The Mortal Bone

by Liu, Marjorie M.

  Hold on, I thought. Nothing to hold on to.

  Not even myself. It was so hard to breathe, and I was tired.

  Dek bit my ear and began humming “You’re All I Need to Get By.” I wanted to tell him that Motown wasn’t going to save my life, but I clung to his voice—and when Mal joined in, I thought, Well, maybe it might.

  My eyes closed again, though. Dek scratched my ear, but the pain wasn’t enough to keep me awake. Everything was slowing down, including my heart. It made me afraid, but even fear was no cure. I couldn’t feel my body. I tried instead to focus on what I could feel: sand, sunlight, blood in my mouth, the terrible wash of throbbing pain in my nose and head.

  But I started to drift. I faded.

  I heard a woman say, “Hunter.”

  I knew that voice, but her name was too far away—and then I didn’t want to remember, because I heard Grant, and he sounded angry. “What are you—”

  “We must hurry,” interrupted that woman. “Just as I showed you before, Lightbringer.”

  “It won’t work. She’s immune to me.”

  “No.” Zee’s low rasp, filled with concern. “Not immune now.”

  I tried to open my eyes, but the darkness was too sweet. Warm, gentle hands touched the top of my head. I knew it was Grant. His touch was familiar, soothing.

  Finally, I no longer felt afraid.

  “Listen to my voice,” he whispered, and pressed his mouth to my ear. I heard thunder in his throat, then a rumble that was primal and rich, and full of power.

  He sang, and carried me away, into shadow. Blissful. Silent. Without pain.

  I drifted, lost. I drifted, blind.

  I dreamed of a man.

  He was made of silver, with silver eyes and silver hair, raining silver every time he moved as though he were nothing but stars, falling. I tried to catch with one hand some of those lost lights—and they slipped into my palm and stayed there, shining.

  Five stars. Five lights.

  You are strong without your armor, said the man. You need to be strong.

  I closed my hand, so careful to hold those stars, but somehow they slipped through my fingers. I tried to catch them again, a cry rising from deep inside me, but my throat choked on my own desperation, and the grief that filled me as the stars faded into the darkness was so piercing, so overwhelming, I thought it might kill me.

  But I didn’t die. I woke up. Fast. Hard. Thrown out of my mind into the world again. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was still day when my eyes opened.

  I saw the edge of a white sheet drawn like a canopy above my head—and the sun shone bright against the cotton, reminding me of clotheslines and Texas summers, and the scent of clean laundry. Past its farthest, fluttering edge—an endless wash of blue sky and that piercing promise of light.

  No time to enjoy it. Heat and pain sparked inside my skull like a sledgehammer strike. Even though I lay flat, everything spun and heaved, until I could have been hanging upside down or diagonal, or slumped backward off a cliff with the blood rushing to my brain. I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

  Vertigo, however, was still preferable to pain.

  My head continued throbbing, a shuddering, rolling pulse that traveled from the base of my skull to my eyebrows. A deep ache burned within my spine and across my shoulders. I couldn’t move to make myself more comfortable. I tried, but my arms were too weak. My legs twitched but nothing more.

  I could feel them, though—and I hadn’t been able to earlier. A coarse blanket rubbed my skin, and my knee itched. Blood dripped from my nose. I tasted it on my lip.

  “Maxine,” said Grant. “I’m here.”

  I cracked open my eyes again and saw a blurred shape vaguely like him. I tried to speak but choked on my dry tongue.

  Boys.

  I managed to turn my head, and glimpsed my shoulder, part of my arm. All I saw was skin . . . skin that hadn’t seen the sun in more than six years. So pale, so white. I was made of snow, I was so white. I felt just as cold, in that moment. Cold and feverish, and ill.

  I stared, unable to accept, or believe. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. What had happened was my imagination, and I was hallucinating.

  But when I searched my heart, when I strained to feel the boys, nothing was there but an empty, gaping hole—that terrible lightness.

  I struggled to sit up, desperately afraid. “Zee.”

  Grant held down my shoulders. “No, Maxine. You can’t.”

