A Wild Light

by Marjorie Liu

  Everyone safe. Everyone happy. Forever, and ever.

  The Messenger stood still, her eyes closed. Meditating, conserving her strength.

  “How did they capture him?” I asked her. “He’s nothing but energy.”

  “The demons developed devices during the war,” she said, unmoving. “They had many ways of hurting our Aetar Masters.”

  “Like what?”

  She finally opened her eyes. “I do not know. The Makers do not speak often of the war. Too many were lost.”

  “And no one worries the veil will fall and that it will begin again?”

  “I am not privy to such thoughts,” she replied coldly, and shut her eyes a second time. “I require a mule if I am to fight.”

  “Take a demon,” I told her. “One of the Mahati.”

  She frowned. I slipped the seed ring into my pocket and walked to the bedroom to check on Byron. Zee, Raw, and Aaz came with me, pouring through the shadows. I left the door open and felt the Messenger follow as I sat on the bed beside the boy. He was deeply asleep.

  I couldn’t see human auras or holes in spirits, but I knew what that furrow between his eyes meant, even while unconscious—and I recognized the way he clutched his covers with his fists. I wanted to ruffle his hair but was afraid of waking him.

  His memories are buried in layers, murmured that sinuous voice. His time with you is close to the surface, but if you wait, it will be more difficult.

  I’d rather him forget me than be hurt.

  We will not harm him.

  I wanted to believe that. It was so tempting. I could feel my need on the tip of my tongue, another kind of hunger: to explore the limits of the power inside me. For one good cause. Helping Byron.

  “You wish to act,” said the Messenger.

  “I don’t want him to forget me. I know it’s selfish.”

  She studied the boy. “We are trained to forget attachments. Attachments interfere with our ability to serve our Aetar Masters.”

  Something in her voice, the way she said it, made me search her gaze. “You remember, though. You remember someone.”

  The Messenger’s jaw tightened, and her hand twitched toward the boy’s foot. “I will attempt to retrieve his memories.”

  I hesitated—expecting her to say something else—but all she did was hum, and narrow her eyes as she stared at Byron. The teen stirred in his sleep, clutching his blanket a little tighter. Her voice took on an odd sound—

  —and she stopped, abruptly. I didn’t like the way she looked at him. Like something startling, unexpected, had just flashed her. And not in a good way.

  “I can do nothing more,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  She stood gracefully, towering over the bed. “He is a complicated child.”

  Raw, perched nearby, made a mournful sound. Inside my head, that deep voice said, Just one touch.

  I put my hands in my lap. Below us, down in the art gallery, I heard the faint chime of the doorbell. Not much insulation in these floors. Zee reached out from beneath the bed, grabbed my ankle, and tugged.

  “Needed,” he rasped quietly.

  I stroked his head and leaned over to study Byron’s sleeping face. I had known him for a year and a half, and in that time he had gone from being a kid I was just helping, to someone who made me feel . . . like a mother.

  He should have looked older, but he was the same fifteen-year-old I had first met in a dark, wet alley. Brave, good kid. I wanted to wake him up to see if he would say my name, but that was pathetic and made my heart break a little more.

  I stood and left the room. The Messenger had already slipped away, but she stood at the kitchen table, studying the bone fragment. Ignoring me with such intensity I felt the skin prickle on the back of my neck as I wound through the maze of books to the apartment door.

  A woman’s voice drifted up the stairs. Not Killy. But familiar.

  I found Blood Mama standing with Grant, alone in the art gallery’s shadows, a good ten foot distance between them. Mal had looped himself over Grant’s head, hissing. I looked for anyone else—inside, or on the sidewalk outside the gallery—but the hush and feeling of empty air was complete. She had come alone.

  Same human skin. Same coiffed appearance, with her perfect legs and red hair. But her aura did not thunder, and her human face was hollow with pain and fear. Raw and Aaz clung to my legs. Zee sidled near, watching Blood Mama with fire in his eyes. She could not look at him. She could not look at me.

