The Mortal Bone

by Liu, Marjorie M.

  “You are our Queen,” Zee said to me.

  Dek and Mal coiled around my ankles, and I scooped them up under my left arm. Purrs radiated from their thick chests, and their muscles flexed around me as they slithered to their perches on my shoulders.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am your Queen.”

  Raw and Aaz gave me approving looks and stopped smashing Blood Mama with their feet and fists.

  “Our Lady of the Kiss,” whispered Zee. “Do we forgive?”

  I hadn’t expected to be asked that question. I remembered my mother’s head exploding from a rifle blast. Her blood and brain matter, and fragments of her skull—soaking me, as I stared in stunned horror. The boys, weeping. The boys, digging her grave and singing her funeral song.

  I could still taste her blood, spattered on my lips. I could see her wry smile, just before her death.

  Forgive that?

  Rage touched my heart—and with it that darkness stirred, deeper than any shadow, and vaster than the void of between. I imagined a soft crack beneath my ribs, like the shell of a breaking egg—and that presence oozed free, bearing my soul down, down, into the core, its own heart and coil. An alien entity, separate from me, swelling inside my throat, stretching my mouth into a shuddering, euphoric smile that was not my smile but the darkness growing inside me, tearing my seams.

  Will you forgive, Hunter?

  I gazed down at Blood Mama’s stain upon the sand, and she seemed suddenly small and insignificant: an inkblot, a puddle made for a child’s foot, an afterthought. If I stepped on her, she would break. If I touched her, she would burn. That power simmered on the cusp of my heart, on my fingertips, swelling inside me with a whisper.

  Once I started . . . I would not be able to stop. Once I said yes . . .

  I closed my eyes and shuddered.

  “We forgive,” I said, with great difficulty—and the darkness sighed, and retreated.

  Zee pressed his face close to Blood Mama’s fluttering, obeisant shadow.

  “Forgive, for now,” he added, rasping those words on a hiss. “Go.”

  The stain retreated, like water flowing backward, bumping and heaving over the sand and gathering into that churning funnel of smoke. Whispers rose, and soft sobs, but there was also a hush around us that dulled the sounds, until I felt as though I were imagining all that misery floating, falling, through the air.

  Then, like an arrow shot, that storm of demons leapt upward into the sky—and scattered.

  I watched as the stars reappeared, and felt like a wreck. Knees trembling. Trouble breathing. My heart . . . my heart, pounding . . .

  Grant limped close, bearing me up with his shoulder. I leaned on him. Maybe he leaned on me. Neither of us said a word. No need.

  Zee stared at the sky. I wanted to hug him—or shake him—but was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back up again. So I kicked sand in his direction.

  “What,” I said slowly, “just happened?”

  He didn’t respond immediately though his bony shoulders sagged. And just like that, all his menace faded, leaving him small and lonely. Raw and Aaz flopped down in the sand, reaching into the shadows beneath each other for fistfuls of cigars—which they licked like turd-shaped lollipops.

  Dek and Mal exhaled noisily and began humming a particularly high-pitched version of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” I scratched their heads, and so did Grant, his hand leaving them to rest warm against my neck. My muscles relaxed, just a little.

  “Zee,” I said.

  He shuddered, raking claws over his arms—and tilted his head just enough to look at me. Grief, in his eyes. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Grief and fury, I’d found, were sometimes no different at all.

  “Told you,” he rasped. “Our prison falls, other opens. Cutter Mama knows it.”

  And if your prison was restored? came the unbidden thought. I didn’t know if, even thinking it, I was betraying them or saving us all. Maybe both.

  Who sent me the crystal skull? Who knew this was coming? Was it a warning?

  “Zee,” I said, a million questions in my voice.

  “Memories same as resurrection,” he whispered, unblinking, then tore his gaze from mine to look at Raw and Aaz, who threw aside their cigars to peer up at the stars.