  “Get . . . off me.” But I collapsed, dizzy and in pain, dimly aware of another set of hands wrapped around my ankles. I couldn’t see who was there, but that grip was large and strong.

  “Hurry,” said a low female voice. “If you are going to do this—”

  “In a minute,” Grant snapped. Then on my brow, he placed a rag that was so cold and wet, it felt like it had been soaked in ice. The sensation was delicious, and I closed my eyes, sighing. Water trickled into my mouth. I had trouble swallowing at first, but didn’t care. It felt so good on my face, soaking my dry mouth and cracked lips.

  “Better?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “I have to start again.” Grant’s voice cracked, midsen-tence, exhaustion in every word. “I’m sorry, Maxine.”

  I didn’t know what he was sorry for until he started singing.

  His voice was no stranger. I had listened to him sing for years, watching how his immense, restrained power changed people and demons, and twisted reality. I had stood beside him, as an observer—an outsider, even—because his voice could not touch me. With Grant, I’d never had anything to lose but my heart.

  I heard only a hum, at first. Low, quiet, simmering. A slow burn of sound, filling my ears, flowing over my sensitive skin in a wash of heat. I thought, Okay, okay, this is what it feels like to be touched by him, and I was ready, I was fine.

  Then his voice changed.

  And I started screaming.

  CHAPTER 7

  NO more dreams of silver men.

  I woke up again, disoriented, raging with thirst, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  I had a fever. I was pretty certain that was it. I’d never been sick in my life—injured, maybe—but not sick. I didn’t know what a fever should feel like, but the prickling, terrible heat rising from my skin seemed like a close approximation.

  I tried opening my eyes, but my lids were stuck together, keeping me blind. That scared me almost as much as the fever and thirst. I whimpered, and was ashamed.

  “Maxine,” Grant whispered, somewhere beside me. A cold wet cloth pressed against my brow, but it wasn’t enough. I shifted a little, and felt plastic around the edges of my body: bags filled with water. Maybe it had all been ice, but not anymore. I felt so hot. Unbearably, as though I were going to catch on fire.

  Something sweet and cold touched my lips. A Popsicle. Strawberry-flavored. I sucked on it, greedy, and Grant’s familiar, strong hand cupped my cheek.

  “Good,” he murmured raggedly. “That’s good.”

  The Popsicle was finished too quickly, but by then I could form words again.

  “My eyes,” I breathed. “Can’t open them.”

  Grant was silent a moment, which scared me. But then he said, “Hold on.”

  Another cool, wet rag pressed against my eyes. Soaking them. Then his fingers touched my lids, and tugged, very gently. I felt a pulling sensation, as though my lashes had been glued shut. All I needed was a little help. My eyes opened.

  I saw the canopy again, but the light had shifted, softening the glare against the white cotton. Grant leaned over me. He looked like hell. Pale, gaunt, sweating. His eyes were hollow. I was afraid for him.

  “You . . . okay?” I asked, fumbling for his hand.

  He swallowed hard and tangled his fingers around mine. “Fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  I couldn’t see much past him. My eyeballs began to hurt, as though the muscles and nerves attached to them were stra
ined. A similar ache filled the rest of my body, especially in my joints, spreading through every inch of me, from my head to the tendons of my feet.

  “Zee,” I whispered. “Anyone?”

  His jaw tightened. “Gone. I don’t know where.”

  It was so difficult to swallow. Tears burned my eyes. The terrible hurt that struck me was almost more than I could bear and made me wonder if my mother had felt what I was suffering, in the split second before her death. Not betrayal, as I’d always thought.

  Just grief. A moment spent thinking, I thought they loved me, I thought we were friends . . . but was it just the prison, just the bond, a compulsion and nothing else?

  Was it? Because where were they? I didn’t give a shit about their protection. All that mattered was that I missed them.

  I missed them like they were my own children, ripped out of my arms—and it was a hollow, piercing loss that kept getting stronger, bigger, and harder inside my chest—until the ache was so keen and sharp, I could barely swallow the damn water that Grant kept dribbling down my throat.