  For all her arrogance, she had been afraid of the veil’s breaking, of the other demons finding their freedom. Her worst nightmare, maybe, as much as it was mine. For different reasons. I remembered the Mahati eating her children. I remembered what Ha’an had called her, which was the same name the darkness had given her in Killy’s bar.

  Lady Whore.

  I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Except for the fact that she had arranged my mother’s murder.

  “Where’s the entourage?” I asked.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t enjoy this.”

  I was silent a moment, feeling tired and cold. “There’s nothing I enjoy less.”

  Her aura shuddered, collapsing around her shoulders before flaring, once, as though in defiance. “Do what Lord Ha’an asked.”

  “Lead the hunt.” I drew in a deep breath. “No.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I knew this day would come. I made my bargains, I extracted promises from your bloodline. But none of that means a thing without your protection from the Lords of the prison.”

  I walked closer, Zee and the boys gathered close like wolves. “Did you think the veil would break, and somehow I’d be a different woman? Overcome? You thought I would give in that easily?”

  Her eyes glittered. “The power inside you is immense, and thoughtful. And it loves only one thing. Death.”

  You do not know us, said the darkness, rising thick and hard into my throat.

  “Do not presume,” I said, a moment later, those words emerging on their own, without my control. Grant shifted, watching me. Zee touched my knee.

  Blood Mama shuddered, lowering her head. “Lead them. It is the only way to stop them. You will never kill them all, no matter how strong you are. The Mahati are only the beginning. Ha’an is a strong Lord, but still weaker than the others. He thinks too much.”

  He is loyal, said the deep voice, receding from my throat. He does not connive like her. Or the others.

  Stand-up guy. Who still wanted to eat humans.

  I glanced at Grant, but he studied Blood Mama with that inscrutable expression I knew so well: thoughtful, a little cold. But not cruel.

  “If you’re afraid,” he said, “stay outside the veil.”

  Her disdain was sharp. “And what good will that do me? The veil is open, Lightbringer. You cannot convert all the Mahati.”

  “But we can close the hole,” he told her quietly. “We can lock them up again.”

  I drilled holes in his head with my gaze. He ignored me, but there was something in his eyes, something I had to trust. I had no choice.

  “You’re a fool,” said Blood Mama warily. “That is impossible.”

  “You will not make any more children if you do this,” Grant went on. “You will not harm humans. You will not scheme. You will not live on pain.”

  “Otherwise, get the hell out,” I told her. “I’ll be sure to bring your name up to Lord Ha’an. I’ll be seeing him soon.”

  Fear flickered, and she went very still. “Do not.”

  I smiled. “My ancestors may have been stupid enough to promise you your life, but I don’t think anyone ever said they wouldn’t talk about you. That right, Zee?”

  “Right,” he rasped, dragging his claws against the floor.

  My smile widened. “Ha’an is going to love you, when I’m done.”

  Blood Mama swore at me, her aura flaring wildly. “How do I know this is not a trick?”

  “We’re not asking much,” Grant
replied, “for a demon desperate to live.”

  She pointed at him, her finger making a hooking motion. Mal hissed at her. All the boys growling.

  “I promise,” she spat out, ignoring them, looking only at him—and then me. “I promise not to connive, not to make children, not to cause pain. I promise on my blood, on my honor as Queen.”

  “No queens here,” Zee rasped. “None but Maxine,”

  Blood Mama flinched, giving him a hateful look.

  Shadows moved on the sidewalk. Grant opened the door.

  Killy clicked her little bootheels into the studio, followed closely by Father Lawrence. He looked human, brown-skinned and round in the stomach. There was a bulge under his black sweater that screamed gun. I’d seen him shoot before. He had good aim—at close range. I suspected, strongly, that he wasn’t going to be returning to the priesthood.

  Killy didn’t talk to me. Or look at me. She faltered when she saw Blood Mama. And then, again, when she saw the Messenger, who had come down to stand silently in the shadows. Listening, watching.

  But Killy said nothing. She sucked in a deep breath and brushed past, disappearing up the stairs.

  Father Lawrence glanced at us all but settled his gaze on me. “Is it time, Hunter?”

