

Dark Gods Rising

Book One of God Wars

A dark fantasy trilogy

E. A. Draper

and

Mark Eller

White Wolf Press, LLC

Cover Illustration by T-Rex Studios

t-rexstudios.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 E. A. Draper and Mark Eller
Chapter 1— Changer's Ring

Glace shortened his stride amid the market crowd just before stumbling into a soft-faced young man. The man's hungry eyes were fastened on a half-naked woman who spun slow circles on the walkway before an irate merchant's stall. Catching sight of her admirer, she stopped spinning, smiled lewdly, winked, and put on the shirt she clutched in her left hand.

Glace scowled when the laughing woman strolled away.

Chuckling, the young man clapped Glace on the shoulder with a too friendly hand. Glace's unhappy scowl deepened.

"Now that's something you don't see every day," the young man said. "Not unless you hang out in the Downs."

"I see it too damn often," Glace growled, shrugging away the unwelcome hand. Still scowling, he walked away, took the first turn on the right and the second turn on his left. Half a block later he stopped, leaned an elbow on a hitching rail, and waited.

When Cass finally arrived, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

"Did you see their eyes when I flashed my boobs? Gods, they're easy." Giggling, she planted a wet kiss on his cheek. "So come on. Give. What'd you get from the fellow? He dressed posh."

Feeling sullen, Glace remained silent.

"You're unhappy." Cass finally noticed. Her smile faded. "Why?"

"Did you have to turn yourself into a harlot's display?"

Pulling away, her fading smile disappeared altogether. Narrowing eyes showed the first dangerous signs of anger. Glace forced his frown into the sick semblance of a smile. He had overstepped his bounds, again, and Cass was not pleased.

Perfect green eyes threw shadows over a delicate moon-shaped face while she studied him. Shoulder length hair, smelling faintly of jasmine, flowed from her aristocratic head, framing her face in a shroud of brilliant red. She was exquisite, mysterious, and dangerous, a woman beyond compare, and he had an uncontrollable mouth which might one day drive her away.

"You told me to distract him," Cass said flatly.

"I didn't tell you to strip for him," Glace muttered.

Provocative and mocking, her smile returned. She trailed the tips of her fingers across his chest, making his skin tingle, making him want to pull her tight to him and rip off the clothes he had just chided her for not wearing.

"Was I a bad girl?" Her hips thrust forward, pressing against his groin as her hand rose to grip the back of his neck. "Do you want to collar me? I'll wear one for you."

Glace forced his tense muscles to relax. "It's just that...sometimes...you act like a whore."

"Mmmm. Your whore." Wrapping both arms around his neck, Cass molded herself against him until there was no space left for intruding air. She kissed the corner of his mouth once, and then again. "I promise. You're the only man who can touch me. I'll eat the face of anyone else who tries."

"Yeah, well." Feeling uncomfortable, Glace unlocked her fingers from around his neck. "It doesn't mean I have to like it when they look at you. I just don't understand why you hate wearing clothes."

"It excites me, baby. I like it when they look at me with hungry eyes. I love it when they think I'm their prey, but we know different. Don't we, lover? Now tell me. What did we get from the popinjay?"

Accepting the unspoken truce, Glace reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a ring, and handed it to her. "Only a few copper coins and this. His purse was almost empty."

"Flash dresser with empty pockets," Cass said contemptuously, studying the ring with disinterest, but then her eyes widened, and she grinned. "Or maybe not. I've seen this design before. Please tell me those little baubles are real diamonds. I really want them to be real."

"I have doubts." Glace studied the ring. Six clear stones circled a larger blue one. A snarling wolf's head was carved into the blue stone's surface. Not a usual design, perhaps, but not so very unusual, either. No, to him the most interesting and disappointing part was the band. It was made of a green metal he had never before seen. It felt slick against his fingers, perhaps even slimy, telling him the ring was made from some kind of cheap metal. At best, he figured, worth about twenty coppers, which meant he and Cass might get three or four.

"I'm thinking you're wrong." Cass gestured toward the ring. "We have to take it to Mathew Changer."

Glace felt himself pale. "I don't like Mathew."

"You don't like him because I want him to father my children." Cass chuckled. "Don't worry, lover. I told you, you're the only man who will touch me. Still," she paused, "he does business at the Hellhole. Tessla's been hanging around there lately, and she doesn't like me."

"Rumor says Trelsar's assassin was arrested a couple days ago," Glace said. "She's supposed to hang next week." Suddenly feeling good because Cass seemed to have forgiven his jealousy, he grinned. "By my count, it's the sixth time this year she's been sentenced for murder."

Cass nodded with satisfaction. "That's all right then. Trelsar's whore doesn't usually escape until a day or two before the scheduled hanging. I've heard it said she likes the quiet when she isn't murdering some poor soul for her so called virtuous god. If you ask me, Trelsar's more of a hypocrite than a god, but I know you favor him over somebody more reasonable, like Zorce. Anyway, Mathew it is and tonight while she's still a prisoner. The Hole's always most interesting after sunset. The hellborn come out then, so we'll see the moneychanger tonight."

* * * *

Two hours after sunset, with his arm around her waist and Cass pressed to his side, Glace walked the garbage strewn streets of Yylse's underside and wished his parents had lived long enough to apprentice him to an honest trade. He wasn't afraid, exactly. Still, walking down a dark street recently populated by hellkind didn't fill him with confidence. The hellborn seemed to be growing bolder ever since the king started leaning away from the seven virtuous gods in favor of the two dark ones.

With gentle pressure, he guided Cass around a wyvern chewed body half covered by the remnants of a peddler's cart. Cass paused momentarily, her button nose quivering, her lips drawing back, but then she grinned, leaned over to lick his neck, and allowed him to draw her away. Ignoring the stench of rotting meat, she hugged up close and licked the side of his neck again before delivering a playful nip. "Why are you nervous? You've been to the Hole before."

"Never after dark." Glace looked carefully around, searching for signs of the wyvern. He didn't see any, but he did see a severed hand lying near the road's edge. Its fingers scrabbled and clawed uselessly in the dirt. "Selnac claims the place is safe enough by day, but only fools go there at night."

"Then we must be fools." Gently rubbing a hand through his hair, Cass cooed. "Don't worry, pup. I'll take care of you." Using her free hand, she unfastened several of her shirt's buttons, baring her full and firm breasts to the night air.

"Damn it!" Glace snapped, fighting back the urge to grab her shirt and jerk it shut. "This is no place to play your games."

"Ohhh, but it is," Cass answered. "This is the perfect place."

