A Wild Light

by Marjorie Liu

  She stopped, looking like she was going to be sick. “Your bloodline is tainted with the lives of many Aetar. Your family led armies against the gods.”

  She swung around, staring at me. “So, who is the real enemy? Who should I fight?”

  I smiled. “Fight me, I’ll kill you—and you’ll save no one. Fight the demons, those demons in the veil, and you’ll save billions, maybe more. And you might die. Since you’re so eager for it.”

  I turned my back on her and walked to Grant and Jack, both of whom stared at me. I made a face at them. Dek and Mal began humming Elton John’s “The Bitch is Back.” I reached up and thwacked them gently on the heads.

  Air moved against my scalp, gentle and soft. I glanced over my shoulder.

  The Messenger was gone.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding, but the tension only tightened in my shoulders. Grant leaned hard on his cane.

  “I could have lived without that,” Jack said, very softly.

  “Do we need to go after her?”

  “Not yet. She feels lost, and just slightly homicidal. But only toward the both of us.” Grant raised his brow at me. “What was that, anyway? Tough-love therapy from hell?”

  “Did you want to stand around all night trying to make her feel better?” I poked his chest. “Mr. ‘I-opened-hereyes’ to a brave new world?”

  Grant scowled. Jack rubbed his face. “It was my fault. She wanted to know why I was here, why I tolerated the both of you. When I tried to tell her the truth, that I was not a god, she . . .”

  “Reacted badly,” Grant finished. “You know, Jack, I’m all for truth. But for a man of your extremely advanced years, you show incredibly poor judgment sometimes.

  “Or maybe,” he added thoughtfully, studying Jack with an intensity that meant he was looking deep, very deep, “it’s personal with you and her.”

  Unease flickered in Jack’s eyes. Zee scratched his claws over his arms, then the floor, making new gouge marks beside the old ones that covered the wooden boards.

  “Guilt rots, Meddling Man,” he rasped. “How many hearts did you squeeze?”

  Jack gave Zee a sharp look. “How many did you?”

  Zee bared his teeth in a terrible smile. “Call us World Reapers, but you did same, with chains.”

  “I saved as many as I could,” Jack whispered, and rubbed his brow. But his hands lingered, and he stood like that, shoulders hunched, not breathing, hiding his face.

  “We run, and we run,” he murmured, “but never far enough.”

  Zee closed his eyes. “The Labyrinth remembers.”

  Jack shuddered. I moved closer to Grant, and he moved closer to me, and our arms brushed, and though our hands did not touch, I felt like he was holding me up as much as I was holding him. It was good to have someone at my side. It was good.

  “I remember her,” Jack said, still hiding his face. “Our army had come to fight the Lightbringers, for no reason more than that they could kill us. They could kill us and keep us from the human population we so desperately wanted.

  “So we threw made-men at them, waves and waves of men who had no hearts, no brains, nothing for the Lightbringers to grasp with their powers—and we did this for months, for years, until those poor guardians had drained the lives of their bondmates, then their own people, until there was no one left . . . and so they used their own lives to stand against us, and died for their efforts. I remember how black the skies were, how thick the mud, and how their voices raged in symphonies that burned the air. It was beautiful and awful, and we killed them. And then we stole their children.”

  Jack swayed. “Some I saved. There were nurses, soldiers. I gave them babies and sent them into the Labyrinth. I covered their trails. But I was watched. All of us watched each other. In one of the last battles, a baby girl was captured. The Messenger is her descendent.”

  I watched him, listening to everything he wasn’t saying. “You were the one who had to turn that baby over.”

  He finally removed his hands from his face and looked at Grant, not me. His eyes were red- rimmed, his skin mottled.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Grant stood very still, but there was a coiled quality to his posture even though he leaned hard on his cane. Gaze dark, cold, assessing. This couldn’t be a surprise—we’d heard the watered-down version before—but it was one subject I always stayed away from. Partially for my own sake.

  But Grant didn’t say a word. Not to Jack. He released his breath and gave me a long, hard look.