  I could only guess what he meant, but the safe answer seemed to be, “Yes.”

  The priest nodded, with a wistfulness that made my heart hurt—and glanced at Grant. “Take care of her.”

  “You do the same with Killy and Byron,” Grant said.

  Blood Mama was already backing away to the door, disgust on her face—and fear. I held out my hand to Grant, and he took it. The Messenger gripped my shoulder. Zee wrapped his claws around my wrist. All the boys gathered close.

  I closed my eyes. Focused. The armor tingled. So did the scar beneath my ear.

  “Away we go,” I whispered.

  We entered the forest below the crack in the veil, and it was dark and cold, except for the red seam frozen in the sky. I saw no demons, but that meant little. I smelled blood, and the scent made me hungry, deep inside. The darkness rippled into my throat, spreading beneath my skin. Zee, the boys, stared up and up, their eyes glowing.

  “As soon as I have Jack, I’m out of there,” I told Grant, hating how breathless I sounded. “If I’m longer than five minutes, start anyway.”

  “Right,” he said. “Of course I will.”

  “I’m serious. Are you sure you can do this?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “Liar,” I said, watching his mouth tick into a faint smile that did nothing to smooth away the grimness of his gaze and set of his jaw. I glanced at the Messenger. “Remember what I said about the Mahati.”

  She ignored me, staring at the crack in the sky. I refused to look up—if I did, I wasn’t certain I would be able to go through with this. It didn’t matter that I was supposed to have power. It didn’t matter that I had the boys. I felt small and terrified, like a kid in a dark room. Terrified of what I would find, of what would happen to me. Scared to death that I would fail.

  I looked once more at Grant, soaking him in. Feeling that second pulse ride against my heart—our bond white-hot.

  “Be careful,” he whispered.

  “You, too,” I said, and slammed my armored fist against my chest.

  Moments later, I stood within the prison veil.

  OF all the nightmares, and all the things I had never let myself imagine that I would have to do, entering the prison veil was surely at the top of the list. I had no concept of what to expect: fire, maybe, burning air, brimstone, acid.

  Torment.

  Instead, I walked onto a solid stone plain that looked like the first jut of primordial land, pushed from the sea: cracked and steaming, and heavy with the scents of blood and sulfur. Zee, Raw, and Aaz tumbled around me, crouched and staring. Dek clung to my throat, but Mal had stayed with Grant.

  Clouds shrouded the sky, rolling golden and crimson, and in the distance I saw statues: immense carved beasts with wings and talons, and long, sharp faces that resembled the Mahati. Beneath those statues were small groups of moving figures, and smoke, and walls. Homes hacked from the rock itself.

  From there to where I stood, and all around, were the Mahati. More than I had imagined, more than I could have conceived: thousands upon thousands, hundreds of thousands. I stood in the middle of a city—behind me, more structures hacked from stone: low towers, and narrow lanes, archways covered in rippling flags, torn and stained. I heard singing, the clang of metal, voices garbled in melodic conversations. Small naked figures darted through the crowd—children, I realized with shock—silver hair loose and flowing, and their long fingers sharp as knives.

  All the fear I had brought with me faded into a coarse sort of wonderment.

  Life in the prison veil. Life, going on.

  And it was raw, and beautiful.

  No one noticed us at first. Where the boys and I stood, they were too busy dividing up clusters of Blood Mama’s parasites, which were filling the air with high-pitched, bloodcurdling screams. Vast nets filled with shadows had been dumped on the stone ground, and the Mahati who waited for them appeared hollow with hunger. The lines were long.

  They need more, murmured the darkness. So much more.

  Not from me, I told it, though I felt a terrible regret. Not from earth.

  “Jack,” rasped Zee, pointing. I looked, and saw a bright light burning just above the heads of a distant Mahati crowd. The light pulsed in one spot like a beacon, locked in place.

  Lord Ha’an stood beside that light, taller than the Mahati around him. He gazed across the heads of his people, into my eyes. Others followed suit. A cry rose up, a deafening trumpet of voices raised at once—falling, at once, into a profound hush. Those nearest stopped moving, maybe breathing.