Her smile turned wicked, and the smile changed her elfin features into the semblance of a mischievous child. Radiance and allure filled her. Pale moisture, glistening on her aristocratic neck, invited Glace to set his lips to her skin. Something inside him, some secret part of his nature, wanted to bite into her, wanted to feel Cass's skin stretch and break, wanted to experience the copper salt taste of her blood while his hands stroked her face, ran down to cup her breasts, and gripped them so tight they bruised.

Mostly, he just wanted to pull her damn shirt closed.

Almost as if she read his mind, Cass pulled away. "Remember, puppy, you're the only man who touches me." Her voice softened. "Also remember I won't be bound, not even by you." She giggled. "Except when we play."

A young woman's body, badly torn and partially devoured, lay outside the tavern's door. Dark blood glistening on its black muzzle, a hellhound gnawed on the remnants of the corpse's thigh. Glace shuddered when its thick jaws cracked open a thighbone with the same ease Glace used to bite through an apple's skin. Pausing, Cass patted the huge Hell creature on its enormous head and scratched behind its razor-edged ear while it gulped its last bite down.

"Is Mathew Changer around?" she asked.

Leaving off its feast, the hound looked at them with bright red eyes and opened its mouth in a bloody grin. "Don't know. Carrid won't let me in there anymore."

"I guess we'll just have to go in and see."

After scratching the beast one more time behind its ear, Cass pulled Glace up the steps and through the tavern's door. From behind them, Glace heard the thighbone crack once more. Shuddering, he hoped the hellhound wouldn't still be hungry when he and Cass left— if they left.

Looking toward Cass, Glace saw her shirt remained barely fastened. As usual, she sought trouble, but this place was too dangerous for her games. At the best of times, the Hellhole Tavern was dangerous. At night? He didn't know for sure, but he suspected it could get worse than bad. Sweat dampened his pits and forehead as they opened the door and entered.

Once through the door, Glace saw the tavern was full. Raised voices created a jarring rumble. Dim torchlight illuminated packed tables covered in bottles, cards, and sprawled drunks.

The light was not dim enough for his comfort, not with Cass at his side.

Moments after entering, idle eyes turned toward them, stilled, and fastened on Cass's half naked form. Swallowing, Glace's hands quivered when he saw Cass's huge grin. Her face and half-bare torso glimmered in the erratic light. With her red hair almost dancing in the air, she appeared strange, feral. Her dark nipples, peeking around the edges of her open shirt, grew erect and hard.

With her green eyes narrowed to half slits, Cass wrapped an arm around his waist, leaned close, and whispered. "Look at them. They want me. They hunger." Her grin almost became a snarl as the tavern's noise level lowered. "Don't worry, my sweet love. No man but you."

Glaring at the watching eyes, Glace fingered his belt knife and wished they were anywhere but here. Only a few faces turned away from his unspoken threat. Most of the expressions became mocking. Glace couldn't blame them. After all, he was young, lightly armed, and clearly out of his element.

A large figure pushed through the crowd. "Cover yourself," Carrid Brewer ordered. "Are you trying to start a riot or get your boyfriend murdered?"

Ignoring his order, Cass deliberately unhooked her shirt's last fastening and opened it wide. "Where's Mathew?"

After sputtering for a moment, Carrid pointed and turned away. Grabbing Glace by the hand, Cass pulled him through the crowd. Strangely, a way parted for them. Hardened thieves, cons, and murderers shifted to the side. Glace they ignored, but of Cass they seemed wary.

Far too soon for Glace's comfort, Cass stopped before a table seating only one man. Tall and dark haired, Mathew owned the only male face Glace had ever seen lovelier than Cass'. His face was a mockery of the man, for though he was not yet thirty, Mathew Changer was known to be wicked and cruel, and those were only two of the many character flaws which gained him control of a large part of Yylse's underworld.

When Mathew saw them, his mouth turned down slightly. He sighed. "Glace, there was a time when I had hopes for you. Can't deny you have talent, boy, but I'm no longer sure of your judgment. Why are you still hanging around with this bitch? She'll get you killed."

Glace started forward, but Cass held him back.

"I know you love me," she said to the crime lord, "because I'm the only person in this city who is as fair as you."

"I hate you," Mathew said calmly, "because your body has made so many of my people bleed."

Cass laid her left hand on Glace's forearm. "They stopped dying more than two months ago, back when I found Glace." She held out her right hand, displaying the stolen ring. "This is what matters, Mathew. Do you recognize it? You should. You're wearing its mate on your left hand, only this one is real."

"Far as I know the one I'm wearing is real." Mathew took the ring and studied it closely. "It's a good job," he finally admitted, "but the diamonds are fake."

"Those diamonds," purred Cass, "come from the walkways of Hell, and so does the sapphire. Study the band closely, Mathew, because you'll never see its like again. Athos, himself, covets this metal, and when the lesser god of Hell treasures something you know it's worth a fortune." Her eyes glittered emerald fire. "I'm giving it to you for nothing. For almost nothing."

With a snap of his fingers, Mathew clenched his fist around the ring and leaned forward in his chair to study Cass with dark eyes, hard, dangerous, and knowing. "Tell me, bitch, are you trying to cover me in Hell's trappings and compromise my soul? I'm not like Carrid. I don't deal with the dead and the damned, and I don't make deals with the likes of you."

"It's almost a gift, Mathew," Cass whispered softly. "Nothing more than a gift with a couple of strings attached. Glace is getting too old for his simple cons. He needs training, and there's nobody better for that than you."

"What else?" Mathew's voice sounded flat, his face distrusting.

"Sire my children," she breathed.

"I don't even like you."

"And I hate you beyond compare. Your feelings don't matter. It's time for me to breed."

Swallowing hard, Glace shifted nervously. Cass's words had suddenly thrust him into an awkward position. He was young, untried, and relatively unknown. As yet, he had no reputation to maintain, but he did have one to build if he wanted to stay alive for more than another year or three. This meant he was obligated to protest Mathew taking his woman. On the other hand, Mathew was abnormally strong and quick with a blade. Unlike many of those in the Hellhole, Mathew could walk out to the graveyard and point at dozens of burial markers he had caused.

Still, a young con had nothing if he did not have respect.

Knees trembling, Glace pulled his knife. "You're mine," he said to Cass, wishing his voice didn't tremble.

Eyes liquid and warm, she wrapped soft fingers around the sharp-edged blade and leaned into him so her left breast pressed against his side. "I promise you, lover, no man touches me except you." She moistened her lips and then pursed them in a slight moue. "No man."

Her expression hardened. After releasing her hold on Glace's knife, she turned her eyes back toward Mathew. "Glace is still a fool. He thinks he owes something to the Brood woman who takes in all the kids, so you have to give him seven rugdles for the ring. It's a steal, Mathew, and you know it. Seven rugdles and training. It's all I ask."

"Does anybody else feel confused?" Glace muttered to himself.

