My grandfather was inside the house, sitting with Mary. I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight—I didn’t trust him not to make a run for it—but I couldn’t juggle him, the boys, and Grant, all together. I couldn’t even take care of myself.
Grant said, “They’re weak. As if their auras are being diluted.”
“Don’t tell me that,” I replied. No matter Zee’s assurances, I was afraid this was the start of something horrifying—such as the boys’ dying—and me, forced to wear their corpses for the rest of my life. Not even the worst-case scenario.
Grant stood from the porch chair. Two steps with his cane, and he had to lean against the rail. Better color in his face, a deeper clarity in his eyes, but there was no confusing him for a healthy man. Not even a little. Even the Shurik seemed tired. They rested in little clumps across the porch, making soft, rhythmic, purring sounds—like snores. The light in the sky was still pale, but shadows were lengthening and before long it would be dark. Another day, our deaths postponed.
He and I shared a long look. I swallowed hard, heart so tight, barely able to form a sentence against the pain. “Time does run out, doesn’t it?”
A bitter smile touched his mouth. “Sometimes I feel like we’ve stayed alive by luck and the tips of our fingers.”
I was seated on the old porch floorboards, leaning against the house beside the front door. I turned a little, which only made the pain worse, and looked in. I glimpsed the Messenger standing in the corner of the living room, her face pale except for a faint red burn on her cheeks. She was watching my grandfather, who was seated beside Mary on the couch—pressing a wet cloth to her head and dribbling water into her mouth. I had been listening to the old woman puke, which was less and less often. Not because she was getting better, either.
“You could do something,” I’d said to Jack, just before he escaped from me into the house. “What’s the point of being able to manipulate genetic material if you can’t make someone stronger against a disease?”
“It doesn’t work like that, not with this disease,” was his reply, which drove me crazy. One seemed inextricably linked to the other. Aetar knew how to craft immortality—I’d seen it, again and again.
I glanced at the blanket-wrapped lump across from me: the crystal skull, which I’d had the Messenger take from Mary as soon as Jack went inside. Grant looked at it as well.
“You saw something, too,” he said. “The skull is different than it used to be. The energies surrounding it are more . . . alive.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him because I couldn’t bear to explain what I’d seen or how that might validate Jack’s behavior. “We have something else to talk about.”
He waited, and the way he looked at me was almost as much of a distraction as my enflamed skin: He was drinking me in, his gaze running so deep it made my heart ache.
I took in the gauntness of his body, the feverish hollowness; remembering how for months he had deteriorated before my eyes. I wanted to be angry for him—at him—but all I felt was tired, and still in love. God, I loved this man.
“The only reason you’re still standing is because of the Messenger,” I told him. “But it didn’t have to be that way. I know you’re keeping the demons out. You’re refusing to let them help you stay strong.”
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “But it’s not easy. So let it go, Maxine. Please.”
“How can I?” I gripped my right wrist, squeezing, fighting to keep my voice steady. I hurt so much I could barely see straight—gripping the armor, feeling its cool softness beneath my left hand, was like a balm. “You’re not doing everything you can to stay alive.”
Anger flicked through his eyes. “Maxine. If I’m going to die, I want to die as me. If the wall comes fully down between me and the demons, I’ll be a different man. It won’t be me and them. It’ll be us. I’m afraid of who I’ll become when that happens. The . . . hungers I might have.” He looked away, jaw tight. “I can feel them chewing the bones of those dead men. I can taste the blood in my mouth. What will it be like if I let them all the way in?”
“If it’s a matter of life or death, wouldn’t you rather take the risk?”
“It can’t be undone.” Grant limped to my side and slid down against the wall to sit with me. He twined his fingers with mine—those big, strong, human hands, and my hands: covered in hurting, struggling tattoos and silver armor. “Will I be safe with you and our daughter? I could be a monster, Maxine.”