  “Don’t want to remember who we are,” he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  THERE was nothing left for us at the oasis. The Messenger exerted her bond over the Mahati warrior and dragged him off into the desert for God only knew what—though Grant assured me it was simply a time-out session for unruly demon warriors who defied their assassin handlers.

  Whatever. I wanted a bathroom, a cold ginger ale, and a small dark spot where I could rock back and forth and contemplate all the reasons why I might take up thumb-sucking again, after a twenty-three-year absence from that competitive sport.

  Unfortunately, it was not to be. The first thing I saw when we slipped from the void into the Seattle loft was a naked old woman sprawled chest first on the floor, with her legs contorted over her head—eating from a plastic bag filled with fresh marijuana leaves.

  The crystal skull was in front of her, and she was peering into its eyes.

  I stared because there was little else to do in that situation—and heard Grant mutter under his breath. Even the boys stopped in their tracks. Raw and Aaz shielded their eyes. Zee tilted his head, frowning. Dek and Mal buried their faces against my neck.

  I might have blamed their reaction on the old woman, but it could have also been the crystal skull. Or, just as likely, the soft light streaming through the large windows. It was overcast outside, but somewhere beyond the clouds the sun was in the sky. Making day.

  Even though the boys were standing in front of me—clinging to my neck—I forgot, for a moment, that our bond had been broken. I glanced down at my arms, expecting to see tattoos. When I didn’t, I suffered a disorienting moment of shock—which transformed into aching loss. It reminded me of the first year of my mother’s death. I’d think of something I wanted to say to her, and look around—right before I remembered.

  I rubbed my face. Grant said, “Mary, what are you doing?”

  “Shhh,” she told him, frowning at the skull. “I’m listening .”

  Zee hunched down, giving the skull an uneasy look. “Nothing to hear.”

  The old woman poked the skull in the eyes. “Voices remain. Sins whispered. Thirteen crimes, thirteen signs.”

  I’d learned to stop being surprised at Mary’s insights, but nonetheless, I was taken aback. And slightly uncomfortable. The boys had been ripped from my body. This was one of the artifacts used in the original binding. Which, conveniently, had been delivered to me by a demon.

  Not a coincidence.

  Had Blood Mama told the demon to bring me the skull? Or had someone else? And for what purpose? If my . . . father . . . was responsible for ripping the boys off my body, what was the point? My mother wouldn’t have gone along with anything that would hurt me . . . unless there was a good reason.

  Seeing this skull, however, was a reminder that Zee and the boys could be bound again. Imprisoned. I couldn’t imagine how that made them feel. I didn’t want the boys to think that I would consider it. Because that would be wrong.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Even if that freedom results in my death? When push comes to shove, just how selfish am I? How ruthless?

  Mary’s two fingers continued to dig into the skull’s eye sockets, and she crooned a little melody beneath her breath.

  “Voices,” she whispered, again. “Voices that bind.”

  Raw growled at her. A hard, menacing sound that did not belong in this room, in this company. I had only ever heard him make that sound when he was going to kill someone. I stared at him, startled and uneasy. The way he had growled at Mary . . . like she was prey . . .

  Zee gave him a sharp look, snapping his claws. The other demon blinked, choking into silence. Raw barely met my gaze. His eyes were haunted. I
reached for him, but he shook his head and backed away. Aaz pulled a pint of chocolate ice cream from the shadows beneath the couch. He gave it to his brother with a sympathetic shrug. Raw slumped on the floor like a little lump and stuffed the entire carton down his throat. I wanted to sit beside him and ask to share.

  Mary didn’t seem to notice what had happened. Her legs flexed back down, and she pushed herself off the floor. Grant, who had been making a beeline toward her, turned from that full frontal view with a grimace.

  I looked down, too, but not before I saw the stone circle embedded in the old woman’s breastbone.

  I hadn’t had many opportunities to see the object grafted into her body. It was a source of curiosity for me, not just for its location but because the sight of it had frightened and angered both the Messenger—and an Aetar, who was now dead. The things they had said about that emblem kept Grant and me up late some nights.