Mathew's expression became distracted. His eyes shifted to the side, narrowed, and then the Hellhole's din stilled. Twisting, Glace saw Tessla standing in the open doorway, an ever-present cirweed pipe stuck between her lips, a hellhound's huge head dangling casually from one black-taloned hand.

"Does this belong to anybody?" she asked in a conversational voice, though her eyes glittered black fire. The tips of her long, white hair danced in the still air.

"The beast was a favorite of Krastos," Carrid called out. "The demon isn't going to be too happy with you."

"Its eating habits displeased my god," Tessla calmly replied. "Krastos is welcome to speak with me if he has a problem." Smoke rose from her soul-sucking cirweed pipe.

Trembling, Cass pressed herself against Glace. "Don't let her hurt me."

"I wonder," said Mathew to Cass, "which of us her god wants dead."

Surreptitiously sliding the ring on his finger, Mathew rose to his feet and scowled at Glace. "First lesson. Put your knife away. It'll do you no good against anybody in here."

Glace stubbornly shook his head and gripped the knife tighter as Tessla's eyes swiveled in their direction.

"Ahhhh," she said, and the rising cirweed smoke turned an angry brown.

"I won't make it easy for you," Mathew warned. His hands hovered near his waistline where he openly wore two knives. Somewhere in this crowd, Glace knew, were also three or four bodyguards. They might or might not help the crime lord against Tessla.

Tessla chuckled. "Mathew, I'm not after you— yet. I'm here for the bitch." Almost casually, she dropped the hellhound's head. It made a dull thud when it hit the floor.

Growling a low rumble, Cass pulled away from Glace, shrugged her shoulders, and her unfastened shirt fell to the floor. Not knowing what else to do, Glace reached out an arm to block her from confronting Tessla, but Cass pushed it away with contemptuous ease.

With the bitter fragrance of cirweed surrounding her and a thin, mocking, smile on her black lips, Tessla glided through the narrow corridor the Hellhole's patrons created when they moved from between Tessla and her prey. The silence surrounding them had become so complete Glace heard her black leather clothing creak as she drew near.

Tessla stopped six feet away, drew in a lungful of poisonous smoke from the pipe still jutting from between her lips, and stared at Cass. "There have been too many deaths. Trelsar, my god, is unhappy." She frowned. "Mathew, that was very unwise."

A small commotion sounded behind Glace. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw Mathew struggling to pull the ring from his finger.

"It won't come off." Mathew's whisper leaked tones of subdued panic. He tugged on the ring harder, but it remained firmly, magically, attached.

Glace looked back toward the assassin and waved the knife he still held. "I won't let you have her." Daring a brief glance at Cass, he barely refrained from snapping when he saw she had stripped off the rest of her clothing. Cass had changed. Naked to the room, her head canted at a curious angle while she studied Tessla. Though still lithe and lovely, her once perfect breasts no longer existed. Instead, brown and gray fur covered her chest. A hot metal stench oozed from her body.

Gulping, Glace struggled to keep his attention on both women at once. "Cass?"

When she looked at him, thick fur oozed from her facial pores. Black lips stretched along the length of her muzzle. Cass grinned at Glace, displaying needle sharp teeth. "Sorry, lover, I never felt the time was quite right to tell you." Falling to her paws, she flexed long claws, digging deep gouges into the wooden floor.

"You're a hellhound," Glace said nonsensically.

"She's a changer," Tessla corrected, "and she murders without constraint."

"Ah, well," Cass stretched her hound's body. "They wanted to lay their hands on me. They wanted to control me." Her voice lowered. "Be careful, spawn, or I'll eat your face just like I did theirs."

"Gods," Mathew cursed in a voice too rough to be his own. "I can't get the damned thing off!"

Uncomprehending, Glace jerked his head around. Mathew's once perfect face had elongated and was covered with gray fur. Panicked, yellow eyes stared furiously out of deep-set sockets while the crime lord jerked uselessly at the ring Glace had stolen.

"You would have made a wonderful sire," Cass growled. Her lips curled back, and her eyes glared at Tessla. "Do you remember me, thing? I ate your friend when you were nothing more than a spawn trapped in Hell."

"Trelsar's mercy has made me no longer spawn," Tessla warned. "Return to Hell, changer, or die."

"I could murder you." Cass's eyes glinted. "I like that choice best." Turning her gaze to Glace, thick drool dripped from her mouth. "As you love me, help me kill her."

"It hurts!" Mathew cried out.

Shaking, wanting to scream frustration, Glace raised his knife toward Tessla, lowered it, and raised it once more. Indecision tore at him. Biting his lip, he turned to the crime lord and then twisted back to look at Tessla.

Cursing him, Cass leapt. Tessla dodged. Glace had no time to pay them any further mind. Decision made, he turned, jumped on top of Mathew's table, beat the man's hands apart, and stabbed down.

Blood sprayed across Glace's chest and face. Crying out, Mathew staggered backward until his shoulders struck a wall. Clenching his bleeding stub tightly in his right fist, Mathew fell to his knees as his severed finger rolled off the table and struck the floor.

Wet with Mathew's blood, Glace spun around, jumped off the table. Tessla was on the floor with Cass atop her. Razor teeth savaged the assassin's upper arm and shoulder, ripping and gouging while the assassin's talons sank deep into the changer's neck and side. Tessla's almost alien face showed only calm indifference while meat and sinew were torn from her body. With a jerk of her head, Cass ripped a large chunk of flesh free.

Cursing, Cass jerked away. She whimpered, tried to stand, and fell prone to the floor. "It burns," she gasped through bloody froth and blistered wounds. "Dear Athos, it burns."

"Dear Athos, indeed," said Tessla, pushing herself half-erect with her undamaged arm. "My veins are filled with your master's poisons." Blood pulsed weakly from her wounds. The bleeding slowed, stopped, and without any sign of healing, the wounds suddenly closed. Tessla retrieved her fallen pipe, stuck it between her black lips, and smoothly rose, drawing in a lungful of smoke. Removing the pipe with steady fingers, she nonchalantly blew out a cloud of blue smoke and smiled. "Thank Athos for me when your soul once again resides in Hell."

Cass released a series of coughs so violent they twisted her body into the semblance of a knot. Bones snapped with solid cracks. First one, two, followed by a series of lesser snaps. Cass howled.

Dropping his knife like it was poison, Glace fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the creature he loved.

"Gods, Cass," he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have understood."

Cass released a pained laugh when her muzzle pressed near his ear. "Understood the killing?" she whispered with a voice thick and coarse. "Understood your flesh smells so sweet even now I want a taste?" She tried to draw in a deep breath. "I come from Hell, human."