  “We need to close the hole in the veil.”

  Jack’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “Lad—”

  “You didn’t say it was impossible,” Grant interrupted sharply; then he took a breath, and, with strained calm, added: “We don’t have a choice. Unless you want Maxine to turn into some . . . Reaper Queen.”

  “Sounds like a band,” I said, trying not to let on how much it rattled me that he used that name. “I could start one with the boys. Like Jem and the Holograms, only better.”

  Raw and Aaz strummed some air guitar. Grant shook his head, rubbing his jaw. “Jack. It was done before, it can be done again. You manipulated energy, didn’t you? That must be what the veil is made of, or else the Messenger wouldn’t have been able to tear it open.” Grant leaned close: focused, intense. “You can teach me. You can teach her. The Messenger. “

  “Even if I could,” said my grandfather hoarsely, “even if you understood the complexities . . . the power you would need is tremendous. Beyond anyone’s reckoning.”

  Grant flexed his jaw, expression severe. And then, very deliberately, he looked at me. I knew what he was thinking and shook my head.

  “Too dangerous,” I said. “No, you can’t.”

  “What are the alternatives?” He grabbed my arm, not hard enough to hurt—but I felt his desperation, and anger. “You want to lead any army? You think you can fight one? If that’s what you want, Maxine, I’ll be there. But I’d rather find another way.”

  Another way to light, murmured the voice inside my mind. Paths we have never traveled.

  I wanted to punch myself, as if that would stop the voice in my head. But instead I opened my eyes and found Grant watching me, so grim.

  “We’ll have to make a stand,” he said, quietly. “Now or later. Pick your poison.”

  “No,” Jack said.

  I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the weight inside, the coil. “You’ll have what you need, Grant. Even if you don’t, you’re right. We have to try.”

  Jack clenched his fingers together, twisting them. “This has risks.”

  Grant placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take my chances with Maxine.”

  My grandfather pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But I’ll need something before we can start.”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “One of my bones,” Jack replied.

  FROM the void, into a room filled with golden lamplight, the smell of coffee and chocolate chip cookies; the shine of the hardwood floor, and the thousands of books that lined the loft walls. The piano. The motorcycle. The Turkish rugs, scattered, along with teddy bears and knives, and empty bags of M&Ms.

  The world had not fallen down. I was still standing.

  So was home. So were the people I loved.

  I took my pleasures where I could get them.

  Jack’s corpse was gone. Rex was down on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. Mary perched on the kitchen counter, still wearing my clothing—holding those butcher knives in her hands. I smelled bleach.

  I was surprised to see the zombie. That, and the wildness of his aura took me off guard—frayed at the edges, fluttering as though a thousand little hearts were straining to break free. It was like seeing a demon suffer palpitations—or an imminent nervous breakdown.

  Rex straightened quickly when we appeared in the room. He watched me, not the others.

  I spread my hands. “Boo.”

  He did not re
lax. “Fuck you.”

  “Get in line,” I said. “You know about the veil, don’t you?”

  Rex’s aura flared wildly, then shriveled down to hug his human skin. “We all felt it. We felt them.”

  “And yet you’re cleaning blood off a floor instead of running.”

  Rex settled back on his heels and looked from me to Grant, who was standing quietly, watching us both. Mary joined him, her gaze fierce as she twisted her hands in an idle, graceful motion that made the knife blades reflect a lethal light.

  Not a Lightbringer, but a soldier for them. Loyal to Grant’s mother. The Erl- King had called the old woman an assassin. I remembered all of that when I looked at her.

  “Safer around you both,” Rex said gruffly, drawing my attention back to him. “And that skinner corpse was stinking up the place.”

  “He just doesn’t want to admit that he likes us,” Grant said. “Where’s the body?”

  “I’m a demon. I know people.”

  Grant stared at him. Rex said, “Fine. I stashed him in the tub.”

  Grant continued to stare. “We use that tub, you know.”

  “Good thing you’re practically family.” Rex glanced back at Jack. “I hope you appreciate this.”

