The couch sagged beneath his massive body. He sprawled with a sigh, nearly hitting Ha’an in the head as his massive paw dangled off the cushions.
“Oanu,” I said, but even though his ear swung toward me, he did not—or could not—lift his head to greet me. His eyes closed in moments and stayed closed. I would have said he was dead if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the armor.
Blood Mama stood near the stairs, dressed in a crisp trench coat and stiletto heels. Her host was no redhead but a brunette with curls, a pouty mouth, and a beauty spot on her chin that was less of a mole than a mountain. She did not appear to have engaged in any battle—though her aura carried a hint of deep purple, a color I had never seen in those thunderous shadows.
I stopped beside her. “What happened?”
“War. I told you. It has started.”
“They’re demon lords. I thought they were invincible.”
“A demon lord is only as strong as the bond,” she replied, with a cold look. “The Shurik and Yorana joined together and launched surprise attacks upon the others. The massacres weakened Ha’an and Oanu.” A cold smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Oh, how I grieve for their losses.”
“Zee and the boys.”
“They came to help Ha’an and Oanu but had no army to draw strength from. These two demon lords had not yet bonded to them, and so they lacked their combined power.” Blood Mama’s smile deepened. “Apparently, their bond with you also failed . . . and they were overrun. Captured.”
I tried not to let that pain show on my face, but it was too much of a struggle. “I thought they were bonded to you. That should have helped.”
Her smile faded. “Grant . . . changed me . . . too much. It severed the bond. I suppose I should thank him for that, but I cannot.”
“You have your freedom.”
“No,” she said, giving me a dark look, “I do not even have me.”
I held her gaze, refusing to think about the implications. “Where are the rest of the boys?
“My children are searching for them.”
My right hand flexed into a fist. I could find them. I knew it.
Grant came down the stairs and leaned on the rail above us. His gaze swept over the living room and the two demon lords sprawled on the floor and couch. Both seemed to be in a deep sleep. It reminded me of Zee.
He glanced down at Blood Mama. “You brought them here?”
She stiffened at his voice but did not turn. “I hate all the demon lords, but I hate these two less than the others. They need refuge. No place else in this world can offer them that.”
That almost sounded like a compliment. “Where are the rest of their people?”
“Scattered. Hiding.”
“On earth?”
Blood Mama’s aura flared, but color shifted from deep purple to violet, flowing into obsidian shadow. I saw no flashes of red lightning. I saw power, but it was calm, sleek. “Remote places. Deserts. Jungles. Mountains.”
“They’ll feed.”
“They will feed,” she said, looking me dead in the eyes. “They will feed their children as you would feed yours, Hunter. Can you live with that?”
I frowned. “What about the Shurik and Yorana?”
“They will also feed,” she murmured, walking to the front door. “They will be careful at first until they learn more about the weapons of this world. Until their numbers grow. And then they will stop being careful.”
Grant joined me at the bottom of the stairs. “Blood Mama.”
She twitched and stopped. “What do you want from me now, Lightbringer?”
“Do you hunger?” he asked. “For the pain of others?”
Finally, she turned to look at him. “I hunger for your death.”
“That’s because you want to hate me. Not because you
need
to.”
Blood Mama snarled at him, but it didn’t hide the moment of uncertainty that flickered in her eyes.
The front door opened. The Messenger strode inside, whip in hand, a low hum rolling from her throat. Her Mahati warrior followed and strode across the living room to Lord Ha’an without a second glance at the rest of us. He fell down on one knee, examining the other demon’s wounds, then flashed the Messenger a hard look.
“Why would I?” she answered his unspoken question. “He is the enemy.”
The Mahati bared his teeth at her. I flicked my hand at the Messenger. “Can you heal Ha’an and Oanu?”
“They are healing on their own,” she replied coldly, and glanced at Grant. “You can confirm this. Watch the threads of their light.”
“I see it,” Grant said. “They’re receiving energy from elsewhere. The bond with their people, perhaps. That must be why they’re sleeping. They’re letting their bodies recover.”