Again, she coughed, and the coughing was so great Glace felt muscles jump beneath her skin. Pulling away, he watched dark ichors trickle from her eyes and ears. Bubbling puss and blood fell from her mouth.

"I would have worn the ring," he whispered brokenly. "I would have worn it for you."

"S-sorry," Cass gasped between coughs. "It was my time. I had to breed...only I can't...with a human, and the ring can't be reversed. L–loved you too much...for that."

"Bitch!"

Steel flashed, and Glace cried out when a knife buried hilt deep into Cass's side. Horrified, he dropped his lover and staggered to his feet.

Mathew, a half-changed thing, yellow glaring wolf's eyes and a wolf's face set above a man's body, threw another knife into the changer, striking Cass with a solid, meaty thunk. Blood fell from where Mathew's ring finger had once been.

"She loved me," Glace protested. "She really loved me."

"No changer can love," Tessla emotionlessly observed. "At best, they are fond of their human servants. In the end, those servants always become just one more meal." Her black leather clothing was torn and covered with fresh blood, but the flesh showing through its rents appeared smooth and whole. Not even a scar remained. "Your time was near."

Drawing close, Mathew dropped his unwounded hand on Glace's shoulder. His wolf's face appeared horrid, but something about it, some quality, drew Glace's eye.

"I was wrong about you," Mathew admitted. "You showed judgment and saved me from completely turning. When you are ready, come to me. I'll see you get the training Cass wanted."

Glace violently shook his head. "You murdered her."

"She was already dying," Mathew replied. "In a way, what I did was a mercy, but I won't quibble boy. I wanted her death on my hands." He grinned a wolf's grin. "Hate me all you like, but it won't help you. Today or tomorrow you'll come to me because you're a thief, and every thief in this city eventually becomes mine. I'll claim you, and I'll train you to be the best this city has ever seen." He looked at his bleeding hand. "I owe you a debt. I won't let you escape until it's fully paid."

Swallowing, Glace fell to his knees and cried over the dead thing on the floor.

Chapter 2— Second Chance

Late morning sunlight glared through the Dancing Unicorn's dusty panes, causing undue pain behind Simta's eyeballs. Her two orbs throbbed, feeling as if someone had plucked them from their sockets while she lay unconscious, and then kicked them about the room for hours. She was absolutely sure that same someone had added a dash of pepper before sneaking into her room and shoving the abused eyeballs back in her head; a head presently feeling like it needed to explode. Every time someone entered the inn, got up out of a chair, or set their tea cups onto their saucers, or hell, anytime someone breathed, it felt like thunder erupted inside her head, splitting her skull from the inside out.

Simta jumped as a serving girl paused by her table and plopped a teapot and cup in front her, creating a loud clatter. Simta was sure the bitch did so on purpose. Slowly opening her eyes, she glared at the clumsy cow, barely resisting the urge to puke over the obnoxious woman's dress and feet.

Not recognizing her danger, the woman opened her mouth. "You want some breakfast 'fore I go?"

Gripping the table's edge to keep herself from backhanding the insolent twit, Simta clamped her jaw tight and drew in a deep breath through her nose. Relaxing her jaw, she spoke slowly for fear of screaming. Screaming might finally make her head explode. "All I want is silence."

Smirking, the bitch gave Simta a pathetic excuse for a curtsey. "As m'lady wishes."

If the effort of throwing the teapot at the girl wouldn't have caused herself more pain than it would the barmaid, Simta would have hurled it at the arrogant lowborn's backside. Sucking in a lungful of air, Simta tried to calm down. Past episodes had proven anger only made matters worse. Rubbing at her temples, she thought back on the past three days of the Evertrue Wine and Whiskey festival, which celebrated the newest batches of liquors coming out of the storehouses. Once again, the wine seemed to have gotten the best of her, not surprising considering it had won their private battle for the last five years. The festival was a week of endless parties consisting of hundreds of gallons of the best alcohol in Yernden spread among gatherings of the utterly rich and snot-nosed aristos. True, the lowborn also celebrated but not like the overbearingly wealthy. They were given the dregs, which their supposed betters figured was good enough for them. From the rate they drank the swill, the lowborn seemed to agree.

"Can't believe you're drinking that freaking tea," one of the patrons called from the far side of the room. He raised a tumbler. "Hair of the dog is what you need, and it's free. Why don't you come over here and join me?"

Simta squeezed her eyes tight shut. Yeah. Free. Which was part of the reason she felt so shitty. Free drink, lots of food, and music on every corner and in every bar. During this festival, most of Yylse enjoyed the festivities. Nearly every adult below a certain age became a walking repository for debauchery. Since Simta was of the upper class, she enjoyed the very best of the debauchery. No dregs for her, but not many friends or family, either. Her father's friends and other close relatives considered her a waste of breeding due to her shameful ways, suggesting more than once she be disowned. For his part, her father was more than ready to comply, but not yet. Appearances had to be kept. She must be caught red-handed disgracing the family before he could safely ask Lord Calto to strip her from the family book without risking social censure. So far Simta had managed to just squeak by, but knew her luck could not last.

"Hey, bitch, I asked you a question. Get your sweet ass over here and be nice to one of your betters."

Ignoring the order, Simta lowered her forehead to the table. The man's voice sounded familiar. Hopefully, it didn't belong to one of the shadier acquaintances she'd met while hanging out with Selnac or Harlo. Hopefully, she knew him from here in the Dancing Unicorn where people of her social stature often came. If ever revealed, her shameful lifestyle would not only get Simta erased from the family tree, it would also see her imprisoned and then sent over the Sea of Whispers to some ungodly horrible land like Illian without so much as a fatherly hug. Simta knew her crimes were many. Several were of the worst while others were almost encouraged. Among her peers, being a slut was acceptable. It was quite common among the highborn to see who could seduce a rival's husband or wife, but seduction was the least of her crimes. Once this was discovered by those who couldn't be blackmailed, her privileged life was finished. Thieving rare baubles and priceless art was her specialty, but she also dealt in hidden secrets and stolen knowledge. If word of this got out to those she was not already blackmailing, her life was over.

Opening her eyes, she turned her head on the table to peer at her heckler with blurry eyes. Good. He was too well dressed to be a blackguard. She blinked several times to clear her vision, and smiled. It was the oh so respectable Sir Lord Halfrass, one of her father's most influential friends, and Simta's most vocal critics.

Simta's ire started to rise at the thought of Halfrass and the rest of her parent's social circle. Who were they too judge her? She had tried other, more respectable ways of getting money. She had even opened and run her own businesses, but those endeavors hadn't lasted after her father found out. It seemed women of breeding never engaged in business, especially when those businesses competed against his friends. He had been almost as ashamed of her then as he would be if he knew of her present escapades.

