"Well," replied my grandfather, sounding shaken. "Well, now."

Zee gestured at him with one long claw. I didn't know if it was a threat, but there was certainly menace in his glinting gaze; a bitterness that gave way to something old and calculated, and devastatingly fierce.

"Meddling Man," he rasped. "Choose now, or never. Choose, who."

I had never thought to ask that question. It hadn't occurred to me that I'd need to. But Zee had known my grandfather at his worst. He had known him, battled him, been imprisoned and tortured by him. Yes, he would ask. Yes, he would doubt his loyalties. I should have, too.

A preternatural stillness fell over my grandfather, deeper and quieter than death. For a moment, he seemed erased-as if, though I was looking at him, smelling him, he ceased to exist.

Jack said in a soft voice, "There's no choice. Not anymore."

I felt oddly vulnerable, hearing those words. I should have expected them. He was my grandfather, after all. But Jack was unpredictable. Jack had his own way. And sometimes that had nothing to do with my own notions of safety, or with loyalty.

I went to the table. The metal box was open, but Zee was looking at the crystal skull like it might burn him.

Behind me, my grandfather cleared his throat. "I'll do that."

He sounded a little too eager. I glared at him. "Just got you out of a coma."

"Maxine," Grant warned.

"It's okay," I muttered, already reaching for the thing. I couldn't help myself. I kept thinking about the maker of this weapon, this tool that had caused so much harm and damage-and contributed to my existence. I felt no wonder or longing. Just frustration, aggravation. My mother had inspired these emotions, once upon a time. Now, so did my father.

I stared into the cavernous eyes of that carved, inhuman skull-and touched the crystal.

Why did you give this to them? I thought, hoping my father could hear me, wherever his spirit resided in the Labyrinth. I need your help, too, you know.

But nothing happened. That was how it worked with these things-never, ever, predictable. I was ready for that. For anything.

Except for the image that pa.s.sed through my mind, sharp and clear as memory.

It was me. I saw myself. Gaunt, hollow-eyed.

Being dismembered by fire.

CHAPTER 10.

TEXAS. It was still daylight.

I had never actually seen the boys lose their bodies in the sun. The transformation always happened too fast. Maybe, sometimes, if I watched closely at sunrise, I might glimpse the edges of their bodies shred into some unnatural haze. But that was rare: a blink, then gone. Far easier to fall into prison than out of it. Which didn't seem fair.

I felt their weight settle on me as soon as we slipped from the void. My boys. Imprisoned on my body until sunfall. Protecting me with their flesh.

Jack stumbled, shielding his eyes against the light. Corpse-like, all bone, so starved and dehydrated it was hard to look at him. His beard and wild, matted hair stuck out at crazy angles-which, alone, wouldn't have drawn my attention. Except that something seemed to be moving in there.

"Yes?" he said. His beard twitched. Grant coughed and looked away.

So did I, scanning the farmhouse and the dusty, long drive. I half expected to see more police, or neighbors with pitchforks, burning torches, and shotguns.

Mary opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. An Osul child pushed past her, looking like an extra big tiger cub-puffy fur, big eyes, even bigger ears-the kind of face that had a certain amount of awwww built in. Right behind it was a very young Mahati, naked, with a soft round belly and some chub in her cheeks. Good eating at the Kiss house.

"Old Wolf," Mary said, and spat at him. The young demons craned their necks to look at her face and backed away.

"Yes, Maritine. It's lovely to see you, too." Jack folded his arms over his chest. "Although you might refrain from spitting at me in front of the young ones. We don't want them learning bad habits. Or seeing bloodshed."

"We like blood," said the little Mahati, with absolute seriousness-and the Osul nodded furiously, letting out a fierce squeak and lashing its tail around.

I looked at Grant. "That's superadorable, right? Not just my hormones?"

"No, darling," he said. "I also want to squee."

"Ha," I said. Except for a few Osul crouched almost out of sight in the pasture-acting as guards-nothing else moved other than some birds that flitted over the rail of the old, sagging fence. I smelled cows, but the herd was gone.

A chill raced through me, a shiver. Grant b.u.mped his shoulder against mine, and I leaned on him. He hadn't asked what I'd seen in the skull, and I couldn't speak of it.

