The Mortal Bone Read Online Free PDF

slipped sideways from the porch and Texas dusk—into the void between .
    Between space. Between the cracks of reality. Between, in a place of infinite crushing emptiness. My soul stretched to the breaking point, stretching to accommodate that terrible void, flying apart until all I was, all I would ever be, was one lost, endless scream.
    When we stepped free, I was still screaming—inside my head. I tasted blood. I had bitten my tongue.
    Seattle was two hours behind Texas, which meant the sun hadn’t yet set. The moment we left the void—even before my foot touched the hardwood floor of the warehouse apartment—the boys surrounded me, settled, flexed upon my skin. Five heartbeats, thundering. Five bodies, embracing mine. Pale flesh gone, covered entirely in tattoos: sinuous, tangled bodies etched in shadow, glimmering with veins of throbbing silver. Scales, claws, teeth, tangled black tongues: covering every inch, except for my face.
    Mortal at night. Immortal by day. Until sunset, nothing could kill me.
    Being scared to death was another matter entirely.
    Free of the void, Byron fell on his knees—gasping. Grant leaned on his cane, jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose. I pressed a deep kiss to his chest and rested my forehead there. When I looked down, I saw the bowling bag on the floor, flipped on its side.
    “Wasn’t this bad last time,” he murmured.
    “It’s been a while. Maybe you’re not used to it.” I hoped that was the truth. I hated slipping space. It felt no less horrific to me now than it ever did.
    Grant turned over my right hand. Black nails, hard enough to cut steel, glimmered like an oil stain. Even the armor had changed its appearance—cut with knots that resembled roses. Red eyes stared from my palms: Dek and Mal, sleeping on each hand.
    A new thread of armor crisscrossed my palm, joining an entire web that traveled from the base of my fingers to the underside of my wrist. Couple more jumps, and my entire hand might be made of organic metal.
    “Some price,” Grant murmured, and kissed my hand. I closed my eyes, then forced a faint smile.
    “I hate planes,” I told him, crouching to check on Byron. “Security lines. Body scanners. Smelly air filled with icky human germs.”
    His mouth twitched. “What a diva.”
    “That’s right.” I pushed Byron’s hair out of his face, very gently. “I am a totally bodacious bad girl.”
    Grant smiled and bent over his cane to look at the boy. “You okay?”
    “Sick to my stomach,” he muttered, and took another deep breath. “But fine.”
    I glanced around. The loft was just as we’d left it. Rare late-afternoon light streamed through massive windows, making the floors glow. Long shelves crammed with books lined the exposed brick walls, and the old grand piano had a light layer of dust on it. Grant’s red motorcycle, which he had ridden before the injury to his knee, still stood in the corner. His worktable, covered in handmade flutes, had not been touched.
    My grandfather’s body had been murdered in this room, but I no longer smelled his blood—and the stain was gone from the floor. That relieved me more than I cared to admit.
    I walked to the kitchen, ran some cool water over a rag, and brought it back to Byron—who looked about two seconds from vomiting. I pressed the rag to his brow and held it there. He touched my hand, and all the boys tugged toward him, rippling warm.
    “Stay here,” I said, quietly. “Relax. When you feel better, go down and say hi to the volunteers. We’ll be close.”
    He raised his head and gave me haunted eyes. “We didn’t come back here, like this, because you’ll be staying close .”
    I stared. Grant reached down and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. The teen tensed—and then, after a long moment, nodded and looked away.
    I wondered if I’d ever made my mother feel this shitty.
    Grant and I left the loft. I carried the bowling bag. Clouds scudded across the blue sky, covering the sun. A