Grabbing at her throbbing head, Simta silently cursed, raised it from the table, and fastened a hard stare on Halfrass. "My better, Lord Halfrass? Tell me, do you think my father will be amused when I tell him you've placed yourself above our family on the social ladder? Perhaps almost as amused as when he hears about you demanding sexual favors from me across the Unicorn's commons room?"

"What? Oh hell, Simta, is that you." Rising, Halfrass shook his head. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Go ahead and tell your father what you will. He's more likely to believe me than a do nothing daughter who's too stubborn to spread her legs for a husband and give him grandchildren."

Tossing a few coins on the table, he headed for the door, paused, and turned to face her. "Tell him what you want, just be sure, if you ruin me with him, I'll sour you with Charmaine."

"Please do," Simta said to his back as he left, simmering through her pain and wondering if it was time to slip a discrete word into a few ears about Halfrass's shady connections. A do nothing daughter? The phrase pissed her off, but so far as they knew, she was exactly that. It was all they expected. She was supposed to do nothing, to want nothing, to have no dreams or ambitions of her own simply because of her sex. Damn it, she was more than just a woman waiting to be set on a man's arm, a pretty bauble waiting to be traded away. She had things she wanted to do, places she wanted to go but absolutely no way to do them or get there. Theft and blackmail with a touch of whoring were the only ways she could supplement her father's miserly stipend, and to be honest, the stipend only came her way when he remembered. A woman of her needs and desires had to make a living somehow since she sure as hell refused to be married off like some prized possession. True, a few of her peers knew of her exploits outside the polite world of the Morthanhi family, but not one dared speak a word to her father. Doing so would send them down in flames. Simta had made it her job to find out their secrets, to discover their dirty perversions, their petty indiscretions, and with whom they did these things. Upper society's secrets were hers to use as she saw fit. The famously pious and overbearing nobility didn't just pay her with the coin of their silence to keep her lips sealed, some also paid gold rugdles on a weekly basis or with more interesting material items. Either method of payment was fine by Simta as long as she could continue to drink, steal, and bed whomever she wanted. She would keep their hidden affairs, ruinous family gossip, and secretly failed fortunes to herself as long as doing so kept her heading in the right direction, which was out of her father's house and into her own status as head of a family.

Reaching over, Simta poured a cup of chamomile tea. The gentle scent drifted upward like a soothing balm, gentling her head's pounding. The tea would help restore some semblance of civility to her raw nerves and aching body. After three or four cups, all would be right with the world. She could then check out of the inn, go home to her own wonderfully soft bed, and forget about prigs like Halfrass for a few short hours.

Before she even got her first sip, a hand rested heavily on the chair across from her. Thunder rumbled in her head as the chair scraped across wooden floor planks. Simta groaned when the one man in the whole of Yernden she most dearly did not want to see dropped into the chair like a sack of oats being thrown into the back of a wagon. In truth, she wished he would disappear into the depths of Hell. She hoped he would get eaten by a hellhound, trampled by a horse, or kicked in the head by an arvid. Any disaster would do just so long as the sot ceased to exist.

"I thought I would find you here my dear. How is my beautiful wife to be?"

Charmaine, the Charlatan, the man who would be her betrothed, if she was stupid, blind, and ugly, but she was none of those. Even so, after one mistaken bedding when she had been so drunk and the carriage so dark she didn't realize she had climbed into the wrong one, the fool had decided she had become his. The reasoning, as best she could determine, was that Charmaine figured once a woman bedded a priest of Trelsar, the two became betrothed. Pure crap, of course, but the theory fit well with their bullshit line of honor and purity, and she didn't know what else. A good many unmarried priests, she knew from personal experience with Charmaine and several others, were nowhere near virginal in mind or body. All of it was just creative noise to make people think they had a right to be holier than thou and judgmental. Most were satisfied with a hit it and run affair, but not Charmaine. He saw her as a way to solidify social connections and make his pockets heavy. By the Seven Gods and Two, the man wasn't even good looking. He was a dog-ugly common born lout who attempted to ape his betters. The gods only knew how such common trash had gotten into the priesthood. She'd heard he'd bought his way in with misbegotten monies. Another rumor said a priest had gone in debt to him in a poker game so had no choice but to bring him into the priesthood to keep him quiet. Another story claimed one of the under-priests admitted him so Charmaine would shut the hell up. Those rumors and several others all seemed viable to her, especially the last one.

Big hawkish nose, beady brown eyes, and salt and pepper hair looking like it had been cut by a drunken barber, Charmaine stared at her from across the table, oozing false sympathy and cloying love. The smarmy bastard's entire demeanor was appalling. He possessed no social graces what-so-ever. Charmaine looked and walked like a scarecrow that had lost all its straw. If a tailor had personally fitted him, it still wouldn't have mattered. His sharp angles and elbows would have made any attempt at fashion a horror to be near. Not to mention their height difference was abominable. Simta stood barely five-foot-five while Charmaine was several inches over six feet tall. How many inches were hard to tell since he always seemed to hunker. The only thing to possibly make the man more appalling would be if he had had big buck teeth. Fortunately for the world at large, he didn't. Charmaine had one of those bright beautiful smiles with even white teeth Simta had observed on more than a few confidence men, and this frightened her even more.

At least when he smiled, he didn't frighten children, small animals, or his congregation. He did have that much going for him, if nothing else.

He cast his smile on her, bright and welcoming, inviting trust.

Simta sighed. "For the last time, Charmaine, I'm not your betrothed. I'll never be your betrothed. There isn't enough money in the world to tie me to your bedposts."

The priest's muddy brown eyes widened, and his mouth made a round 'o' of surprise. "You would let a man tie you to his bed?" Leaning forward, he took her hand in his. "I have heard such games can be very exciting, but we would have to keep it secret as it goes against the sixty-seven wifely duties of my congregation."

"Have you ever met Lord Halfrass?" Simta asked, remembering the man's threat to ruin her with Charmaine. "Perhaps I should introduce you."

Charmaine's eyes lit. "Would you? Yes, an excellent idea. I can invite him to the wedding."

"There will be no wedding." With a tug and a wince, Simta retrieved her hand from the simpering fool. After wiping her hand on her dress, she scowled at the lanky man while wishing her inquiries had unearthed some socially disastrous dirt on him. Charmaine's sect was one of the strictest and didn't entirely keep with Trelsar's teachings. The priest's congregation was made up of religious zealots who thought the end of the world drew near so they tended to give nearly all of their money to Charmaine, at his urging, to divest themselves of the corruption of worldly trappings. Their beliefs were lucrative to his purse. Charmaine possessed plenty of money even if it wasn't nearly as much as he desired. Even so, Simta privately vowed she would slit her throat before she'd marry the fop no matter what his worth.

