But I hadn't forgotten him.

Oturu.

I'd been trying to keep the demon from my thoughts. Been fighting, with all my might. Because he couldn't be here. Not now. It was too dangerous, too unpredictable. If he got sick, I'd never forgive myself.

All in vain, though. It was night, and my need had probably been broadcast across the stars-straight from my heart to his, or however we were connected.

Thunder first, but thunder without a sound. Just the rumble, a vibration in the air that purred through my bones and blood, settling in my chest, drifting down into my stomach. I looked up again and saw a shadow flash. Dek and Mal tensed with a chirp. Zee sighed.

Branches parted. I saw his feet first-a cl.u.s.ter of knives, shining and deadly-followed by the hungry folds of a flowing, drifting cloak. In the shadows, all the demon became was grace, a hush of s.p.a.ce that his presence held, and swallowed.

"Oturu," I said, gazing at that hard, pale jaw, the slant of his mouth, the abyss that hid his eyes beneath the brim of his wide, sloping hat. "Stay back."

Tendrils of hair flowed through the air like crooked veins-twisting and floating down to my face. I staggered away from him, clawing at the trees to help me stay upright-but he made a sharp sound, and my body froze. No one else had that power over me. But Oturu was different. Oturu had the promise of my bloodline. That for him, we would be powerless, at his mercy, as a sign of the ultimate trust.

Our lives, as a pledge of friendship. A pledge that had created a bond that had transcended generations, all because of a single kindness my ancestor had shown him-one act of mercy that had created a link between our blood and his.

"Don't," I whispered, begging him with my voice. "I'm sick. You can't be here. You might get infected."

Oturu only drew closer, his floating tendrils of hair brushing my skin, lingering on my lips. He leaned in so close we could have kissed, and still I could not see his eyes. But I felt him, the weight of the abyss, the touch of his hair as it wound through my own. I should have been disgusted, disturbed, but I searched my heart and felt only fear for him-and a terrible, selfish, comfort.

"Our Lady," he whispered. "We have always known you will be the death of us."

I could move again. I began to fall, but Rex and Aaz were there, holding me up-and Zee braced himself against my legs. "Don't say that."

"Now, or in a thousand years." Oturu's cloak flowed around me like wings. "We are one. We will not live without you."

I touched my stomach. "You'll live for her."

His mouth softened, and those tendrils of hair grazed my shirt, sliding beneath the soft cotton to press against my skin.

"Another queen," he murmured. "But she will not be you. You are the last."

I swallowed hard. "Not the first time I've heard that. But I don't believe it. I am not the last of this bloodline."

The wide brim of his hat tilted forward. "It has already begun, Hunter."

Then, before I could ask him what the h.e.l.l that meant, he said, "She is warm. What ails you surrounds her."

It was hard to find my voice. "Surrounds, or infects?"

"It wants to kill her." Oturu bowed his head, as though listening. "That is all I know."

I felt nauseated. Zee pointed at Oturu. "Too much fear you bring. We protect little light. We protect Maxine."

Oturu pulled away from me. "You cannot protect her from everything."

"I pick up my own slack," I muttered, trying to sound tough, strong, as if that would make me feel better. "But if you're going to take the risk of being near me, then I need your help. We've been attacked by the Aetar. I don't know how many of their constructs are on this world, or who else is coming for us."

"You wish us to hunt them."

"Hunt and kill," I said, and hesitated. "I'll need Tracker, too."

Oturu momentarily stilled, floating on the dagger tips of his feet-more than two feet, less than ten-some indeterminable number that was just as mysterious as his hidden face. He could have been a dancer-of the demonic variety-his grace utterly unmatched, even by the boys.

For a moment, deep within the drowning abyss of that living cloak, I saw a face press outward, contorted in agony. I almost stepped back, but then I recognized those features. My breath caught.

"Tracker," I said. "What are you doing to him?"

"He has not yet learned to kneel before our Lady," murmured Oturu. "Not in the deepest altar of his heart."

"No one has to kneel to anyone, for any reason," I said wearily. "Why do you still do this to him? Why won't you give him his freedom?"

"We promised not to," said Oturu. "We promised you."

I blinked, startled. I saw, from the corner of my eye, Zee-looking away from us, as though embarra.s.sed.

But before I could ask them what the h.e.l.l that meant, Oturu's cloak flared-wide as the hood of a cobra. I stumbled backward as Tracker fell from the abyss. Just behind him I glimpsed other faces pressing outward, as if trying to escape with him. Not all were human.

Raw and Aaz fell into the shadows around us, only their eyes visible: crimson, glowing. I heard their low growls. Dek and Mal coiled tighter around my throat. No purrs, no song-watching Tracker with all their deadly focus. Only Zee was relaxed, but that was deceptive. I wished I could be that smooth. My pulse was fast, and I felt nervous.

It had been six years, but Tracker still put me on edge, for reasons I could not explain. Maybe because he hated my guts. Maybe because he was part of a past that wasn't mine but that belonged to my bloodline, all the way back to the beginning. He knew things about the women in my family that I could never imagine, and I was envious of that. Protective of it, too.

Tracker knelt, shuddering and breathing hard. He looked the same as when I'd last seen him: skin the color of a cat's-eye, golden and tawny, his hair black and long, wild around his angular face. His nose was large, hooked, close to ugly-closer still to handsome.

He wore jeans, a black turtleneck; a belt buckle the size of my hand, silver and inlaid with lapis. A band of iron hid beneath his chin, peeking from the edge of his collar.

Looking at him inspired too much dej vu-and not because we'd met before. This went deeper, part of some inherited genetic memory. Tracker was in the blood.

He tilted his head to look at me. Black eyes. Aggressive stare.

"Oh," he said. "It's you."

"In the flesh," I replied. "You need some water?"