“Is that what Zee is doing?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. It seems different with him.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek and strode across the floor to Ha’an. The Mahati warrior stood as I approached, as though ready to defend the demon lord. I held up my hands in a conciliatory gesture, and his low, rumbling growl faded—slowly.
Jack appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, holding the crystal skull.
“They were awake when they arrived,” he said in a strangely quiet voice. “I didn’t realize that their bodies would require such a deep sleep in order to recover. Seeing them wounded . . . shocked me.”
Something about the way he stood there made me uneasy. I stepped between him and the couch, glancing down at the skull—those glinting holes for eyes, so many rows of sharp teeth. I thought about large, silver hands fashioning the crystal in a workshop filled with roses—and for a moment, could see it so clearly in my head, I wavered.
“Old Wolf,” I said, mouth suddenly dry. “All those years ago, did you ever think to destroy the clans in order to get to the demon lords?”
“We tried,” he said. Grant eyed him, limping to the middle of the living room where the Messenger stood, fingering her iron collar and watching Jack. “We stitched together nightmare beasts to hunt the demons. But they were strong, then, and well fed. Their numbers were vast, dear girl. In the millions.”
Jack’s hands tightened around the skull. “It seems only a fraction of those numbers survived. I never imagined I would say this, but the demon lords are weak now. They can be killed.”
I walked to him. “No, Jack. Not these two.”
My grandfather, who had always seemed like an elegant, gentle man, stared at me with impossible indifference and grim resolve. “Don’t be sentimental. Don’t be lulled into thinking you have a connection, an alliance, with any of the demon lords. If you let them recover, and survive, you will have to fight them. That, or let their people kill. Can you do that? Can you live with yourself?”
“Jack.”
“Think of your daughter.”
I placed my hand on top of the skull. “I have seen the children of the Mahati. If you kill Ha’an, you will kill those children.”
“They’re demons,” he whispered, though I saw the pain in his eyes.
“Jack,” I said gently. “We’re all demons, in our own way. We’re all human.”
Jack retreated, and I followed him, one hand still on the skull.
“We’re going to do a lot of killing,” I said, incredibly saddened by that certainty—as well as the old conflict and pain in my grandfather’s eyes. “Demon lords will die, but not these two.”
His gaze flicked past me. “You’ve never seen their armies kill, my dear. You’ve never heard the screams from the slave pits, and smelled the cook fires upon which humans roast.”
Doubt crept. He was right. What was I doing? I had seen the Mahati eating human flesh. Now, they—and the other clans—were hunting on this world. Whose side was I on?
Jack tried to step around me. I blocked him. I moved without thinking, and that decided it for me. My instincts said no. My heart said no. Despite the risk, and danger—no matter what I had been taught about keeping this world safe—everything in me resisted these murders. Even the attempt.
There had to be another way. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try. And if I was wrong . . . I would never forgive myself.
I glanced back at Ha’an and Oanu but found myself meeting Grant’s gaze instead. I wasn’t certain what I saw in his eyes, and it frightened me. I could fight Jack, but if my husband decided to kill the two demon lords . . .
Inside my chest, a heartbeat flared.
Zee.
Confusion trickled through the bond. I held on to that feeling, searching for the other boys—but their presence continued to be muted, dull. Having their hearts in mine had been disconcerting, but not feeling anything—all over again—was worse.
I turned, just in time to see Zee fall from the shadows behind a chair. His bandages were still in place, but his limbs flopped in all the wrong directions as he attempted to sit up. I crossed the living room, falling down on my knees beside him.
His eyes opened. Nothing but red slits, corners crusty with dried fluid. I held my breath as we stared at each other, listening to—feeling—his heart reassert itself.
“Maxine,” he whispered, and our bond sparked with surprise—resignation—and then despair.
“Babe,” I said in a soft voice.
He brushed his claws against his bandaged throat. “Lost strength. Power . . . refused our call. Should not have been.”
Zee struggled to sit up. It was painful watching him. Strained, labored, without his usual deadly grace. Shame filtered through our bond, along with resentment and fear. We met each other’s gazes, and he stilled.
