Read Online Darkness Calls by Marjorie M. Liu - Free Book Online Page B

more, myself. Bookshelves lined the walls, crowding paintings and hanging masks, while a grand piano held court in the corner, along with guitars and a table heavy with half-made flutes. My own belongings were there: my mother’s trunk, her leather jacket, hanging on the arm of the couch.
    I loved this place. Made me feel safe, in ways I had forgotten since my mother’s death. I was an impossible woman to hurt. A hard woman to kill. But that did not mean I had ever felt safe: safe in the heart, safe in spirit. Not for a long time.
    Flute music floated from the spare bedroom, swelling high and sweet. Peer Gynt, I thought. My mother had taken me, years ago, to see James Galway perform—and while I could not say that Grant was the man’s equal in technique, the soft power in each of his notes carried so true and pure it was as if every breath pulled me close, easing the sores in my soul.
    And yet, I was immune to his power. Zee and the boys were, as well. I had found no one else who could resist him. Demons could possess, overpower—but not affect the human soul, or consciousness. Those were simply buried. Grant had no such boundaries. He could rearrange the colors of the spirit to make something new.
    Which he did, regularly, in bits and pieces. Healing broken hearts, mending mental fissures. Small and profound acts that sent people away better, more capable, more hopeful.
    My mother, my grandmother—every woman in my bloodline—would have killed him for the things he could do. For what he could make demons—and humans—do. His potential was dangerous. His potential terrified.
    But no worse than mine.
    Mary was with Grant. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed and spine straight—ankles crossed demurely. Her hands rested in her lap. I could not see her palm. Grant sat opposite her, near the door, his golden Muramatsu flute pressed to his lips. He nodded when he saw me, and a moment later the melody faded. Mary did not stir, and I had to look close to make certain she breathed.
    Grant slid his flute into the case slung across his back; like sheathing a sword, which he did with reverence and appropriate seriousness. I grabbed his hand and pulled him from the chair. He was pale, with faint shadows under his eyes. I had seen that sick weariness on his face more often than not. He told me that using his gift did not tire him, but I had a feeling he had been hedging the truth.
    He took his cane and limped from the room. Mary remained unmoving, as though in a trance. I closed the door behind us.
    “She show you her hand?” I asked.
    Grant rubbed the back of his neck. “I went looking for you in the basement. She could hardly contain herself.”
    “Had she seen your mother’s necklace before?”
    “No.” A grim smile touched his mouth. “Funny how that works.”
    Hilarious. I was in stitches. “She give you any explanation?”
    “She mentioned the Labyrinth.” Grant limped toward the bedroom, and I saw through the open door a small carry-on suitcase on the bed. I followed him, watching how his knuckles turned white around the cane, and listened to the hard pound of wood against wood, which was louder than usual. “She started sobbing. I brought her up here to see if I could calm her down enough to talk. So far, nothing.”
    Grant stood in front of the bed, gazing down at the suitcase as if it were a live snake. I said, “You can still change your mind.”
    “I need to do this,” he replied heavily.
    “Not just for Ross.”
    He glanced at me. “I left the Church in a bad way. Forced out. I wasn’t ready. I believed in my calling. Like being married to someone you love with all your heart, then waking up one morning to find them looking at you like you’re filth, the most disgusting thing that ever crawled. Destroyed me. Then I got better. But seeing Cribari again, hearing about Ross . . .”
    I stripped off my gloves. Took his hand. “You still have issues, man.”
    “A few,” he said wryly,