The Mortal Bone (7 page)

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 strained. 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, dreaming night inside my mind.

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

CHAPTER 8

T
HE 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.

Zee drew in a ragged, quiet breath. “Safer for you. Safer for us. Sunlight burns our hearts.”

“I didn’t know the sun would hurt you.”

“Doesn’t hurt bodies,” he murmured. “Feeds us . . . too much.”

I remembered my dream. I remembered, and felt too uneasy to ask. So I held him tighter, closer, and stroked his rough, bony back, running my fingers down soft razor spines that could cut through bones like butter if Zee wished.

“But you saw the sun,” I murmured.

“Sun,” he whispered, as though the word hurt him. “Many suns we have seen, on many worlds. But this light, sweet.”

“Good,” I murmured, unsure what else to say. I still felt empty in my heart, like part of it was missing. Lighter, but not in a good way. I touched my chest, fingering the spot that hurt most.

“Feel it, too,” Zee rasped. “Cut. Missing bits.”

“Missing
you
,” I told him. “You’ve been part of me a long time.”

“Part of
you
longer. All, you. Every mother, in her blood.” He gave me a mournful look. “Lived on your human body. Lived on your heart. We were one. Now, we are broken. Broken, hearts.”

“No,” I told him, though my voice was too hoarse to be convincing. “You’re free, not broken.”

“Free,” he echoed, softly. “Free is dangerous.”

“I trust you. I’ve
always
trusted you.”

Zee snuggled closer. “Dangerous. We destroyed. Left only bones. Worlds of bones. No mercy. No love. Just war.”

My boys. I still could not imagine it. “You’re different now.”

“No.” He placed his small, clawed hand over my heart. “Just . . . some things . . . more important.”