scratching his bony spine. “Words?”
“Warn him about Cribari. Tell him to stay away.”
“Sharp man,” he said, glancing at the others, who all looked at him with red, glittering eyes. “Dead man.”
“Not dead yet,” I warned him. “First Grant. Find him.”
“Done,” Zee whispered, and disappeared into the shadows. My heart went with him. I could not predict what would happen once Cribari realized I was still alive—but whatever he had planned could not be good.
Jack tried to sit up. “Grant. He’s on a plane?”
“Going to China. A trap.”
“You let him go?”
“I had a plan,” I replied roughly. “Tracker.”
Even saying his name was difficult. Tracker. A man betrayed by my ancestor five thousand years ago, and now slave to the demon Oturu—a demon who had pledged himself to my bloodline in perpetuity. Both had disappeared months ago, vanishing as surely as Jack—but Tracker had the ability to slip through space. Just like the boys.
Only, he could take me with him.
I needed that. And Oturu had been drawn to my need, once before. I had hoped he would come to me again, bringing Tracker with him.
But now I had Jack, for better or worse. The tent was very small. The old man had only to reach out to touch me, and I let him. His fingers brushed back my hair, sliding warm and dry against my skin. He stared at the scar below my ear.
“A poor plan,” he whispered.
My cheeks warmed. I pushed away his hand. “Who’s hunting you?”
“One of my own kind.” Jack cradled his hand, his gaze far too compassionate for comfort. “We share the same pursuer, my dear.”
Same hunter. Avatar.
Franco. His eyes.
Pieces fell into place. New possibilities. I had thought, at first, that Franco might be a traveler from the Labyrinth. Demons had come to earth from other worlds, after all; as had Mary, and God only knew what else.
But Franco had perfect American English, with a slight Southern twang. If I had heard him on the phone, I would have guessed he was a normal professional, someone who liked to go to football games and drink beer with his buddies at the bar. If I could forget his eyes, I would say he was human, unequivocally.
Franco is from earth, I told myself. From earth and human.
Human. Until he had been physically altered.
I had seen it done before. Men and women, transformed so profoundly it was impossible to tell that they had ever been human. It was an ability of the Avatars. Mind over matter. Mind over DNA.
Ahsen, I thought, recalling the Avatar: her stolen face, her voice. I had killed her. She had turned humans into monsters, stripped them down to bubbling skins of sinew and bone, tearing away noses and ears and eyes—until nothing was left except gaping holes filled with teeth.
First of the grafters, she had named herself. First of the spinners and connivers. First to master the Divine Organic.
Genetic manipulation, I called it. Accomplished with nothing but thought.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself. “Goddamn it.”
You killed one of their own. You thought none of them would notice?
Jack raised his brow. I tapped the corner of my eye. “One of the men who kidnapped me had been . . . altered. Here. His saliva, too.”
“Ah.” Jack was silent a moment, lost in thought. “What else did you learn?”
“That my kidnapper is working in association with the Catholic Church—and that I was taken there to die,” I told him simply. “He knew about a weakness I hadn’t considered. That moment between the transition.”
Might as well have spoken pure lightning. Jack’s mask slipped, and something ancient and terrifyingly deadly moved through his gaze. I began to shake—with cold, I told myself—and reached without thinking into my hair, grabbing the razor ruff of Dek’s neck. Clutching the warm little demon for comfort. Mal growled.
And then the moment faded, and Jack became nothing but an old man again, pale and too thin. Run ragged. Starving. Chilled to the bone
“Warn him about Cribari. Tell him to stay away.”
“Sharp man,” he said, glancing at the others, who all looked at him with red, glittering eyes. “Dead man.”
“Not dead yet,” I warned him. “First Grant. Find him.”
“Done,” Zee whispered, and disappeared into the shadows. My heart went with him. I could not predict what would happen once Cribari realized I was still alive—but whatever he had planned could not be good.
Jack tried to sit up. “Grant. He’s on a plane?”
“Going to China. A trap.”
“You let him go?”
“I had a plan,” I replied roughly. “Tracker.”
Even saying his name was difficult. Tracker. A man betrayed by my ancestor five thousand years ago, and now slave to the demon Oturu—a demon who had pledged himself to my bloodline in perpetuity. Both had disappeared months ago, vanishing as surely as Jack—but Tracker had the ability to slip through space. Just like the boys.
Only, he could take me with him.
I needed that. And Oturu had been drawn to my need, once before. I had hoped he would come to me again, bringing Tracker with him.
But now I had Jack, for better or worse. The tent was very small. The old man had only to reach out to touch me, and I let him. His fingers brushed back my hair, sliding warm and dry against my skin. He stared at the scar below my ear.
“A poor plan,” he whispered.
My cheeks warmed. I pushed away his hand. “Who’s hunting you?”
“One of my own kind.” Jack cradled his hand, his gaze far too compassionate for comfort. “We share the same pursuer, my dear.”
Same hunter. Avatar.
Franco. His eyes.
Pieces fell into place. New possibilities. I had thought, at first, that Franco might be a traveler from the Labyrinth. Demons had come to earth from other worlds, after all; as had Mary, and God only knew what else.
But Franco had perfect American English, with a slight Southern twang. If I had heard him on the phone, I would have guessed he was a normal professional, someone who liked to go to football games and drink beer with his buddies at the bar. If I could forget his eyes, I would say he was human, unequivocally.
Franco is from earth, I told myself. From earth and human.
Human. Until he had been physically altered.
I had seen it done before. Men and women, transformed so profoundly it was impossible to tell that they had ever been human. It was an ability of the Avatars. Mind over matter. Mind over DNA.
Ahsen, I thought, recalling the Avatar: her stolen face, her voice. I had killed her. She had turned humans into monsters, stripped them down to bubbling skins of sinew and bone, tearing away noses and ears and eyes—until nothing was left except gaping holes filled with teeth.
First of the grafters, she had named herself. First of the spinners and connivers. First to master the Divine Organic.
Genetic manipulation, I called it. Accomplished with nothing but thought.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself. “Goddamn it.”
You killed one of their own. You thought none of them would notice?
Jack raised his brow. I tapped the corner of my eye. “One of the men who kidnapped me had been . . . altered. Here. His saliva, too.”
“Ah.” Jack was silent a moment, lost in thought. “What else did you learn?”
“That my kidnapper is working in association with the Catholic Church—and that I was taken there to die,” I told him simply. “He knew about a weakness I hadn’t considered. That moment between the transition.”
Might as well have spoken pure lightning. Jack’s mask slipped, and something ancient and terrifyingly deadly moved through his gaze. I began to shake—with cold, I told myself—and reached without thinking into my hair, grabbing the razor ruff of Dek’s neck. Clutching the warm little demon for comfort. Mal growled.
And then the moment faded, and Jack became nothing but an old man again, pale and too thin. Run ragged. Starving. Chilled to the bone
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