Unfortunately, when the damn fool told her father he'd slept with Simta and felt honor bound to marry her, Simta's father latched onto the idea like a drowning man to piece of a flotsam. He saw her marriage to Charmaine as a way to rid himself of unwanted baggage. Simta supposed she could easily avoid the situation by packing up and heading out, but she wouldn't willingly cut those ties until she had enough money to form her own House.

Instead of running, Simta had a different answer to her problem, an answer she didn't like, but right now she was out of better options.

"Good gods and two," she muttered, taking another sip of tea. This was turning out to be one of those mornings. At least her head was starting to ease. Slightly.

"Our wedding, my love. You will soon come to understand the grace and beauty of being obedient and in servitude to the one true god." Wearing a reverent expression, Charmaine looked toward the ceiling and clasped his hands together briefly as if saying a small prayer. Lowering his gaze, he stared into Simta's eyes with a look of feigned adoration, but only briefly. Two moments later his gaze lowered to the generous V of her gown displaying her rather sparse cleavage.

Generally, Simta didn't mind when most men gave a peek or even a rude stare. After all, she dressed this way for a reason. With Charmaine, she felt offended and somewhat slimy.

"By the way, darling," he said, looking even more pointedly at her display, "those dresses must go. My congregation does not allow such, wonton displays of a woman's body." He licked his too thin lips, showing his own lust.

For a moment, Simta knew she would heave. Her stomach churned. Bile burned its way up her throat. No way in the two Hells would Charmaine ever again put a hand on her. She'd sell her soul for two coppers and go caravanning with Harlo before it happened.

"Get. Out. Now." Simta growled, pointing toward the door, glaring with as much venom as she could manage. Quite a feat considering her facial muscles still felt hung-over.

For a moment, it looked as if he'd refuse. Glaring, she picked up the teapot, ready to hurl it at him. Damn the consequences to her spasming body and pounding head. She didn't care if she passed out from the pain as long as it got him out of her sight.

Almost as if his seat had suddenly grown spikes that punctured his behind, Charmaine bolted up from his chair. Brushing his hand through his hair, he gave her a constipated smile before stepping back from the table.

"As you wish, darling, but a deal is a deal. Your father has given his permission, so you really should try to speak kindly to me." He sniffed disdainfully.

Fury poured from Simta's pores. If tonight didn't net her enough to buy her freedom from this dolt, she'd personally throttle the arrogant fool.

Somewhere in Charmaine's brain the threat of eminent destruction must have registered. His smile faded, and he started for the door, tripping and stumbling past the too close tables.

Simta winced at the first crash, and groaned with each succeeding one. Sighing, she laid her aching head on the polished wood table again. Okay, once she finished her tea, she'd go back to her room upstairs, instead of her father's manor, and try to get more sleep. She didn't need her father's lectures, and she did need to be at her best if she were to make it successfully into the Evertrue mansion undetected tonight.

Without warning, the atmosphere chilled. Frowning, Simta raised her head, pulled her cape tightly about her, and stood. She'd had these feelings before. Experience had taught her not to ignore them.

"Going so soon?"

Whirling in surprise, Simta stumbled over her chair as her head pounded one more frigging time. Strong hands steadied and then wrapped around her before she could fall. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away, but she felt confused and sick and her thoughts ran thick. The room spun.

"Oh my, too much to drink again?" Malaria's voice slithered into her mind and dove into her body. Insistent fingers caressed her skin, bringing memories of forbidden pleasures.

Shuddering, Simta pulled his arms apart and pushed away, feeling both repulsed and drawn to the man. One of Yernden's wealthiest thieves, Malaria looked like a young innocent, but behind his round, delicate green eyes and perfectly tanned and unlined face was a mind and soul so vile she suspected even Hell would reject him if he fell through Carrid Brewer's hellhole. His wealth and skills intrigued her. His methods sickened her, but at the moment he was her employer, her solution to the problem of Charmaine. Tonight's haul would net her enough money to gain her freedom from both Charmaine and her father. Once she separated herself from her father's connections, Charmaine would gain little from pursuing her. If he persisted, she could always throw him enough money to buy a title and increase his influence. It was what he really wanted. For him, she was just a means to an end. Yes, a fat purse of golden rugdles would buy him off.

Looking at the situation in a brutally honest way made Simta feel used. Why couldn't she take over her father's business dealings? Why did it have to be a man in charge? She knew twice as much about handling people and money than all of her father's thieving accountants. Rage began to burn in her belly. It wasn't fair, any of it. Because of her father's arrogant insistence on clinging to tradition, she had to debase herself by working on one of Malaria's schemes.

"Tell me, how are you doing today, Simta?" Malaria asked. "Are we still on for tonight?" His long fingered, well-manicured hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You have the darkest red hair I have ever seen, and perfectly cut emeralds would envy your eyes." Those long fingers gently traced her jaw line.

The room seemed to have grown hot and her body overly warm. Simta loosened her cape and took another step back. "I'm not feeling very well. Maybe we could continue our conversation later this evening? Besides, I'm not comfortable being seen together, not here."

The last thing Simta wanted was to have Halfrass or another of her peers enter the inn and see her with a known criminal. It was one thing for people to hear whispers in the dark but a whole 'nother type of social suicide for her to parade it out in the open. She quickly darted her eyes around the inn. Most tables were empty except for a few toward the front by the doors. A servant cleaned Halfrass's table while another swept the floor. Nobody she knew, fortunately. The morning traffic was petering out, but within an hour the inn would start filling up with the early afternoon customers looking for a bit of lunch. Bankers, jewelers, accountants, this was a favorite place for the well-to-do, which was why Malaria had no freaking business being here.

Malaria chuckled. "Honestly, Simta, when will you give up the trappings of these fools and be your own woman? If you do well enough tonight, I might see to it you have a place within my business and not just as a petty thief. Then you could really tell your overbearing father to piss off."

Now that caught her attention. Simta pushed away her growing mental fog enough to focus. "What kind of place?" The bastard better not intend her to be his bed warmer.

Catching her hand in his, Malaria gently led Simta to a darkened corner table. After glancing around the room, he pulled out a chair for her and then took his own seat, placing his back to the wall.

Every nerve in her body grew taut, and she still felt incredibly miserable. It was hard to think when everything was overly acoustic and her mind was tangled. Rubbing her head, Simta took a deep breath. She really wasn't in the mood for his manipulation.

"Allow me." Hands outstretched, Malaria gently cupped her head, drew her face down toward the table and started making small, soothing circles on her cheekbones with his thumbs, ignoring her brief motion of protest.

