A Wild Light by Marjorie M. Liu

heavy in my stomach. “What does that mean?”
    Grant stopped holding the plastic bag to his head and tossed the remains of his ice cream inside. “I can change people. Alter who they are, down to the soul. Not just people.”
    “Demons.”
    “Anything that lives.”
    “Me?”
    “You’re immune. God knows, I think you might be the only one who is. And even if you weren’t . . .” Grant stopped, and the silence was long and deep, and I was grateful for the boys, then, on my skin, with their heartbeats pulsing in time to mine.
    “I wouldn’t hurt you,” he whispered, “but there are lines, Maxine, that I could cross. And sometimes I think I have.”
    I picked up the trash around me. Grant handed over the plastic bag. I got out, threw everything away. Breathed long and deep, though the air tasted like exhaust. I heard sirens in the distance. Zee tugged, once—
    —and the armor twisted on my skin. A very physical jerk, as though it were trying to pull away from me. I clutched my hand to my stomach, breathing through clenched teeth.
    It happened again. I ripped off my glove. The armor’s surface was moving, shimmering, those engraved knots and roses oozing across the organic metal like petals and threads cast on water. I stopped breathing. And didn’t start again until, abruptly, the armor stilled.
    I slid back into the car. Grant’s frown deepened. “What’s wrong?”
    “Mind reader, too?”
    “I know you.”
    “Guess you do,” I said quietly, and gripped the wheel with trembling hands. “Buckle up. We’ve got trouble.”

    GRANT and I drove back to the Coop. We heard the sirens before we saw them. I told myself it had nothing to do with the corpse in the apartment, but I was already thinking about new aliases for Grant and Byron. Mary, too. We’d go to Texas, I thought. Back to the old farm where my mother was buried. Or maybe drive to Chicago or New York. I had inherited homes there, filled with cash, weapons, papers. Everything a girl needed to start over.
    I didn’t question why I included Grant. I told myself it was because I wasn’t done yet with his mystery, our mystery—the who and what and why of him. I guess that was true.
    It was raining hard, skies dark, which was why we didn’t see the smoke sooner.
    Not that we needed to. An ambulance sped through the intersection ahead of us, followed by two fire trucks. Grant leaned forward until his nose bumped the dashboard, staring intently through the windshield. Zee wrestled even more violently against my skin, and the armor felt hot, then ice-cold; and then it pulsed like a heartbeat, making my right hand twitch uncontrollably. It felt like an electrical current was jamming up my muscles. I peeled my fingers off the wheel and stuck my hand beneath me, holding it still as best I could. Grant watched but said nothing.
    I turned the corner and saw the Coop. Fire trucks and ambulances surrounded the homeless shelter, which took up an entire city block in the warehouse district. The place was immense.
    And it was on fire. Just the second wing. The floor with the apartments. Where Byron was.
    I slammed on the brakes. Grant jerked against his seat belt, bracing himself against the dashboard. Maybe I put the car in park. Didn’t know, didn’t care. I was out on the road, running.
    A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and in the garden, volunteers and homeless trying to calm each other. Firemen were cordoning off the area. I slammed through them all, ignoring shouts, screams. I glanced up just before I entered the building, and looked at the smoke billowing black through the windows—one of which had already exploded outward. Looked like someone had set off a bomb.
    Then I was inside. The downstairs hall was smoky, but mostly clear. I passed firemen wearing masks. Several tried to grab me, but I wrenched free and punched one man who was too persistent. I cracked his mask, and he slammed hard against the wall. I didn’t stop. I flew up the stairs, and