The Mortal Bone (13 page)

I walked through the rest of the house—passed the dead woman—and ended up again in the kitchen. I opened the basement door but hesitated on the threshold, staring into that dark cement hole.

I was scared of the dark. I’d always been, but I’d had the boys. A couple years back, I’d found myself thrown into a real hole—a hole on the edge of the Labyrinth—where there was no light, where I’d lived blind. Buried alive. Only the boys had saved me. Only the boys had kept me sane, and even then, it’d been iffy. I still had nightmares.

The basement reminded me of that place.

I found a switch and flipped it. Light flooded the stairs. I breathed a little easier and forced myself to take that first step—and then another. The wooden stairs creaked. I smelled wet concrete. Something else, too . . . that was floral.

The light covered the stairs but not the rest of the basement. I ran my fingers along the wall but found no other switch. Even though my vision was typically good in the dark, I still had trouble seeing. It made me nervous, and I hated that. I hated that I didn’t feel strong enough on my own, without the boys. I’d faced terrible things in my life and done so with my head held high.

But one simple basement had my heart pounding.

Any courage I’d shown before . . . had it ever been real? Or just false bravado because I knew I couldn’t get hurt?

I stripped off my right glove and flexed my hand. The armor began glowing. Softly, at first, then brighter. The basement revealed itself—an old metal bed frame, a couple bikes, a weight-lifting apparatus covered in cobwebs.

I also saw a cage.

Inside the cage, a naked woman.

She was curled on her side because the cage wasn’t big enough for anything else. Nothing left of her but skin and bones, though the dark hair that draped over her face looked surprisingly clean. I didn’t smell feces or urine. In fact, besides mold and rust, the only other scent I could pick up was soap. I saw a hose nearby, attached to a faucet. A drain in the center of the floor.

“Hunter Kiss,” whispered the woman, startling me. I’d thought she was dead. In fact, when I looked at her again, she still hadn’t moved. I did, however, see a glimmer of her dark aura, barely noticeable in the shadows.

“Hunter,” she murmured again. “I thought you’d come here, eventually.”

I crouched, checking out the padlock on the cage door. “Are you the same parasite that used to wear the skin upstairs?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Thought it would be better for Delanne to die, rather than wake up and see her sister like this. They were close, before I took over.”

“Close,” I echoed. “You made your host put her sister in a cage.”

“Not at first.” The possessed woman’s voice was quiet, sullen. “But the pain of betrayal and despair was exquisite.”

I stared at those protruding ribs, the gaunt hips, and the thin towel that was her only protection from the concrete floor. It was impossible to tell what age she was, but I thought . . . young.

I gritted my teeth. “You said you were told, in a dream, to bring me that skull.”

The demon groaned, softly. “I didn’t know my host possessed it, until that dream. Down here in the basement, at the bottom of a toolbox. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Tell me about the voice in the dream. Male or female?”

“No voice. Just images. Impressions.”

“You were terrified.”

“I brought you one of the thirteen keys used to bind the Reaper Kings.” A choked laugh escaped her. “I could feel that echo of power. Made me want to jump out of my skin.”

“Do you know where the other keys are?”

“No. But what would you do? Use them?” Finally, her head moved, and I saw eyes glitter beneath those long strands of hair. “You’re nothing now. Just food, like the rest of us. I wouldn’t help you even if I could.”

I felt vulnerable. Naked in her gaze. I
was
naked, without the boys. I wondered if she knew that just by looking at me, or if I was still keeping up the mask.

“So why are you here?” I asked. “Dying in a cage?”

“Where else is there?” whispered the demon. “This is home.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I turned and walked away. Behind me, that thin, reedy voice called out.

“It was an act of mercy, forcing Delanne to kill herself.”

“You told me.”

“Not just that,” whispered the demon. “A quick death is better than what’s coming.”

CHAPTER 13

I
used the phone in the kitchen and called 911. Explained what I’d found, and hung up. It was a risk—the demon might jump to one of the first responders—but I couldn’t let her host stay in that cage and die. Nor could I exorcise the demon without the boys to make it permanent.

I could smell the blood now, maybe because I knew it was there. Made me queasy, and claustrophobic. I didn’t leave, though. I stared at my right hand, almost entirely covered in silver metal—bonded as close as my own skin. I could see the knobs of my knuckles beneath, and the indents of my fingernails. No prints. No lines in my palm. Just a flawless surface that would only keep spreading—unless I stopped using the armor’s power. Once, maybe, I could have. Not anymore. I was going to lose more than just my hand one day.

Not so long ago, I would have dreaded the idea. Now I hoped I lived long enough to see it.

I ran my fingertips over the armor, thinking about the crystal skull.
Not from earth,
Grant had told me. Radiating a similar energy marker as the seed ring, this armor—and, probably, the rose. All made from parts of the Labyrinth: stone, metal, gemstone. All capable of incredible power.

Power that rested in
potential
.

Potential that could only be manifested through
focus
.

The Aetar had plenty of focus. Had they commissioned these skulls as a means of giving themselves the power necessary to imprison the Reaper Kings? If so, who was the maker? Who had made the armor, the seed ring . . . the rose? Just one person? More than one?

My father,
I thought, feeling numb on the inside, and unsure of myself.
Is that possible?

I closed my hand into a fist. If I entered the Labyrinth . . .

I wanted to think that I was tougher than that, cannier . . . but right now, I didn’t trust that I was. I couldn’t take the risk. I had to play it safe.

I slipped into the void and returned home to Seattle.

As the demon had said . . . where else was there to go?

