the sides of his mouth. His gaze, terrible and agonized, held mine.

I stared, waiting for him to move again, for his chest to rise and fall, but he went absolutely still. So did I.

“Maxine.” Grant half fell to the floor, crawling to me. I looked at him, numb. He said my name again, but I barely heard him.

Grant pulled me into his lap, touching my cheek. I finally felt pain. I nudged his hand away to touch my face. I knew the boys were still there—I could feel their bodies heavy on my skin—but if I was hurt, they were hurt.

I felt something hot, wet. I looked at my fingers.

They were covered in blood.





CHAPTER 23




TRUST is a delicate beast.

Call it a shape-shifter for all the different forms it takes, all its identities and flaws and beauties, and its imperviousness to truth and lies. Trust someone, and that trust becomes a foundation. You can build a life based on trust. Might destroy lives, too. Your own, included.

But trust is the deal. Got trust, and you got something. So when people do give it to you, for real, don’t fuck it up.

Because you can’t put it back together.



SIMPLE truth: I could have died.

If that blade had plunged into my forehead, as it was meant to, the tip would have punched through the boys into my brain. Even that easy swipe across my cheek was a gusher—about an inch long, and deep. I’d never needed stitches, but this seemed like a good candidate for some. The boys soaked my blood into their bodies before it had a chance to roll down my face, but I could see that red burst welling up through the cut, I could feel it—and the entire left side of my face throbbed. The boys had to be in pain, too, but I couldn’t tell who had gotten cut—too many scales and muscles, no glint of a red eye. It brought back bad memories.

I’d lost the boys, once. Lost them from my body, lost our bonds, almost lost our family. Cut from me, given their freedom. I’d been left vulnerable, night and day, forced to rely on myself—forced to learn that I could survive without them if I had to. A lesson for Zee and the boys, too. A lesson in how much they had changed in ten thousand years. A lesson in priorities and shifting hearts, and what mattered when power was no longer enough.

They’d been given a choice: their freedom or the prison of my bloodline.

My boys chose blood. Blood and family.

I couldn’t lose them now. Five pieces of my heart, five fragments of my soul. Five little souls, born again in each of us women, for ten thousand years. Good, bad, weak, strong—but we’d carried them, and they’d carried us, and fuck me if it ended here, now. My daughter needed to know this, the pain and wonder. She needed to have her family with her. I sure as hell wouldn’t last forever. And neither would Grant, no matter how much I wished otherwise.