“My heart,” he rasped. “My heart in yours.”
I said nothing. Zee continued holding my gaze, red eyes glinting too bright.
“Thought answers were in blood,” he whispered. “Thought . . . together stronger than apart. Wanted to protect you.”
“You wanted power,” Grant said, with a hard edge in his voice. “So you took it.”
Zee gave him a long look. I touched his face, forcing him to look at me. “We’re going to get the others. You need to stay here and rest.”
“No,” he rasped, and his heart pounded harder, with fear and remorse. I closed my eyes, searching for that hard, coiled presence resting deep inside.
Help him,
I said.
Help them all. Give them the strength they need.
No response. Not even a tickle. Which meant all the strength they needed, the only thing that was going to power us through this day, was me. Me, alone.
Grant placed his hand on my shoulder. “I know what to do now.”
I didn’t ask questions. I dragged Zee in my lap. No protests, no struggle. He flowed against me, a tangle of sharp, bandaged limbs.
“Little king,” I whispered, and he sighed.
I closed my eyes as Grant pulled a tin whistle from his back pocket and began playing a twisting, riddling melody that lilted and tugged, swelling with long, sweet notes that flowed through me, sinking warmth into my bones. Light filled my heart, a light that fell on those other five hearts, all of which twitched and pulsed and throbbed beneath that heat.
His music twisted and made power. Power that flowed through me, into my bond with the boys. Zee trembled in my arms, releasing his breath with a hiss. His skin rippled beneath my hands.
I opened my eyes, watching him rip off his bandages. The ragged edges of his flesh began knitting together. Heartbeats gathered strength. An awakening burst from them, a noise of confusion and fear—but also relief. Even the darkness came awake, basking in that light, whispering to itself with pleasure.
And deep in my belly, deep as anything, I felt a spark.
The tin whistle faltered. Grant stopped playing.
“I felt that,” he said, with a wonderment that made me smile.
Zee tumbled out of my lap, tearing away the rest of the gauze. The wound in his neck was mostly gone, as was the gash in his side. The cuts over the rest of his body had completely faded. A little shudder raced through him, and he tilted up his head, staring into my eyes.
“Don’t even think about telling me not to come with you,” I said. “And don’t force me, Zee. Don’t.”
His little shoulders sagged. “Trying to keep you safe.”
“It didn’t work,” Grant said, slipping the tin whistle into his back pocket. “You need help.”
Zee looked past us at Ha’an and Oanu, who continued to sleep—and then his gaze skipped to Jack, who watched us with the crystal skull still in his hands. They stared at each other.
“Meddling Man,” whispered the little demon. “Circle comes around.”
“It always does,” replied my grandfather with particular weariness. “I was so afraid you would destroy us all if you ever went free.”
“Might happen.” Zee tilted his head, looking up at Grant and me. “Or maybe our circle done. Maybe our hunt, done. Power shifts, Meddling Man. Power changes.”
“That was what frightened us the most, even more than you.” Jack looked at me. “The unknown. The untested. You never know what power will do to the heart. Whether it will grow stronger, brighter . . . or burn out.”
“I’m burning,” I said to him. “I’m burning to get the hell out of here and find the boys.”
But even as the words left my mouth, I heard a booming sound outside the farmhouse and an immense hiss that traveled through the walls like a rising storm. The sound grew so loud, the window rattled, and the floor began shaking.
I ran to the window. It was dark out, pitch-black; but the thumping, the hisses, was accompanied by shrieking wails that made my teeth hurt.
“I know those sounds,” Jack whispered.
“Shurik and Yorana,” Zee rasped, flexing his claws. “They come.”
CHAPTER 26
I
stepped onto the porch—left hand on my hip, right hand hanging loose and ready. It was difficult to think past the hisses and shrieks, and the rumble of movement that churned through my chest in a thick vibration. My first instinct was to run, but my heels dug in, and my right hand shimmered with light.
The armor transformed. A sword filled my hand, familiar and light as air. Runes covered the hilt and blade, coiled lines and knots that resembled roses.