Labyrinth of Stars

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Behind me, the Messenger made a disgusted sound. But I also heard a quiet sigh, and it wasn’t from Jack or Mary. I turned, slightly, and looked at my husband.

  His eyes were open.

  If a bomb had dropped, I wouldn’t have been able to move. All the Shurik stilled, even those burrowing into the dead man. The demon in my hand went limp, exhaling a little hiss.

  Grant’s cheeks were hollow, his skin gray and flaking. But his posture was as relaxed as a crouched lion, and his eyes told no lies. His eyes were as cold as ice, so unlike him, so alien to his face, that for a moment I was afraid I was not looking at my husband at all.

  But then his gaze met mine, and I saw the hint of a smile. And that smile warmed his eyes, and it was my man again. My man.

  Grant’s gaze lingered on me—and then the kneeling man, the Shurik, all that blood and death, a pile of robes on the ground, covering the wriggling mush that was all that remained of a man.

  “Well,” he said, hoarse, “this is interesting.”

  The man took a breath—sharp, purposeful.

  I swung my fist and slammed him in the chest. It took all my strength to move that fast, and he still managed to gasp out a single note—a sharp cut in the air that sliced through every living thing in his presence. But it was a broken sound, distorted from my blow—and Grant snapped out a word so raw with power I swayed, and the Shurik flattened to the floor.

  The man gasped, clawing at his throat, fingers digging into the iron collar he wore—pulling until I thought he might break his own neck to get it off.

  Grant lounged on the couch like he was watching some college football game. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Calm down.”

  He didn’t answer. His voice broke through, another attempt at making power. I didn’t have to punch him down. Grant said another word, and the man shut his mouth, shuddering, staring at him with horror and revulsion. Even the Messenger gave him a sidelong, uneasy look. It wasn’t just words he spoke—it was all power, power that rolled through the room, over my shivering skin—as if the boys were trembling with fever.

  My grandfather had remarked, more than once, that Grant had the most raw, wild talent of any Lightbringer he’d ever encountered—and given all of them he’d killed, I guessed he might know.

  The man beside me had no chance. It wasn’t his fault. Any chance had been bred out of him.

  “The Devourer,” I said, forcing myself to focus, to look away from Grant at the Messenger and Jack. “Have you both known all along where he is?”

  Of course they had. I could see it on their faces. But before I could press them, a loud crack filled the air, with such violence I felt the wave of that sound push against my back.

  I twisted, ready to fight—but there was no enemy. The floorboards had split, was all. The floor, right below the crystal skull. The old dark boards had broken apart only a few inches, but it looked like someone had powered a fist through that spot. The skull was still there, sunken slightly—and once again, the blanket had slid off. Carved eyes, watching us.

  “No,” whispered Jack. “Maxine, what have you done?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the man reach beneath his robes. His hand was a shining blur; the gleam of a bright edge flying toward my face as he threw himself at me.

  Shurik burrowed into him, but he had momentum. Even when Grant’s voice rang out, it wasn’t enough—the man’s body was committed to the blow. I flung myself sideways, feeling the boys charge up my face. That sensation, their urgency, gave me new strength—I turned my head at the last second so that the knife skittered across my cheek instead of plunging into my forehead.

  But I felt the blade. I felt the heat.

  I was yanked away, so hard I flew across the floor. The Messenger crouched beside me, her hands still knotted in my clothing—staring with fury past my head. I turned, found Mary standing over the man. A machete jutted from his shoulder, buried so deep the entire right side of his body had nearly been severed. Shurik swarmed around the spurting blood, burrowing into his belly.

  But the man was still alive, wheezing for breath; an agonized sound accompanied by blood, foaming and trickling down the sides of his mouth. His gaze, terrible and agonized, held mine.

  I stared, waiting for him to move again, for his chest to rise and fall, but he went absolutely still. So did I.

  “Maxine.” Grant half fell to the floor, crawling to me. I looked at him, numb. He said my name again, but I barely heard him.