  “I don’t,” said my grandfather, who walked through his dried blood toward the bedroom.

  I followed him, watching the boys scatter, tumbling under the bed and through the shadows to drag out toys and food. Dek and Mal cheered when they saw the life-sized cardboard cutout of Bon Jovi.

  But Zee sat on the bed, claws clasped, legs swinging as he stared at the bathroom. Solemn, thoughtful. A little uncertain.

  Jack was already in the bathroom. The air smelled bad—like death. I glimpsed a wrinkled waxen hand hanging over the rim of the tub, and that was it. I stayed just beyond the door, standing at an angle that let me see the mirror—and Jack’s reflection as he stared down at his former body.

  “Life is too short,” he said. “I liked that skin.”

  “I liked it, too,” I told him, unable to speak above a strained whisper. I cleared my throat, and did a little better when I added, “You could have . . . made it immortal. Like you did Byron.”

  Jack sighed, leaning against the sink. “Byron was a mistake. And making skins immortal is a mistake. It’s a peculiar prison, my dear. The Erl-King . . . he wore human bodies like new sets of clothing, and the ones he wanted to keep he placed on ice so they wouldn’t rot without a life to keep them going. But even he didn’t make them immortal. No one wants the same thing forever. Even my kind . . . change.”

  Jack gestured toward the tub. “If I wanted to move on with my life, what would I do with this skin if it never died? I took it from the womb. I am . . . him. Without me, there would be no mind, no will. He would exist in a comatose state. A long sleep, forever.”

  “Sleeping Beauty,” I said.

  My grandfather bent down and disappeared from the mirror’s reflection.

  I said, “You’ve never explained Byron. How he came to be.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the boy was going to die. I saved his life.”

  Behind me, Raw snorted. I glanced at him and found the little demon watching Jack with narrowed eyes.

  “I found him living in a cardboard box, Old Wolf. He’s scared of men. I think he turned tricks to stay alive. Sounds to me like his immortal existence—which he doesn’t recall—has been pretty miserable. If I were in his shoes, I think I might have preferred death.”

  “You weren’t there. And hindsight is cruel. I did my best.”

  “And have you always slipped into Byron’s skin after dying somewhere else?”

  Jack did not say a word. Raw scratched himself, watching the bathroom. Zee still hadn’t moved.

  I edged closer and saw my grandfather’s reflection in the mirror. He stood still, staring at his hands—an expression of incredible sadness on his face.

  I wondered how many regrets he lived with. How many were too many, before the burden became too much to bear.

  “Your kind fear going insane,” I said softly. “You fear it so much. What does it feel like, being nothing but energy? Do you think you’ll just . . . fly apart . . . if you’re not inside a body?”

  Jack said nothing. I leaned against the wall, pressing my forehead against the cool smooth surface. “You made yourself a way station, someone to go to between death and rebirth. That’s what Byron is. What he’s been, all these thousands of years. Temporary living.”

  Deep silence radiated from the bathroom. Until, in a very soft voice, Jack said, “That was never my intention. But there are some things that cannot be altered once done, no matter how much we wish otherwise.”

  Zee hopped off the bed and ventured closer to the bathroom, staring—I presumed—at the corpse in the tub.

  “I remember,” Zee rasped, rubbing his head. “I remember killing.”

  I bowed my head, grieved. I couldn’t see Jack anymore, but I heard his voice.

  “It was to be expected,” he said, gently. “You were protecting her from me.”

  “Old Mother told us to,” said the little demon, leaning hard against my legs. I stroked his head. “Protect the good heart.”

  “For it is the heart that leads,” Jack murmured.

  I heard the sounds of clothing being ripped. I started toward the bathroom door, and stopped. I really didn’t want to know what was going on in there.

  Grant peered into the bedroom. “Visiting hours?”

  I heard a thump, followed by a low curse. Grant raised his brow, and limped close. “Do I want to know?”

  “I’m not that brave. Are you?”

  “That’s what I have you for.”