  I tried pushing him away. My arm worked, barely, but not enough to make him budge. Grant peered at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “You need fluids,” he said, hoarse. “I’ve fixed the paralysis, but something else is happening that I can’t touch. I don’t know why. When I tried, you acted as though I was killing you.”

  None of that mattered to me. “Need . . . to find them, Grant.”

  “No.”

  “They were . . . weak.” I stopped, and had to close my eyes. “Have to make sure they’re safe.”

  A strangled, bitter sound escaped him. “More safe than you, baby.”

  I shook my head, tears leaking past my eyes. “Please. I have to . . . make sure.”

  “Your fever has to come down.”

  “Grant.”

  “They can take care of themselves.”

  I struggled to sit up. Grant held me down.

  “No,” he said, with a sting in voice like the tip of a whip.

  I felt it crack through the air—and suddenly, finding the boys didn’t seem so important. In fact, any concern I’d had for them . . . completely disappeared. Which wasn’t . . . right. I could remember my urgency from only seconds before, but it was gone. I didn’t feel it at all.

  My skin prickled, but not just with fever. An oppressive hush seemed to fall around us, like the tension in a horror movie—just before you knew something awful was going to happen.

  “God,” whispered Grant, with such quiet shock and revulsion, I felt frightened.

  That, and he almost never took the Lord’s name in vain. Even now, him saying God sounded more like a prayer, or a cry for help.

  “What?” I croaked, opening my eyes. “What happened?”

  He sat back, trembling, something terrible in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  I suffered a chill, which would have been welcome if it hadn’t been full of dread. “Grant.”

  “I made you feel something against your will,” he whispered.

  I stared at him, listening to his words, feeling them—and that same deep hush flowed through me, settling heavy around my heart.

  My heart, flickering warm and golden with our bond. It had not faded. Not even a little.

  I thought for a moment but felt no anger. Just incredible sadness. “I’m not . . . worried about the boys anymore. Is that what you did?”

  Grant closed his eyes and shuddered. “I’ll fix it.”

  “No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. I tried to soften my voice, but it came out as a hoarse croak, which was almost worse. “No, I’m fine.”

  But that was a lie, and he knew it. I tried reaching for him. He began to pull away, then stopped—gaunt, hollow with exhaustion. He stared at my hand with haunted eyes, and I wiggled my fingers at him.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Come back.”

  He swayed, as though dizzy. But after a breathless moment, his strong hand wrapped around mine, and I pulled him toward me. Or rather, I twitched him in my direction. I was barely strong enough to lift my arm.

  I didn’t try reassuring him. It wouldn’t do any good. I knew Grant too well. But I refused to let go of his hand, even when he tried to free himself. He could have forced my fingers loose, but all he did was sigh and bow his head and press his cool lips against my wrist.

  “You need to rest,” I rasped. “Rest with me.”

  Tears glittered in his eyes. “I need to get you better, sweetheart.”

  My skin was hot enough to cook an egg on, and my head felt strange. My thoughts, verging on muddled. “I’m better.”

  He gave me a crooked, heartbreaking smile. “If you say so.”

  I nodded and closed my eyes. I had questions for him, but the thought of talking filled me with terrible, soul-deep weariness. It could wait. Maybe the boys were gone, but Grant was here, and I was alive.

  I was going to stay alive, no matter what. No fever was going to kill me.

  Over my dead body, I thought, and cracked a smile.

  “What’s funny?” Grant asked gruffly, and I heard a rattling sound off on my right. Another Popsicle touched my lips. Orange flavor, this time. I sucked on it, and sighed.

  “Stupid joke,” I told him.

  He grunted and squeezed my hand. “Sleep, Maxine. I won’t leave you.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured, savoring the cool sweetness of the juice sliding down my aching throat. “I love you.”

  “Love you,” he said, softly. “Love you, forever.”

