Part 1 (1/2)

LABYRINTH OF STARS.

by Marjorie M. Liu.

Para Junot.

Entre nosotros, que siempre haya luz.

In this brief transit where the dreams cross.

The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying . . .

-T. S. ELIOT.

I am the mother, yet the daughter is more, she is everything that the mother was, and that which the mother was not becomes great in her; she is the future and the immortal past, she is the womb, she is the sea . . .

-VARIATION OF 11.4 FROM RAINER MARIA RILKE'S BOOK OF HOURS.

CHAPTER 1.

I'LL be honest: I can't recommend having a demon as your obstetrician.

Fight with them, live with them, feed their hungry stomachs all the M&M's, chain saws, and small artillery they can handle-but when it comes to taking pregnancy advice, avoid at all costs. Even if they've been delivering the babies in your family for the last ten thousand years.

”Need ash,” Zee muttered, pressing his sharp little ear to my belly. ”Volcanic. Hot. Fresh to eat.”

My husband, sprawled in the gra.s.s beside me, started laughing. I flinched. He was turned away from me, so he didn't notice.

I took a quick breath, trying to stay calm, and focused on the rich, delighted sound of his voice. I tried not to think about how long it had been since I'd heard him laugh-and I certainly didn't dwell on how starved I was for it. Instead, I listened, listened with all the strength I'd once spent fighting demons-and suffered a panged mix of relief and joy.

I placed a hand on my belly. ”Oh, sure. You think it's funny.”

Grant turned his head and flashed me a grin. For a moment I had the crazy hope things might be getting better. But then the shadows crept through his eyes, and his smile turned brittle. He was trying, though, which made it all worse.

I clutched my cold bottle of ginger ale and took a long swallow, using it as an excuse to look away and wash down a wave of nausea. Grant rolled over on his side and placed his hand over mine.

Softly, he said, ”Breathe, Maxine.”

”You breathe,” I grumbled, finis.h.i.+ng off the ginger ale. I heard a hungry chirp and pa.s.sed the bottle to the demon nesting in my hair, listening to gla.s.s crunch.

It was a warm night. Moon had already set. Around us, demons: Raw and Aaz, sprawled on top of my grandmother's grave, clutching teddy bears and gnawing on meat cleavers-das.h.i.+ng them with gunpowder, tobacco, to spice the metal. The scent put a burn in the air.

Zee leaned on my stomach, listening to unborn secrets. Playing doctor, nutritionist, making clicking sounds with his skinny black tongue and closing the second lid of his red eyes, as if in a trance. Dek nibbled my ear and hummed the melody to an old Pat Benatar song, ”We Belong.” Mal joined him: a soft trill, lilting into the night.

Oak leaves hissed, joined by the tall gra.s.s: waves and waves of those delicate dry hisses, rising and falling in the night with the wind. I listened to Grant's slow, even breaths-the rasp of scales and claws, my own heartbeat-all of it, together, something I tried hard to relax into. As if I could make them, with sheer willpower, the only sounds in the universe.

But nothing-nothing-could drown out the drums.

It wasn't a beat. Nothing as hollow as a human instrument. A throb, maybe a pulse: organic and wet. Accompanying it, floating like a loose thread, an eerie lilting chorus that sounded like a Chinese opera married to some ancient tribal chant. A melodic, thrusting sound that made the hairs rise on my neck.

I hated it. My mother was probably turning in her grave.

Because here we were-dead center in the middle of three thousand prime Texas acres-and somewhere near us an army of demons was partying.

”If I find out they're sacrificing virgins, I'm chopping off heads.”

”Yes,” Grant replied, and opened his eyes. ”Do you smell blood?”

I waited a moment because when someone, anyone in my life, says they smell blood, it's usually not their imagination.

”No,” I told him, and he closed his eyes again.

”It's the link,” he muttered, sounding tired. ”The Shurik are nesting inside that new herd of cows we brought in. It hit me, all of a sudden. The smell and . . . taste . . . of it.”

It was like both of us were pregnant. Me, I had a human baby inside me. Grant had demons. Not just one, but nearly a thousand-more than half of an entire demon army. Bonded to him: through his heart, through his power. Which meant they felt everything he did. A pyramid of influence and dominance, trickling into every living Shurik and Yorana-keeping them under control. Otherwise, humans would be on the menu-and not a herd of cattle.

The price was that Grant could feel them, as well: the force of a thousand lives, a constant presence in his heart and head. Buzzing, burning, crowding. Voices that whispered, voices begging, voices that brought migraines that showed no signs of abating.

I knotted my fingers around the soft, loose flannel of his s.h.i.+rt, and tugged, gently. ”I would do anything to help you.”

”I know,” he said, scratching the rough beard he'd been growing for the last month-a symptom of exhaustion rather than fas.h.i.+on. ”I'm learning to cope.”

”Liar.”

”The other demon lords manage. Those bonds make them stronger.”

”You're not a demon.”

”If I can't do this,” he said quietly, then stopped, flexing his big hands: all of him, big, warm, hurting. ”Breaking the bonds will kill them. I can't do that. I can't sacrifice all those lives just to save mine.”

”I can,” I muttered. ”You're not healthy, Grant. You're barely eating. You aren't sleeping. And when you do, you have nightmares. You're going to be a father, for f.u.c.k's sake. If we could talk to my grandfather-”

”Leave him out of it.” Grant gave me an unexpectedly hard look, which only made the circles under his bloodshot eyes stand out like bruises. The effect was worse at night: his face hollow. ”I'm done talking about this, Maxine.”

He was being so stupid. Stupid and honorable, and courageous, and stupid. My irritation had irritation. Zee raised his head, giving Grant a cool look-even as Raw and Aaz jerked to attention, staring. Dek and Mal muttered something musical, and no doubt, vile-drew in deep breaths, rattled their little tails-and spat fire at him.

Grant yelped, rolling away. I laughed.

”Thanks,” he said, from the shadows. But he was laughing, too.

I'VE always had a good appet.i.te, but being pregnant meant now I ate more like the boys-minus the barbed wire, engine oil, and occasional bomb.