Free The Mortal Bone by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

armor. I had resolve. I was lighter, in spirit and flesh, but still me.
    Grant and I limped across the dark oasis, guided only by the glint of red eyes, and starlight sliding off sleek, rippling muscles. Zee, Raw, and Aaz flowed through the night, slipping into shadows, reappearing ahead of us and behind, stabbing the earth with raking claws that hissed as softly as their breath. Dancers, wolves, lost in the night, lost with me, all of us—together.
    Dek hummed in my ear. Mal was silent on Grant’s shoulders though he made a small sound of pleasure when my husband pulled his golden Muramatsu flute from the case slung over his shoulder.
    “Big guns,” I said, breathless, tired again.
    Grant was also breathing hard. “I want to save my voice. I’m a delicate flower.”
    “Har, har,” I said, as Zee led us up a sand dune. I grabbed Grant’s hand, pulling him along. His cane kept sliding, and more than once, his bad leg almost collapsed on him. Dek and Mal sang a military march.
    “Go without me,” he muttered. “I’m slowing you down.”
    “What, we’re racing to the demons now?” I kissed his hand, and squeezed it. “Chill, dude.”
    Zee slowed, holding up a clawed fist. Raw and Aaz split off in different directions, flickering in and out of sight across the sand. Ahead of us, I saw a figure outlined against the ridge of the dune. A woman, pale in starlight.
    I tensed. Grant made a humming sound. “It’s only the Messenger.”
    I still didn’t relax.
    The Messenger had her back to us, staring into the dark horizon. Her clothing was loose-fitting, her bone structure raw, angular. A crystalline filament looped around her waist: a whip that she used with deadly accuracy. She wore an iron collar, a brand from her makers.
    The Messenger did not turn to look at us.
    “Hunter Kiss,” she said, voice echoing with power: a skimming current against my skin, starting in my eardrum and traveling down my spine. An uncomfortable, unsteady-ing sensation.
    She had tried to kill me once, with her voice. Failed, because I was immune. Circumstances were different now, and I didn’t trust her. Despite our alliance, her motives for remaining on earth, on our side, were still unclear. She had no qualms about taking human lives. Humans were mules to her, beasts of burden who existed only to supply her with the same kind of power that Grant drew from me: a life force, energy to fuel her own strength.
    Zee growled. So did Raw and Aaz, circling from behind the woman. Dek clung to my ear with a possessive little claw.
    She might try. If the boys don’t kill her first. A thought chased by a painful realization: I couldn’t take their protection for granted. Not anymore.
    “Stop,” Grant said to her, with hard warning in his voice. “Tone it down.”
    The Messenger glanced at us over her shoulder. “I told him he should let you die. You are weak now. That cannot be tolerated.”
    “And yet,” I said.
    “And yet,” she replied. “You are bondmates. He will not trade you for another.”
    “As if you would give up the bond to your Mahati warrior,” Grant replied.
    I was surprised to see a faint smile touch her mouth. It made her seem almost . . . normal.
    “He is strong,” she said, simply. “Demons are better mules than humans.”
    The Messenger pointed, and I saw a tall, angular figure standing on another ridge. I couldn’t make out much of him—spiked hair, long limbs. He was missing an arm. Most Mahati adults from the prison veil lacked body parts. They had been forced to cannibalize themselves in order to survive their imprisonment.
    He was not looking at us, either. His focus was also on the horizon.
    I stared, straining my senses, trying to discern what seemed clear to everyone but me. I had expected to see demons, but the sands were empty, and still.
    What I noticed instead was the storm.
    Flicks of lightning, illuminating a cloud that blocked out the stars and stretched across the lower lip of the sky like a