  It was a family crest, representing men and women who had been prominent during the war between the Aetar and the Lightbringers. A family, apparently, that had killed so many Aetar, they were legend.

  Grant’s amulet—inherited from his mother—was also a stone disc. It bore the same family crest.

  Mary did not have Grant’s powers, but she was from his world: an assassin assigned to protect his mother during their wartime escape through the Labyrinth. The two women had become separated—and, as time moved in odd ways in that place, Mary had grown old before finding her way to earth.

  Old, and insane. Some days, a little crazier than others.

  Her thick white hair was frizzled and wild, her leathery skin pulled tight over hard, sinewy muscles. Not an ounce of fat on her. Mary looked at the boys—and then studied me, with a frown.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if it was just my imagination that I was feeling feverish again. “Something is different.”

  “Your hearts, split,” she said. “Hearts of murder. Waking from sleep.”

  Zee’s spiky spines stiffened. I glanced at Grant, who was peering inside Byron’s room.

  “Not here,” he said. “Mary, where’s the boy?”

  “Left him downstairs stirring meat,” she told him, picking up a dress heaped in a pile on the floor. It was embroidered with moons and stars, and flying dogs, and hung on her like a sack. Over it she pulled on a leather belt, an old-fashioned back brace that cinched everything tight. It should have looked ridiculous—and maybe it did to everyone else—but I thought it suited her.

  I walked into the bedroom. Zee followed. Raw and Aaz were already under the covers, using them as a tent—peering out with teddy bears hugged close to their chests. The entire room was a demon playpen: more bears on the floor, along with magazines and knives, and a slightly chewed life-sized cardboard cutout of Jon Bon Jovi.

  I picked a bag of M&Ms off the floor. Tore it open and took a couple. Dek and Mal chirped at me, and I gave them the rest. Then, because standing suddenly seemed like too much effort, I crawled under the covers with the boys, who continued to huddle out of the light. Zee climbed onto the bed.

  “Can’t stay here,” he whispered. “Sun is dangerous, Maxine.”

  I was so tired. “You said it feeds you.”

  “Light makes us strong.” Zee glanced uneasily at the window. “Light reveals.”

  “Reveals what?”

  He never answered. Grant appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane—all kinds of shadows in his eyes. “Does the sun do other things to you?”

  Zee hesitated. “Ten thousand years, since walked in light. Ten thousand years, forgetting what was, what could be. Don’t know what will happen. Might wake things, better that sleep. Might be . . . dangerous.”

  I grabbed his bony wrist and suffered a pang of heartache and loss. My skin looked so pale. So . . . wrong. It didn’t matter that my boys were here. It was day, and I was lonely for them. I didn’t feel whole.

  Zee pressed his cheek to my hand, his ears flat against his skull.

  “Sweet Maxine,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to be your prison,” I told him, thinking of that crystal skull. “But don’t forget that I am your friend. We’re family, baby.”

  “Family,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Family protects family. Family protects the nest.”

  Raw and Aaz poked their heads from beneath the covers. Dek and Mal made a mournful sound, and so did Grant, as he lay down on the other side of the bed and straightened out his bad leg.

  “Back in the desert, with Blood Mama . . . you started to change,” he said, forcing Zee to look at him. “I saw it, inside you. What else, Zee? We know what you were. Will you become that again?”

  “Stop,” I said to him. “They’re not like that.”

  Grant gave me a long look. Zee bowed his head, fiddling with his claws.

  “Our nest,” he murmured. “Our family. Even as Kings, those things we believed.” The little demon crept backward off the bed. “But there was also the hunt.”

  I followed him, or tried. My joints ached, and so did my muscles. Fever prickled. But I kept going, determined not to let him slip away. Irrational, I told myself. Zee wasn’t going anywhere. The boys weren’t going to leave me.

  Of course, they will, came the unbidden thought. They are free.

  “Zee,” I said, and my voice sounded strange in my ears, so rough and broken, it made me stop and listen to my heart and hunger.