But I remembered: the fire and blood, the sound of my flesh tearing, and the horrified, cutting scream ripping from my throat. No boys, no protection. My pregnant belly exposed.

"My dear," said Jack in a mild voice, and I twitched, giving him a look I hoped wasn't too wild. He paused, studying me, cradling the metal box under one arm. "I expected a nuclear a.r.s.enal. Commandos with guns. At the very least, some reporters. There isn't even a helicopter, or a barking dog."

I gave him a dirty look. Grant said, "Blood Mama's parasites are helping us. They've possessed enough police and investigators, and media, to keep this thing as controlled as possible. Which won't be enough, but it might buy us time."

Surprise flickered through Jack's eyes. "You both sanctioned the possession of humans?"

"Temporarily," I said, ashamed.

Temporary or not, it was wrong, all of it. I'd hated the gleam in Blood Mama's human eyes as I'd called her back for help-compelling more possessions, violating more lives. That should have been the line in the sand, one I'd never cross. But I had, without more than a moment's thought.

Because there was another line in the sand. Humans on one side, demons on the other. And G.o.d if I hadn't made a choice that I still couldn't face, or speak of out loud. It wasn't shame I felt every time I sided with the demons-it was self-loathing.

Grant squeezed my hand. I kissed his shoulder, wishing I could just stay there, leaning up against him for the rest of my life. Instead, I nudged him away. "We'll meet you in the camp. Lord Ha'an has to be warned that Jack is coming. The other clans will have to prepare, too."

Demons might want to eat humans, but there was no hate involved. Jack, on the other hand, was one of the architects of the prison. He and his kind had committed atrocities against the demons. Fought them in a thousand-year war.

This was not going to be cute.

Grant didn't smile. I wasn't sure he could. I realized right then how tired he appeared, and his dry lips were close to cracking. He still had that odd flush in his cheeks, which stood out against his pale, drawn skin.

I regretted I'd said anything. "Never mind, it can wait. Come inside. You shouldn't be alone, anyway."

He shook his head. "It has to be done."

"We'll get Mary to do it. She needs to take the kids back anyway."

Jack squinted, staring hard at my husband. I wondered how awake he really was because he seemed to have trouble focusing. But when he did lock in on Grant, all the considerable lines in his face seemed to get only deeper, and harder.

"My dear boy," he said. "You are being cannibalized."

Grant flashed him a hard look. "That's a bit dramatic."

I stared. "What?"

Jack scowled. "I knew there would be consequences to those bonds. I had hoped otherwise, but you, lad, are no demon. No matter how powerful you are. You were not made for the burden you bear."

Grant shook his head and limped toward the power-charged six-wheeler parked in front of the porch: the only vehicle that could transport him around the full three thousand acres of our land.

I blocked his path. "Jack," I said, holding my husband's gaze. "Talk."

"He won't die," said my grandfather, still watching him with those piercing, searching eyes. "The bond he shares with you won't let him. But the bond with those demons is different. He's not . . . taking. He's only giving. And that's not the way it works."

"How do you know?" Grant snapped, but all that anger deflated as a coughing fit hit him, and he turned away, bent over, covering his mouth as his entire frame rattled. It was an ugly, wet sound-and when it eased, I wanted to check his hand for blood.

"Lad," said Jack in a gentle voice, "I spent a thousand years studying these creatures. I had to because we were trying to kill them. What you are doing will leave you a walking corpse. I can see it. Surely others can, too. I'm surprised your . . . people . . . haven't warned you."

"Grant," I said.

"Another hour won't turn me into a zombie, Maxine. Let it go."

"This has to stop."

"How? I can't cut the bonds. Even if I could, we need them now. We need these demons."

"We never needed them before."

"You're being stubborn." Grant leaned in, dropping his voice. "I know you. I know how afraid you are of losing me . . . losing all of this . . . but there has to be a better solution than just letting the ax fall. You know that."

"Whatever." I poked his chest with my finger. "I know you, too, and you're too smart to let yourself be . . . abused . . . like this. You're not acting like yourself."

He closed his eyes, mouth tight-but it was all pain, and weariness. "Of course I'm not. The things I hear inside my head, what those demons make me feel-"

Grant stopped and went very still. It wasn't just physical. I felt him draw inward, shutter down, put up the walls: like a door slamming in my face. I couldn't remember a single time he'd ever done that to me. Usually, it was the other way around. I was the one who hated being vulnerable. I was the one who was defensive with my heart.