The relief was instant. Waves of soothing energy flowed from his hands and into her body, feeling like hundreds of fingers massaging and caressing her everywhere. The sensation was nearly orgasmic. Laying her head down, Simta moaned, not caring if she drew attention. Just as she thought she might crawl across the table and into the man's lap, his hands slid casually away. Simta whimpered at the sudden parting.

"I hope you feel better?" Through half-lidded eyes, Malaria regarded her hungrily, almost as if he wanted to touch more than her face.

Simta nodded numbly. What was it he had just done to her? Every cell in her body hummed and twitched. The way she felt it was a miracle the man still had his clothes on. She wanted to reach across the table, rip his shirt and coat off, cut away his trousers, and throw him to floor. Between her legs, a horrible ache grew, a need so deep she didn't think even he could satisfy it.

"I'm sorry I..." Malaria looked away for a moment and allowed his eyes slowly travel back to her. "It's been a while. I didn't mean to do that. I really do want to make you a business associate and maybe something more."

From beneath the table, Malaria's stocking foot slid beneath her skirts and up her inner thigh. Simta's breath caught. Surely he wouldn't— not in public— not when—

In mid-thought, his toe found her sweet ache and started making slow circular motions. Simta moaned long and low before she could stop the sound escaping. She moved her hips in a grinding rhythm against his foot. For several moments it seemed as if no others were within the inn but the two of them. As suddenly as he had started, he stopped. His foot trailed back down her inner thigh, leaving behind a horrible need.

"Simta, let me take you upstairs and show you all the benefits of being your own woman, of having full control of how your life is run." With a smooth fluid motion, Malaria rose and moved around the table to help her from her chair.

Strong arms circled her waist and pulled her close. Simta felt small next to his much taller stature. Malaria stood easily over six feet, but, instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like she would have with Charmaine, Simta's body seemed tailor fitted for him. She felt protected, wanted, and dare she say, needed?

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers. Simta only briefly worried about being seen kissing him. Worries about her peers no longer existed. Soft lips teased at her mouth, taking all her concerns away. Who cared if anyone saw them? After tonight, she would be her own woman, have her own grand house, and maybe even start her own House. The rest of them, her father along with his family and friends, could just bugger off.

* * * *

Fourteen hours later, Simta groaned as she crouched behind a statue of Trelsar in the wee hours of the night. Gods, what had she been thinking when she agreed to steal a book from the Evertrue estate? And what in the two Hell's did Malaria want with the damn thing? Simta clenched her hands tight in frustration. This was not where she wanted to be. What she wanted was to be with Malaria, in his arms, wrapped in silk sheets.

Another deep breath and still no relief. She needed to get this task over. Then she would be okay, get back to Malaria with the book, and the new life awaiting her.

Three bells rang through the night. A crisp spring breeze blew around her, penetrating her thin black leggings and shirt. It brushed against her bare neck, sending shivers down her spine. Reaching up, Simta pulled her ponytail tighter and gave her mask another tug just to be sure all was secure and wouldn't expose her at the wrong moment. The last light inside the manor had disappeared half an hour earlier, but she wanted to make sure everything went perfectly, with not a soul awake to interrupt her. If she had to deal with someone, it could screw the whole burglary up and cost her life's ambition, relegating her to being nothing but the wife of a pansy priest.

Thoughts of Charmaine brought bile to her throat, which she quickly swallowed back down. The last thing she needed was to be ill when action waited. Fighting back her uneasy stomach, Simta hated Charmaine, despised him. Even absent and unaware, the smarmy bastard interfered with her plans.

Another deep breath brought her the delicate floral scents of the flowers and blooming trees scattered about the garden, soothing Simta's frayed nerves a bit. With cat grace, she moved out from behind Trelsar's statue, giving it silent thanks for protecting her from idle eyes. The garden was bathed in deep shadows. The twin moons of Callendale and Cafia had not yet risen, wouldn't for another half an hour, giving her another advantage to be thankful for. Every shrub and tree and flower seemed to loom as she crept across the ground to the manor's side.

Pausing, Simta waited, her eyes darting about, halfway expecting some of the plants to attack. It had happened to her before, though not often. Only a few of the highest families worshipped Omitan, god of the land and woods. Some of those few had formed pacts with Omitan's servants, tree gelfs and sprites who crept about at night, ready to either warn the house guards or attack intruders with trees or bushes infused by their spirits. Bad enough, but gods forbid if one of the little buggers got their teeth into a person. They owned nasty bites and were mildly poisonous.

After a few moments of stillness, Simta relaxed. Nothing. As she had suspected, Omitan's servants shunned this place.

Imagining herself as just another piece of the dark, Simta hugged the manor wall and slipped around until she crouched beneath the study window. Earlier in the evening, while attending the party, she had made an excuse to slip off by herself in order to unlock the study window. No one questioned her absence. Truthfully, she made people nervous. With what she knew about many of their personal lives, more than a few of her social peers felt better with her gone. Fine with her. Simta didn't care for their company either, bunch of liars, cheats, and uppity prigs.

She heard only the quiet chirps of insects and an occasional night bird's call. Here, in the upper echelons of Yylse, the rich and richer maintained a tight community tucked carefully behind stone walls and cold, iron fences. Nothing touched the aristocracy that they didn't allow in. Even Hell approached only with an invitation.

With a gloved hand, Simta reached up to the window. The hinged panes swung wide, coming open with barely a squeak. Simta hefted herself inside. Her lithe frame slid silently over the sill and landed without incident on the other side. She closed the window behind her, leaving it cracked just enough so she could push them open for a quick escape. The study held pools of deep shadows. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. The desk containing the book pressed against the far north wall, directly opposite of where she stood. Two chairs, a globe stand, and a filing cabinet were the only objects she had to worry about knocking into. Along with these potential obstructions, the room also held the desk and chair, a couch along the wall, and an oversized bookcase filled with massive tomes.

Nodding satisfaction, Simta slid one booted foot in front of the other, careful to mind the rug's edge. Once she made it to the desk, it would be easy to find the exact drawer and begin picking it open.

Simta paused for a moment. This really was very easy. Much easier then she thought it should be. Then again, she'd done jobs requiring less than ten minutes work. People tended to get careless the longer something sat safe. How long had Malaria been after this book, and why hadn't he come to get it himself?

Bent down, her mind preoccupied with too many thoughts about the why of this job and not enough on the precautions, Simta failed to notice the door had opened until the brazier next to it flared to life.

Tools slipped from her hand. She was too shocked to care that they fell. Jerking her head upward, she saw the worst of all possible people standing in the doorway.

"Looking for something?" A voice holding no warmth, one which very seldom ever did, racked over her scathingly. High Priest Lord Calto Morlon, the queen's personal advisor, a distant cousin on her father's side, and worst of all, head of the extended family, stood like death himself in the doorway.