  I pressed my hands against my stomach, holding them there. Grant touched my thigh. Just with the tips of his fingers, but it helped ease the gaping hole in my chest.

  Zee and I stared at each other.

  “If the sun is dangerous to you,” I said, hoarsely, “then maybe you and the boys should go.”

  He looked around the bedroom, with odd sadness. “The world is dangerous to you.”

  “I’ll protect her,” Grant said.

  The demon flexed his claws. “Not like us.”

  I took a breath, and straightened. “I’m getting dressed and going for a walk. I’ll be fine. Zee, you and the boys do what you have to. I’ll be here if you . . . need me.” I forced a smile and slipped off the bed, reaching into a pile of clean clothes for some jeans and a sweater. I bundled them up and went to the bathroom.

  I was afraid to look at my reflection. Mirrors and I didn’t mix. I’d had a nightmare once, as a kid. Dreamed I looked into a mirror, only to find . . . something else staring back. Not me. Not a person. Just . . . a thing. A vague shadow, burning with incredible violence. Reaching for me, through the glass.

  Sometimes, at night, when I had to the use the bathroom, I refused to look at my reflection. Afraid I’d see that shadow. Afraid something would be there, waiting for me.

  I wondered, occasionally, if I hadn’t already caught a glimpse of that shadow in my eyes.

  I braced my hands on the sink, looking at myself. Nothing different. Not really. I could tell myself that all day long until I believed it. Until the shadows and the hard glint of my bleeding heart just . . . faded away.

  I’d never realized just how pale I was.

  Hot water felt good. I took a quick shower, washing away sand and sweat. My muscles ached less. I tried not to think too hard, but at some point I thought about the rose and that message engraved on the stem—and I remembered the sensation of the metal melting, and the sound of the boys, screaming.

  And the fall. All of us, falling.

  When I left the bathroom, the boys were gone. I hadn’t really expected them to be. I stood a moment, looking around, thinking I’d see a craggy little face peering at me, or a goofy smile, or hear a chorus of high, sweet voices singing rock and roll. But none of that happened.

  It hurt more than I could say. It wounded me, and it was childish, stupid. Selfish, even. My boys were free. Why couldn’t I accept that and let them go?

  Why can’t you accept that they’re the Reaper Kings and that maybe it’s not such a good idea to let them go?

  I didn’t like that thought. At all.

/>   Grant sat on the edge of the bed, cane resting across his thighs.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you’d like for them to be here. I believe . . . I believe Zee genuinely thinks that it’s dangerous for them to remain in a place where there’s sunlight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maxine.”

  “I need to be alone,” I said to him.

  He raised his brow at me. “That’s the last thing you want. But you’re hurting so bad, you can’t lick your wounds with anyone watching.”

  My breath caught. Grant held my gaze, and I knew it was all just one naked parade of my thoughts and emotions. Everything I was, all my bits and pieces, laid bare in whatever light surrounded me. Grant could read it like a book, just as he read everyone. And, like the priest he’d been, he treated all that light like a confession.

  So I confessed.

  “I feel like part of me died,” I told him. “I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I’d lose them. Not like this.”

  Grant looked down, jaw tight. I half expected him to reassure me that they weren’t really gone, that everything would be all right . . . but his silence was long, and heavy. I settled back against the wall. Unable to cross the distance between us.

  “Nothing of you died,” he said. “Wounded, maybe. Ripped. I can see parts of your soul, bleeding. Zee and the boys . . . they’re bleeding, too. All of you, in the same spots.” His hands flexed around his cane, so tight, with such strain, I thought he might break it in half. “I could heal that part of you. But I won’t.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” I pushed away from the wall to go to him and sat as close as I could, slipping my arm around his, resting my forehead on his shoulder. “I understand.”

  He cleared his throat. “I know you’re not afraid of me for what I did to you today . . . the way I took your concern for the boys, and erased it. But I’m afraid. I slipped, and all it took was a second. I’m not . . . used to controlling my voice around you. I’m sorry.”

  I smiled against his arm. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”