"Water." He laughed bitterly.

I glanced at Raw, who gave Tracker a dirty look. Still, he pulled a bottle of cold water from the shadows and tossed it at me. I unscrewed the top, and the man grabbed it from my hand. He drank like he was dying, water spilling down the sides of his mouth.

A tendril of hair, delicate as a long finger, snaked beneath the man's collar. Oturu tugged, and Tracker choked, spitting water.

"Stop," I said.

"Stand," Oturu said in his soft, silky voice-ignoring me. "Your Lady needs you."

Hate flickered through Tracker's face, but he climbed awkwardly to his feet. "What now?"

"End-of-the-world s.h.i.t," I said. "No big deal."

"Right," he said, wary. And then: "You're pregnant."

"Yes," I replied. "It happens."

I told him about the attack, which also required informing him of the broken prison-the demon army, residing on earth. Tracker's jaw tightened as he listened, his gaze growing dark, troubled. I kept expecting him to interrupt with disparaging comments, just out of principle-but whatever he saw in our faces, demon and human, must have told a story, because he rocked back on his heels and folded his arms over his chest.

"And who's died?" he asked. "The Lightbringer?"

A chill hit me. "Not yet. But I'm afraid that's coming next."

Tracker's gaze didn't waver. "And you? What part of you is dying, Hunter?"

"All the parts that matter," I told him.

CHAPTER 15.

DESPITE all evidence to the contrary, I have a very forgiving nature.

I've been stabbed, cursed, kidnapped, called some profoundly unfortunate names-and in a few of those cases, I've managed to go on with my life without indulging the need to kill anyone.

Tracker, for example, had once thrown me under a bus. His way of saying "h.e.l.lo." Fantastic start to what was, in hindsight, a very temporary alliance. I was totally over it.

"I should warn you," I said. "You're probably going to die."

A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. "I hope that's a promise."

Raw and Aaz dangled from a tree branch above his head. Zee prowled close, staring up at the man. Tracker scratched his nose, his smile becoming grim. "You have something to add, Reaper King?"

"Vows," rasped the little demon. "Remember them."

Tracker stilled. "Long time ago. Wardens are dead and gone. Prison is open. All shot straight to h.e.l.l. I don't think there's a point anymore to what we swore to do."

"Honor, then." Zee pressed forward, rising on his haunches. "The Hunter must live."

"Listen-" I began, but the demon held up his clawed hand, still staring at Tracker. Both of them, locked together in a silent battle that was so heavy, I could barely breathe the air.

"The Hunter must live," Zee said again, in a deadly soft voice. Hearing him say those words cut me to the core. I knew it wasn't just for his benefit. Without me, he and his brothers would survive, free.

No, this was about family. Love.

Tracker drew in a short, sharp breath. I wondered if he realized, if he could understand how much the boys had changed in all these years he'd known them. Could anyone really understand, except them and me?

I said, "I want my daughter to survive and grow up in a world that isn't populated by corpses. I want us all to have some f.u.c.king peace."

"No such thing." Tracker folded his arms over his chest, but he didn't seem as sure of himself as he had before. "Even if you'd never had this-your man, this life-if you gave it all up-nothing would change. You weren't made for peace, Hunter. None of you women were. And your daughter, whoever she is, will get used to the corpses. Just like you did."

I stared at him. "You're an a.s.shole."

"But you still need me." Weariness flitted across his face, and resentment. "Nothing changes, even after ten thousand years."

I held his gaze, forcing myself to stay hard. "Then you should know exactly what to do."

Oturu drifted behind the man, those long, searching tendrils of hair caressing his back. Tracker stiffened, his face becoming a perfect, predatory mask. I half expected him to be punished for speaking his mind-Oturu had never before spared him-but instead, the demon glided around to me-reaching for me, surrounding me with his floating hair and the folds of his cloak, which unfurled and danced as though carried by a storm.

His hair traced a soft line against my shoulder. Dek and Mal purred beneath his touch. Raw and Aaz dropped from their tree branch, landing softly on either side of me.

"It is awake," he murmured.

I didn't look at him. "What is?"

"Your heart." Oturu glided away, floating on the tips of his toes. "Come, Tracker. We hunt the soldiers of the Aetar."

Wait, I wanted to say to him. What did you mean?

But the demon did not linger. His knifelike feet pushed off the ground, and he ascended through the tree branches like a ghost, making not a sound. Tracker forced a sardonic smile to his mouth, but not before I glimpsed a troubled look in his eye.

"Hunter," he said, simply, and vanished from sight.

I stared at the spot, heart beating a little too fast. Zee rasped, "Could have done without Tracker."

"No." I leaned against a tree, exhausted. "We need all the help we can get. One more pair of hands could make a difference."

Or get him killed, too.

Maybe. And there was still one more body I needed to recruit into this fight. Another set of eyes.

I pulled out my cell phone, could barely read the screen-vision blurry, head dizzy. It was hard to find the number I needed. My fingers felt fat, clumsy. My skin was hot.

Rex answered on the third ring. For once, I was happy to hear his voice.

He'd been the first of Grant's converts. A parasite who sided with my husband against his own Queen. Which didn't mean he was my friend. Just the opposite. But he was loyal to Grant, and that was all that mattered.

I heard laughter in the background, pots clanging-the distant melody of a show tune: something from Phantom of the Opera. Dinner was being made at the homeless shelter Grant had founded-and that he and I had lived above, in his nice little loft. I felt homesick for the place.

"What now?" Rex asked.

"I need you to tap your parasite network," I told him. "Find out if anyone has seen Aetar on this world, and where. I'm going to a.s.sume Blood Mama already knows the answer to this question and is just holding out on us."

Rex was silent a moment. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I lied. "Find me some f.u.c.king Aetar, Rex."