  Grant pulled me into his lap, touching my cheek. I finally felt pain. I nudged his hand away to touch my face. I knew the boys were still there—I could feel their bodies heavy on my skin—but if I was hurt, they were hurt.

  I felt something hot, wet. I looked at my fingers.

  They were covered in blood.

  CHAPTER 23

  TRUST is a delicate beast.

  Call it a shape-shifter for all the different forms it takes, all its identities and flaws and beauties, and its imperviousness to truth and lies. Trust someone, and that trust becomes a foundation. You can build a life based on trust. Might destroy lives, too. Your own, included.

  But trust is the deal. Got trust, and you got something. So when people do give it to you, for real, don’t fuck it up.

  Because you can’t put it back together.

  SIMPLE truth: I could have died.

  If that blade had plunged into my forehead, as it was meant to, the tip would have punched through the boys into my brain. Even that easy swipe across my cheek was a gusher—about an inch long, and deep. I’d never needed stitches, but this seemed like a good candidate for some. The boys soaked my blood into their bodies before it had a chance to roll down my face, but I could see that red burst welling up through the cut, I could feel it—and the entire left side of my face throbbed. The boys had to be in pain, too, but I couldn’t tell who had gotten cut—too many scales and muscles, no glint of a red eye. It brought back bad memories.

  I’d lost the boys, once. Lost them from my body, lost our bonds, almost lost our family. Cut from me, given their freedom. I’d been left vulnerable, night and day, forced to rely on myself—forced to learn that I could survive without them if I had to. A lesson for Zee and the boys, too. A lesson in how much they had changed in ten thousand years. A lesson in priorities and shifting hearts, and what mattered when power was no longer enough.

  They’d been given a choice: their freedom or the prison of my bloodline.

  My boys chose blood. Blood and family.

  I couldn’t lose them now. Five pieces of my heart, five fragments of my soul. Five little souls, born again in each of us women, for ten thousand years. Good, bad, weak, strong—but we’d carried them, and they’d carried us, and fuck me if it ended here, now. My daughter needed to know this, the pain and wonder. She needed to have her family with her. I sure as hell wouldn’t last forever. And neither would Grant, no matter how much I wished otherwise.

  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, under
weight, 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.

  He squeezed my hand, then raised his other to touch the Shurik clinging to his neck, the same little demon who had refused to leave his side this entire time. It writhed happily under his touch.

  “You saved me,” he said in a quiet voice, holding my gaze. “I felt you pull me out of the darkness. But then I was stuck inside my head. I couldn’t reach you. My eyes wouldn’t open.”

  You terrified me, I wanted to tell him. You cut me off. My heart feels empty without you in it. I’m scared and lonely and I don’t know what to do, or even how to save you.

  “The Messenger did the real work.” I pointed to the Shurik on his chest. “And we had help.”

  He grunted. “Answers yet?”

  “More questions.” I looked at Jack, and a deep ache boomed through my heart: a twist, like a knife was slowly turning. “Talk to us.”

  My grandfather didn’t stir from the steps. He tossed the rest of his sandwich into the grass and wiped his mouth with two large fingers. Those hands, which were still unfamiliar to me. The body I’d first known him in, the body that had known my grandmother and made my mother, had been slender and tall, with the elegance of a retired dancer. This one, stolen from a dying homeless man, was bulky with fat and muscle, and hairy as a bear. Sometimes, though, I could still forget the differences—his eyes were the same.

  “I’m afraid to talk,” Jack replied, staring at the hill where my mother and grandmother were buried. “When I think about what I need to say to you, I’m reminded of all the ways I’m not human. I can’t pretend that I’m just an old man with a granddaughter.”

  “I’m past caring.” Through the porch rails, I watched the Messenger. She looked alien to me from this distance, as alien as the others of her kind—too tall, too angular, with skin that was flawless and inhumanly pale.