  “I’m terrified,” I replied, and heard a wet sucking sound inside the bathroom.

  Grant winced. “That can’t be good.”

  I walked to the door, Zee loping ahead of me. For a moment all I saw was the slender back of a teenage boy—sitting on the edge of the tub—and then I looked a little harder and saw that boy digging his fingers into the forearm of a corpse, trying to pull bone free from flesh. A sheet, thankfully, had been tossed over the rest of the body.

  Which smelled. Really, really smelled.

  I must have made a sound. Jack looked up—froze—and said, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’re mangling a dead man.”

  “Technically, I am the dead man, so I’m merely mangling myself.” Jack grimaced. “I could use some help, though.”

  “In more ways than one.” I walked into the bathroom. “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Is that—”

  “Yes. It’s what I need.”

  I gritted my teeth, studying the bone tattoo that had been, literally, embedded in the old man’s arm. I had seen it once before. It was the symbol of Father Lawrence’s cult, it was the symbol that Jack used to signify my bloodline, it was a symbol of some future apocalypse—and it looked exactly like the scar beneath my ear.

  “Why?” I managed, afraid I would vomit.

  “Because I forget things,” he said enigmatically.

  Grant entered the bathroom. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. I turned around, pushed past him and Zee, and walked into the bedroom. I didn’t stop there. I entered the living room, ignored Rex and Mary, and headed for the stairs that led to the rooftop garden.

  It had stopped raining, but only just. I sloshed through puddles, past the giant planters filled with roses, and stood at the edge of the roof. Downtown Seattle glittered within the low-lying clouds, a concrete citadel of gray hearts. I could see the pallor, I could feel the gathering shadow, and it was everywhere, like the rain, or the ghosts in my breath every time I exhaled.

  The winds were strong. My head felt cold. I’d forgotten, again, that I was bald. But almost as soon as I had the thought, Dek and Mal slithered over my scalp, gripping my ea
rs and eyebrows—blocking the chill air. My little demon helmet.

  Zee leapt onto the waist-high wall that lined the roof’s edge. His eyes glowed, and the spikes of his hair rose and fell, gently, with each breath. I touched his hand, then kissed his brow.

  “Would you know if any Mahati have come through the veil?” I asked him.

  “None have flown,” he answered, after a moment. “But feel them straining. Boil- like, with pus. Ha’an will not hold them long.”

  “You know him. You remember.”

  “Good honor.” Zee thumped his chest. “Good fighter.”

  Dek and Mal chirped, as though in agreement. I patted their heads. “Why would you need to fight? What could possibly have stood against any of you? Maybe the Avatars could make creatures that put up a struggle, but—”

  “Universe, large,” he interrupted. “Labyrinth, larger. Armies not born with swords. Armies got to form. For a bigger need. Badder enemy.”

  I studied his eyes. “So what would scare a Reaper King?”

  Zee stiffened. Dek and Mal shrank against my skull and, seconds later, trembled.

  Inside me, deep, the darkness stirred. Lazy eye opening in my mind. I gripped the edge of the wall, trying to push it down—but the spirit, the creature, whatever it was, rose into my throat to rest upon my tongue.

  “Some pain does not ease,” it said, through me. “Memories do not cease of what was lost.”

  Zee glanced sideways, sharply. “Mistakes made. Too many. Like you.”

  “We gave what was asked.”

  “Took more. Stole.”

  “Saved you.”

  I clawed at my throat, feeling as though my head were made of glass, ready to break.

  Zee grabbed my arm. “Give her, free.”

  “Let her make me.”

  Fuck it. I clenched my right hand into a fist and slammed it against my chest. White- hot light burst from the armor, sending a shock wave down to the bone, and beyond. I went blind, but in my head saw the vastness of night and listened to the rub of scales, and a hiss that was a sigh as great as the wind, and cold as some vast track of space beyond the light of stars.

  We are beyond the stars, whispered the darkness, but it shuddered away into that nook within my soul, leaving me my voice, and control.