It was late afternoon, close to sunset. Breeze had kicked up, swirling dirt from the drive around our legs. Hot sun, clear sky, birds swooping from barn eaves. The boys continued to cocoon my face, heavy and still, not even stirring in their dreams; a stiffness that continued to run deep, into my arms and legs. It was difficult to move, but I insisted on helping the Mahati warrior relocate the limp remains of the men to the barn. I couldn’t leave the dead, even if there wasn’t much left but skin and bone, to rot on my living-room floor.
Most of the Shurik stayed behind at the house, but a handful hitched a ride inside what was left of the bodies. In twenty-four hours, not even their bones would remain. Just a wet spot. It crossed my mind not to let the demons eat the dead men, but I remembered what Blood Mama had said, a day and a lifetime ago: This was a war, and there was an enemy. The demons needed a taste, just like hounds required a scent.
Never waste meat.
Grant waited for me on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair, with his cane leaning against the rail. Pale, underweight, but alive. His gaze lingered on the cut in my cheek, and he wordlessly held up a plate filled with sandwiches: ham, a little bit of lettuce, and cheese. Shurik surrounded him, nesting in the blanket thrown over his lap. Little guards.
“I’m still dealing with the whole machete-in-the-head incident,” I said, climbing the stairs with deliberate, stiff steps. “Also, my hands feel like dead people. I’m not really hungry.”
“So wash your hands.” Grant leaned back, relaxing in his chair—his air of calm a little forced. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I would have argued, except it was too nice clinging to the illusion of normality. Which totally went to hell when I entered the house and found a dozen industrious little demons rolling like dogs in shit through the blood on my living-room floor. An odd scent filled the air: vanilla, mixed with the metallic musk of death. Shurik body odor, maybe. A couple of them stopped to look at me and bared their teeth. I stared back and decided it wasn’t worth saying anything. My poor mother’s house.
Mary was on the couch, sleeping, with the crystal skull tucked in her arms, right next to her machete. A blanket covered the damn thing, but its shape still burned through me. Her bristling wild hair made her head look huge against her sinewy, skinny, body, and she stirred, opening her eyes to slits as I walked past.
I washed my hands, then filled two glasses of water and went back to the couch. I knelt, with difficulty, and helped her drink.
A faint, crooked smile touched her mouth, but she was gulping water at the same time, and it dribbled down her chin. With one free hand, she grabbed my wrist. Her grip was weak, trembling. Even through the boys, I felt the heat of her fever. She pulled back the blanket and revealed the crystal skull. The armor covering my right hand tingled, tugged, as did the boys.
“It burns,” she whispered. “It waits.”
I backed away, forcing her to let go of me. The old woman’s gaze turned knowing, and she settled deeper into the blankets.
“Hunt,” she murmured at me, her eyes black and glittering.
Outside, the Messenger stood in the driveway, staring off into the distance, head tilted as if listening to some silent music. My grandfather sat on the porch stairs, slowly chewing a sandwich and watching her. I stared at the back of his head, but he said nothing to me, and I couldn’t muster any words of my own.
Grant, giving Jack a wary look, patted the chair beside him. “Here. While we have a moment—”
“—don’t waste it,” I finished, leaning down to kiss his mouth. I lingered, deepening the kiss, my lips warm and hungry on his. Precious, beautiful. My man, still alive. My man, here, breathing. Both of us, together. Proof of miracles, right there.
He broke off the kiss with a violent coughing fit. The little Shurik poked its head from the collar of his shirt, staring up at him. I started to speak, but he held up his hand.
“Don’t,” he said. “At least we’re still together.”
“Damn straight,” I whispered. “You better stay with us. Or else.”
“Threatening a sick man. I get no love.”
I kissed him. “All you get is love.”
He pulled back, studying me. “Your cheek. The boys.”
“They’re sick. I’m not invulnerable anymore.” I felt my grandfather turn slightly, to look at me. I still ignored him. “But I think they’re flushing the disease from my system.”
“Thank God.”
“Not yet. Not until you’re well. Not until they’re okay, too.” And everyone else, I didn’t add. Which might be too much to hope for.