  Dek licked the back of my ear. I exhaled, drew in another deep breath, and walked to Ha’an. The first step was the most difficult, but I looked at Jack’s light—straining now, toward me—and kept moving. The boys spread out, low to the ground, graceful and quick: sleek as bullets, the spikes in their spines longer, sharper, as though the very air was changing them.

  Mahati stepped aside for us, kneeling. All of them, thousands of bodies, rippling downward with shoulders and heads bowed. Maybe they knelt for the boys, and not me—but the sight was still terrifying and struck me numb. It was not supposed to be this way. The veil was hell. I had been raised to fear it, fight it. Kill what waited within.

  But my gaze swept over those lowered heads, my own head spinning, and the only eyes that stared back belonged to children—little Mahati—who did not know enough to be frightened, or respectful, or whatever the hell made their parents drop to their knees. They stared with solemn, curious eyes—and as alien as they were, I couldn’t think of them as monsters. Not a single one of the thousands of Mahati surrounding me.

  A threat, yes. A terrible threat. They would destroy and enslave humanity if I couldn’t stop them.

  I didn’t know how to stop them without killing them. And that seemed just as wrong.

  It is wrong. Look how they would worship you, said the darkness, rolling through me with a terrible pleasure: uncoiling high in my throat, stretching every inch of my skin until I felt ripe, ready to crack, split, spill.

  Ha’an towered, waiting in silence. When I drew near, he folded his long, tined fingers over his chest, bowing his head at the boys, and me.

  Green eyes glittered. “I thought you might come.”

  I looked at Jack’s light: translucent, a white fire pitted with turquoise and purple, seemingly locked within the cradle of a stone pillar. I could see a spike, at this distance, driven up through the middle of him—and sensed a low vibration in the air. His light strained and fluttered in my direction—his soul, consciousness, dreams. My grandfather.

  “For the Aetar,” I said. “Yes, I came for him.”

  “Will you save him, too, as you do the humans?” Ha’an turned and swept his fist ou
tward, a sharp, violent gesture. Mahati scrambled to back away, pushing each other, some carrying children. Leaving us alone in a large semicircle—a grant of privacy.

  Raw and Aaz sniffed the sand around the pillar, making a full circle before coming back to me. Zee stayed close. Dek was very quiet. Ha’an watched us all, inscrutable.

  “How will this end?” he asked.

  I looked at him, all around him, at the Mahati—strange and dangerous, with their sharp fingers and missing limbs, and those chains that chimed in the crimson air like silver bells. I looked into their eyes, those shining black eyes that stared at me with fear and hope, and distrust—and a great heartbreak soared within me, which had nothing to do with the darkness, though the darkness curled around it as though nursing a sore.

  “I don’t want to be your enemy,” I told Ha’an. “But I can’t be what you need.”

  Not yet, breathed the darkness inside me.

  Ha’an tilted his head, anger burning the backs of his eyes, and something else, too: deeper, more thoughtful. “You are gambling with our lives. Not just our bellies, but our lives. We, who are locked in the veil, are not one people. We are different breeds, and there were wars once between us, for those differences. When we joined together to survive, when we filled the army with our lives, it was only the strength of the Reaper Kings that kept us from each other’s throats.”

  I glanced down at Zee and the boys, who stared at Ha’an with such regret, such sorrow: memories so strong I could taste them, feel them, on the tip of my mind, like a dream.

  Their memories, our memories, your memories, said the darkness. So desperate, to open our door—to summon us for our power—and we came to the Reapers with a will and a hunger. Helping them gather the clans, forcing them to bond before the war spread, and all those lives were lost to the shadow.

  And the price? I asked, wondering what war, what enemy, could be so terrible to frighten my boys, the boys I knew now. Not the Avatars, surely. What did you want?

  It did not answer. I shivered, and listened to Ha’an say, “The veil is weakening, everywhere, all the walls that divide the Mahati from the Shurik, and the Yor’ana from the Osul. I told you before . . . my people are too weak to stand against them. They will enslave us.”