  TIME didn’t mean much except for the shifting of light. I slept fitfully, waking only when Grant stacked new bags of ice against my body or tried to make me drink. Sometimes I woke to find him holding ice cubes or Popsicles against my lips, letting them melt into my mouth. I worried for him. Once, I imagined blood dotting his nostrils, but my vision was still blurry—and I didn’t have the strength to ask.

  No strength. Just delirium. Nightmares.

  I dreamed about the boys.

  I dreamed they twisted through my veins, dark as night, and poured from me in a river of shadows—ghosts and shadows—lapping at moonlight, drinking down the stars in a fever of thirst, a fever of need that ached and swelled, and burned their hearts. Five hearts, five lights shining through the veil of their quiet flesh.

  I dreamed of sunlight, then. I dreamed them eating light, and growing—large as lions, large as bears, larger than the bones of creatures millions of years dead—and when they walked, mountains broke—and when they wept, my heart broke—and when they screamed—

  —my dream broke.

  I floated near consciousness, hot and spinning, and listened to a woman say, “You will kill yourself, Lightbringer. You must take what you need from your bond.”

  “No,” Grant said, in a harsh voice. “She’s not strong enough.”

  “Then find another. Bond with me, if you like. I am strong.”

  “Get the hell away.”

  He sounded so angry—but tired, too. Nearly broken. I tried to open my eyes, or speak, but I was still too close to the edge of sleep. So I listened. I listened to the silence that followed his voice, and floated in the darkness of my mind, burning with fever and the lingering memory of the boys, screaming in my dream.

  “You must choose soon,” said the woman finally; but she sounded distant, as though she had, indeed, gotten the hell away. “You used so much of yourself, trying to heal her. You took nothing in return. If you would feel more comfortable bonding with your old assassin—”

  “No,” Grant said, and there was finality in that word, and in the power of his voice, that made the air shiver.

  “No,” he said again, softer. “My wife, or no one.”

  “Then you will die,” said the woman, “and perhaps we will all be safer for it.”

  Hell, no, I wanted to say, but my voice was buried too deep inside my throat, and my throat was sinking, along with the rest of me, even deeper into that lush, d
reaming night inside my mind.

  I fell asleep again. If I dreamed, I did not remember.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE next time I opened my eyes, I was in a bed.

  With demons, and my husband.

  I lay on my back, sunk into a soft pallet beneath the open sky. It was night. I could see stars. I had no idea where I was, but a blanket had been pulled up to my chin and smelled like vanilla and coffee. Dek and Mal snored against my neck.

  I wiggled my toes. My fingers twitched. My skin no longer burned. Except for my aching muscles, I felt fine. Weak, but fine.

  I exhaled slowly, contemplating that miracle. That wonderful, crazy miracle.

  I glanced left, and found the source of that miracle. Grant slept beside me on his side, one hand clutching my blanket, near my shoulder. Even unconscious, he looked exhausted.

  Sucking on his claws, Raw slumped across my husband’s legs. Aaz rested on my right, spines drooping. Candy wrappers surrounded him, along with a half-chewed baseball bat, Playboy magazine, and a cloth tote bag filled with thick knitted socks, some of which covered his feet and the spikes on his head.

  My boys. My boys had not abandoned me.

  It was stupid, how much that meant. I wanted to sob like a kid and curl on my side while hugging Aaz and his stupid porn magazines. I wanted to wrap all those dangerous, crazy demons in my arms and squeeze them until we all hurt a little less, or a little more, or whatever. Whatever. My boys were here.

  But that was followed by an equally powerful wave of horror, and loneliness. I felt so alone.

  “Maxine,” Zee breathed. I turned my head, and found him sitting beside the pallet, hugging a teddy bear. One of its arms had been torn off, and some stuffing clung to the side of his sharp mouth.

  I tried to smile for him, but all it did was make me want to cry. “Hey.”

  Zee took a deep breath and tucked the teddy bear under the blanket, beside me. Then he crawled in with it, clinging to my side. I lifted my arm as much as I could and hugged him close.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him. “Do you hurt?”

  He shrugged, small, hesitant. “Pain. Then weakness. Tired now, but better.”

  “You went away from me.” I sounded hurt, and couldn’t help it.