"Don't think for a moment I won't make the hard choice," I whispered. "You might never forgive me, but our daughter will have a whole, healthy father. I can live with the rest."

He still wouldn't look at me. "Murder is always your answer. Kill first, ask questions later. I don't want to be like you, Maxine."

I stood back, stung.

Grant limped to the six-wheeler. I watched him toss his cane into the pa.s.senger seat with such violence it almost careened out the other side. Mary was already there, helping the demon children into the back. They all stopped and stared at him. Mary, with disapproval. He didn't look at her, either.

She pushed his cane aside and climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. One hand on her machete. Guard duty, protecting Grant. Just as she had protected his mother and father-or tried to, on another world, in another age. The Labyrinth had torn her out of time-just as it had torn Grant's mother, who had escaped the war, pregnant with her son. All of them hurtled millions of years into the future, until they'd fallen here, on earth.

He drove away and didn't look back. I kept hoping he would. As if it would be some kind of apology.

Don't let him go, I told myself, watching the Osul hiding in the gra.s.s rise up and run after the six-wheeler. It's not safe.

But I didn't move.

Jack shuffled close. I was so distracted, I barely noticed the smell. The sting I'd felt was only getting worse.

"Grant didn't mean it," said my grandfather. "That man worships you. He's simply afraid."

I thought about the demon he had just killed in Taiwan. How quickly and ruthlessly he had committed that execution. This man, who wouldn't hurt a fly. Who had fought me for years, refusing to treat demons as I treated them. Grant was the one who had shown me they were more than parasites. He was the one who had made me realize I was more than just a killer-and that it was okay. It was okay that I had broken with precedent. It was okay I had stepped off the path the women before me had made.

I had become my own person, with him.

Not my mother. Not my grandmother. Just me.

"He's right," I replied. "My first answer is usually violence."

"And? Is that so terrible?" Jack forced me to look at him. "You women were made in a different age, your bodies compelled to be the homes of the five most dangerous creatures my kind had ever encountered. Violence, survival, war . . . that is in your blood. But that is not who you are. You broke with that. You made something new."

It was as if he'd heard my thoughts. He stepped back, a grim smile touching his mouth. "My sweet girl . . . you would have destroyed the world by now if not for your good heart. It's what has saved you, and us, again and again. Never doubt it."

I swallowed hard. "I don't like fighting with him. It feels wrong."

My grandfather made a rude sound. "That's because you're both disgustingly in love. If you actually disagreed like normal people, you'd have kicked his a.r.s.e and been done with it. And it does need kicking, my dear. Not just for what he said to you."

"Jack," I said, but he waved me off.

"Enough. You didn't bring me here for this." He scratched the bridge of his nose, and a black flake of crud fell off. "Although, do you think I have time for a bath before the invasion? I haven't been this filthy since I was a gong farmer cleaning out cesspits in old London."

"Jack," I said, again.

"Every day," he went on, sc.r.a.ping the inside of his ear with a long yellow fingernail, "buried to my chest in human excrement. I did not allow myself to be born again in Britain for another three hundred years after that experience."

"You're sounding awfully peevish for a man who was in a coma," I remarked, walking toward the farmhouse. "What were you doing, anyway?"

Jack's jaw tightened. "Meditation."

He was lying, of course. But there was nothing productive in berating an immortal for the truth. All I'd get in return would be more enigma, more confusing riddles, and that oh-so-wise-man secretive smile that always made me want to throw a magnificent tantrum.

"It looked like torture," I said, simply.

There was no air conditioner in the old farmhouse, but inside felt cool, and smelled like chocolate. Mary had just been baking. It reminded me of my mother, and her face flashed in front of me, fresh and startling. Less than a day ago, I'd seen her alive in this kitchen.

G.o.d, that hurt.

I let the rest of the house soothe me. Shadows and pale edges, reflections of light from the windows, formed soft lines that relaxed my eyes. I heard a hum of music-just a radio set to a cla.s.sical station-but it made me think of Grant.

The television on the counter was turned to the news. And, of course, that video was playing. It was totally silent, volume turned down. But it wasn't just the television that was muted. The kitchen, the house, the world. I could hear my heart beat.