Labyrinth of Stars(91)

“Zee,” I said, noticing him looking at the same spot. For a moment I wasn’t sure he would acknowledge me.

“Safe,” he rasped, finally meeting my gaze. Oturu drifted in that direction, then went perfectly still.

“Yes,” he said, then, “We should continue, Hunter.”

Tracker barely glanced in that direction. “Like I said, life comes through those doors, sometimes by design, mostly by accident. But just in case it’s an Aetar, I also don’t think we should investigate.”

I was sure it wasn’t an Aetar. Not with the way Zee and Oturu had reacted. But I didn’t have time to indulge my curiosity. I already attracted enough trouble without looking for more.

We kept on. Avoiding doors, listening to the sounds of the Labyrinth and its lost life. Lost ourselves, in the twilight. I entered a strange mental state—one part of my brain acutely aware of our surroundings—while the other half drifted. I thought about my mother so often that sometimes I felt as though she were at my side—and I’d look, half-expecting to see her, only to find a tree, or one of the boys giving me a curious look.

More dead Yorana appeared. Bodies, like breadcrumbs. No Shurik corpses, which puzzled me. But again, it began to feel like a routine. The monotony never changed. I felt no hunger, no real thirst. I forced myself to eat what Raw would put into my hands: little bits of trail bar and fruit, stored in his bulging backpack. But I ate because I thought I should, not because I felt any hollowness. I didn’t see Tracker eat, either, even though I’d offer him food. He’d shake his head and glide into the shadows between the trees.

Grant occupied my thoughts, but after a time, I felt the distance grow too vast, and I had to pull away from thinking of him. I missed our bond, and it was easy to feel resentful that it was gone. That link between us, in this place, would have made all the difference.

I thought mostly, though, about being a mother. A mother like my mother. Or a mother that was wholly me, with all my terrible mistakes. Like deliberately bringing my unborn child into a dangerous place, risking her life and mine on a dream, a possibility—on love.

I finally understood why relationships couldn’t last in my family—why no one married, no one stayed tied down—why strangers were better, cold and quick, and anonymous.

Love was too great a risk. Love was the destroyer. Love might kill us faster than any demon.

Or save us.

Zee held up his clawed hand—a sharp, urgent gesture—and muttered: “Listen.”

I didn’t hear anything, but I trusted Zee. I stood there, head tilted, relaxing into the silence. Sometimes it’s easier to see a star when you’re not looking directly at it. Stare just to the left, and the light will shine brighter.

It was the same here. I didn’t focus, just stayed relaxed . . . and after a long minute of hushed waiting, I heard a high, sweet sound. A flute.

A very familiar flute. I knew that tone.

“Grant,” I said, and took off running.





CHAPTER 28




I remember my mother once asking, Is there anything in the world dumber than men?

I hadn’t answered. I was only a kid. But if she had said that today, I would have agreed with her.

Grant, you fool.

That’s what’s strange about loving men. Really loving them. You love them even when their stupidity is so profound it could put out the world.

Which is not to say you don’t have second thoughts.

I mean, seriously.



IT wasn’t my husband. I found Jack instead.

He was nestled in the hollow of a massive root system, playing a golden flute. He sounded just like Grant, except the melody had the weight of age on it, a melancholy spirit. A song, I suspected, that had not been heard by anyone for a very long time.

He had company. But it wasn’t my husband who stood with him.

A unicorn rested at his feet.

It was smaller than a horse but no less shocking: pure white, the white of virgin snow, with a delicate back and trim muscles, and a long neck that supported an impossibly lovely, fine-boned head. A touch could have shattered that skull; it looked so delicate, even the weight of the horn spiraling from the center of its brow, gleaming like mother-of-pearl, seemed too much for it to bear.

Black eyes flicked from Jack to me. They were filled with so much naked intelligence, I immediately forgot the fantasy—and felt cold all over again.

“Sarai,” I said, taking a guess. Only one Aetar I knew of had ever assumed the identity of the creature in front of me—though the last time I’d seen her, she’d been a woman: the owner of an art gallery in Seattle, elegant and assured, who had spent just as many years as Jack on earth, being born again in different bodies. I’d liked her, then. Watched her human body die in my arms before I knew she was immortal. I was still troubled by that death, sometimes.