I didn’t know what time it was until I walked down into the homeless shelter and found the volunteers cooking lunch.

Donna Summers blared over the stereo system, and a clash of pans and loud voices filled the lasagna-scented air. Guys with deliveries from local grocery stores wheeled trolleys around us, and in the kitchen, I glimpsed an army of long-haired men and short-haired women wearing Birkenstocks and fuzzy socks, and white aprons covered in bright-colored pins and logos from local sponsors. Clocks shaped like cats covered the butter yellow walls, along with a half-painted mural that was new to me: a city scene filled with superheroes battling a Godzilla that had tiny angel wings growing from its scaly back. I liked it.

I saw Byron in the mix though he didn’t notice me. He had a book and was sitting in the corner out of the way.

The Coop, as it was called, took up an entire block—a collection of warehouses renovated and linked, forming a homeless shelter and community center that provided temporary housing, meals, and other services. Donations funded some of the Coop’s activities, but Grant, whose father had left him a fortune, paid most of the bills.

I had my own money. One of my ancestors had started thinking ahead and acted to secure the finances of her de-scendents with caches of gold and other treasures, including priceless works of art. I owned homes and land all over the world—places in Italy and France, maybe an actual castle in Wales. I’d never visited any of them, but my name was on the paperwork. Every now and then, I received updates from my mother’s lawyers.

I’d thought about visiting those places with Grant and the boys.

I rubbed my arms. My sweater had long sleeves, but I felt as naked as I had with that demon parasite in the basement. It was daylight hours, and the boys should have been sleeping on my skin—beneath my hair, between my toes—covering every inch of me with their beating hearts and heavy tattoos. I should have been able to pull back my sleeve and see a wink of a dark scale, a glimmer of a red eye.

I got hit with a wave of loneliness so profound I wanted to run. I was human. Mortal. Vulnerable. Feeling sorry for myself.

A strong, warm hand touched my shoulder. I flinched, before realizing it was Grant. I hadn’t even heard his cane.

“Hey,” he said, looking at me with such compassion, and concern.

Suddenly, there was nothing more important than wrapping my arms around his waist in a long, hard hug. Kitchen noises dimmed. So did voices. I knew people were watching us—probably because they’d never seen us engage in this much public affection.

I didn’t care. And, given the way Grant held me, neither did he.

“It’s okay,” he murmured against my hair. “I’m here.”

Doreen, one of the volunteers, walked in—car keys swinging in her hand, wiping rain from her face and hair. She was a tall blonde with an athletic build and a typical Seattleite personality: earthy, and a little pretentious.

When Doreen saw Grant, she gave him a huge, beaming smile—which faltered considerably when she saw me. I wasn’t surprised, but after the day I’d had, I didn’t feel like dealing with the usual undercurrents of disapproval.

I had never gotten used to the crowds at the Coop—and, to be fair, some of the people here weren’t used to
me
. To them, I was a strange, quiet woman, rough around the edges: a fighter, who kept the peace with her fists. Grant was a handsome, elegant, filthy rich, former priest. Some thought I was with him for his money. Some thought he was with
me
because I was good in bed.

Not that I was going to argue with
that
. Nor was there any way to explain that Grant and I were more alike than any of them would ever be able to comprehend.

“You’re back,” said Doreen, throwing herself against him in an overly friendly hug. “We missed you. I can’t imagine why you were gone so long. I’m surprised we lasted a week.”

“Uh-huh.” Grant took a careful step back and slid his arm around my waist. “Maybe you haven’t heard. Maxine and I were on our honeymoon.”

Doreen stared. I held up my left hand, with its golden ring.

“Yes, it’s true,” I said. “We’re married. And we want
lots
of kids.”

I might as well have had a demon perched on my head for the way she looked at me. I almost started to laugh.

Grant cleared his throat. “Doreen, I’ve got to check on some things in the office. I’ll come by the kitchen later.”

“Er,” she said, but we were already walking away—and Mary was suddenly right behind us, nearly knocking Doreen into the wall with her shoulder.

“Burn your lust,” Mary muttered, giving the other woman a dirty look. “Only warriors bond to bringers of the light.”

It was Grant’s turn to bite back a smile. I shook my head at him.

We were stopped several more times in the hall by volunteers and some of the homeless who regularly haunted the Coop. I stood off to the side as Mary fidgeted, letting Grant do his thing—with his voice, with just the right word.

I saw two possessed men at the end of the hall, posting flyers on the wall. Big guys, dressed in jeans and flannel, with pitch-black auras that flickered close to the crowns of their scruffy heads. I recognized their hosts but didn’t know their names.

More than a few haunted the shelter of their own free will, treating Grant like some kind of messiah figure who could transform them—into creatures who did not need to feed on pain to survive. Which he had been doing for years before our first encounter.

As far as I could tell, those demonic parasites Grant altered
were
different: cut off from their bond to Blood Mama, capable of surviving without the particular energy that streamed from violence and abuse.

Although they still
enjoyed
those bad vibes. Like a warm chocolate dessert.

Both of the possessed men stopped working when they saw me. I was used to that.

What surprised me was that they did not lower their gazes. Instead, the demons smiled at me: creepy, soft smiles, filled with promise and smugness.

I didn’t look away from them. I did not blink. I poured every hard, violent moment of my life into my gaze and held it there. Doing less would be the same as signing my death warrant.

If it hadn’t already been signed.

It didn’t matter that Blood Mama had promised obedience and submission to Zee and the boys. She had a prior bargain with my ancestors—to kill us women when we lost our protection. Which I had, without even a daughter to show for it.