  The Mahati emerged from the barn, his long fingers twitching in agitation. His braids gleamed in the fading light, silver chains chiming softly. He stood beside her with an ease that surprised me—such familiar intimacy, such strange sympathy; the way they looked at each other with grave eyes.

  Grant took my hand. His skin was warm. Just warm. Not burning with fever. I reached for our bond—found only the hole—but I lingered in that empty space, holding myself there, pretending there was something to wrap myself around, the memory of light.

  A memory of light is the same as light, whispered the darkness.

  I suppose you would know, I replied, trying to stay focused on my husband. You eat light.

  And the light eats the darkness. Heat spread behind my mouth, like a smile—exactly what that sensation was. It is the eternal dance, Hunter.

  It was almost sunset: light stretching, glowing, cooling. Usually the boys would have been tugging at me, itching to be free. Not today. So still, quiet, as if they were conserving their strength. Or maybe they just didn’t have any.

  “Jack,” I said. “Who could impersonate you?”

  “No one. It’s impossible.”

  “Then you were the one who orchestrated the attacks on us.”

  He gave me a sharp look. “Never.”

  “Then how?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No way he was lying?”

  “He believed what he was saying.” My grandfather scrubbed at his face. “Something else is happening.”

  I swallowed. “Could Zee and the boys have been deceived?”

  Jack tensed. “In what way?”

  I knew right then. No matter what he said next. It was the way his shoulders hunched, and the instant wariness in his eyes. “When Zee said he knew who had ‘hammered the arrows’ . . . to whom was he referring?”

  He flexed his gnarled, brown hands. “You already know that answer, my dear.”

  I swallowed hard. “And the arrows? What are they?”

  My grandfather finally looked at me, and if not for a split-second slip of pain in his eyes, I would have thought he was empty on the inside, absolutely hollow.

  “You know that, too,” he said.

  I stared at him, stared and stared, and my heart died even more; just cracked and crumbled, and fell to ash. Finally, the boys stirred. But it was nothing more than their pain echoing mine.

  “You made the disease,” I said, barely able to speak above a whisper. “You designed the thing that’s killing us.”

  “That is the one thing I cannot deny,” Jack said.
>
  I squeezed Grant’s hand so hard, he stirred in his chair. “The illness is efficient,” I recited, recalling with perfect clarity the affable voice I’d heard as I’d fought for my husband’s life, deep within the cells of that poison. “But it must be altered. It must not be allowed to affect our flesh. Only the demons.”

  Jack paled, teetering so far sideways he had to lean against the rail. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It was you.” I stood, feeling the boys tug on my skin, harder now, on the edge of sunset. “You, designing ways to kill, with the Devourer right there at your side.”

  “You don’t know anything,” he whispered.

  “You lied to me. Your family.”

  “I had to.”

  “Bullshit! All this time, I’ve been searching for answers, and you stood there and said nothing!”

  “I had to.” Jack’s gaze burned wild. “I don’t care that you know I designed the poison. That was war, my dear. You watch world after world be ravaged and cannibalized, then tell me what you wouldn’t do. You’ve had the privilege of control and peace. You’ve had the blessings of not seeing babies cooked.”

  I leaned back from him, staring. Jack followed me, pressing his knuckles into the porch. I’d never seen him so angry. “You’re a fool, Maxine. You’re going to kill us all.”

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” Grant warned.

  “My apologies, lad, but even you’re not worth the price. Anything would be better than the arrival of him.”

  “You’re sounding like an insane old man,” I said.

  “If you think I’m insane, wait until you meet him. Dearest child, I’m keeping you, and your Grant, and billions of other fools, alive. Normally, I’m all for extinction events, but one must draw the line somewhere. That is why I lied to you. There is more at stake here than our cozy little family. More at stake than, say, Grant.”

  “Jack,” I warned. “It’s not just Grant. Our daughter, too. Your great-granddaughter. What about her life?”

  I had to give it to him—he actually looked ashamed. “I haven’t forgotten her.”