Instinct kicking in, Simta lobbed a small statuette of Anothosia at the priest while diving for the window, but when she shoved on the panes, instead of swinging easily out, she found them locked— and shuttered. Panic flooded her mind like a great sea swell.

Lurching away from the impossibly locked window, she grabbed at the only other things available to her and started chucking books from the case lining the west wall. Only one left her hand before a blast of light struck her full in the chest, sending her careening backward into the bookcase. Heavy tomes of leather bound misery rained down upon her head, knocking her nearly unconscious.

The world became fuzzy. The room tilted from side to side. A gruff hand grabbed her mask and ripped it from her face, causing her to slide sideways to the hard, polished wood floor. To Simta's fuddled brain, the cool surface almost felt good against her fevered skin, but not for long.

"Simta, how very disappointing. It will grieve me to strike your name from our family tree." Calto's voice drifted to her from far away, sounding less than sincere in its regret.

Putting her hand down, she tried to rise when she was jerked upright and dragged across the floor. Calto shoved her hard into the desk chair, nearly spilling her over backwards when he shoved it toward the middle of the room. Vertigo hit her in waves as she finally gave up trying to hold her dinner down. Doubling over, Simta hurled over a new rug she knew the Evertrue's had recently purchased from Illian.

Good, the smug bastards deserved it for inviting Calto into their home.

It seemed like forever before she could sit upright and not have everything spin. The sight greeting her didn't make it any better. Leaning on the edge of the desk, holding a gleaming white leather bound book big enough to club someone to death, Calto stood rigid with anger in his white, long priestly robes. In his right hand, he held a replica of Anothosia's staff of truth complete with a moonstone set atop it. The stone glowed so brightly it made the brazier's fire seem dull in comparison. Calto regarded her with cold, emotionless blue eyes, eyes so pale they appeared to be ice, but not ice made of water— more like ice on fire.

Trembling, Simta sank deeper into her chair. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real. Calto wasn't even supposed to be in Yylse. She had recently heard he was in Grace, the king's city, visiting Queen Elise. Did he know she was coming? Had he the sight, or did she just have a case of bad luck on this job?

"How dare you." Calto's voice emerged as a bare whisper, but it held all the sting of a slap to her face.

Simta flinched.

"Do you have any idea what you were stealing? By all the laws of church and state, I could have you publicly hanged for this attempted theft?"

Each word stabbed her with Calto's righteous anger, scalding and tearing at Simta unmercifully, making her whimper and cringe. Gods, she hated him for making her feel this way, cheap and pathetic, like filth beneath his feet. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of this bigoted bastard. She would at least die with some pride.

"Answer me!" Like an erupting geyser, Calto leapt from the desk's edge and stormed over to her, standing before her like a towering white flame. The aura previously possessed only by his staff's moonstone now radiated from his body as well. Calto appeared to be a blazing white pillar of godly power, ready to smite her where she sat.

Crying out, Simta protectively flung her hands over her face.

"If you will not willingly tell me the truth, I will pull it from you painfully." Extending his staff, Calto touched the moonstone to her head.

Like being physically jerked forward, Simta's hands flew from her face in a spread eagle position. Layers of her mind, her memories, her past lies, and deceits burst free. She felt Calto shuffle through her lies and carelessly toss them aside. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Simta wanted to beg for mercy, call for help, but she did not. Those were options she no longer owned.

"Well, isn't this interesting," Calto mused, and Simta's mind crashed into a forgotten memory. She found herself back in her room at the inn, sprawled across her bed, naked, moaning, clutching at Malaria's ass as he jammed his cock deep inside her. Instead of experiencing feelings of pleasure, an intense pain ripped through her body. Like water colors on a too wet canvas, Malaria's features melted, transforming into something which made even the pain of what Calto did to her a mercy.

Malaria's sleek, muscled body grew larger, grotesque in its shape. Long blue barbs protruded from the backs of his arms and head. Spikes grew crookedly down his spine. More of the same needle-like barbs riddled the back of his calves, dripping a green poisonous liquid that burned and ate away at her skin. Simta knew her face was a twisted mask of silent horror as Malaria dipped his head down to her breasts. She heard herself scream as he tore at her pale skin, shredding delicate flesh with long, razor sharp teeth. When she thought she could scream no more, as blood poured from her body to soak the sheets beneath her, sickly grey and black tendrils of magic wrapped around her dying body. Malaria stopped feeding and raised his head to look down curiously at her. Frowning, he lifted a clawed hand above her chest. Simta watched in horror as he shoved bits of his magic into her ruined body. The blood on the sheets reversed its flow to rise and reenter her wounds. In mere seconds, those wounds were healed, but a horrible squiggling, grayness covered her skin.

The scene disappeared suddenly. Simta found herself back in the Evertrue study, lying on the floor in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and crying hysterically. Long, agonizing moments passed before she realized someone had put their arms around her and stroked her face, trying to give her some small measure of comfort. No comfort was there for her. No peace was to be found and never would be. What she had witnessed in the inn's room would haunt both her waking and dreaming hours for as long as she lived.

"This cruelty was unnecessary, Calto. You nearly destroyed her." A man's voice speaking gently near her ear, barely carried past her sobbing.

"Please," Calto sneered. "Our cousin deserved that and more. She's a disgrace. A piece of filth who would better fit in among the lowborn trash."

"'And I say unto thee, walk among my people with compassion, walk among them with mercy in your eyes and forgiveness in your heart.'" Although the man holding Simta spoke with a low voice, it held passion as he recited one of Anothosia's teachings, one all her priests were ordered to follow. Opening her red, swollen eyes, she turned her head to look into the face of Calto's twin brother, Larson, knight and captain of the Order of the Sword and the Staff. Seeing Larson, tears streamed down her face in a silent torrent.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Calto ignored his brother. "Save it for church services." He studied Simta. "You have no idea what your lover sent you to steal, do you?"

Cringing again, Simta shook her head. Every time Calto spoke, fresh tendrils of pain whipped at her mind. "Please, stop. I–I don't know why he wanted it. I swear to you on my very soul, I do not."

When a low humming filled the air, Larson hugged her tighter. Warmth and peace eased over her body and mind, allowing her to feel something other than abject horror and unrelenting fear, but just barely.

Anger flashed across Calto's face, twisting it into cruel, hard lines as he glared at Larson. "I am not finished, brother."

"Yes, brother, you are."

In a battle of wills, the two stared at one another, caught in a deadlock. Long moments passed before they both looked away. The room's tension eased.

Picking her up, Larson carried her to a dark red leather couch set along the east wall and laid her gently upon it. "Simta, you're lucky the demon only touched you once. Malaria is known to be powerful and well connected. Once he got his hooks fully into you, he would have owned you body and soul. Did it not occur to you to wonder why he didn't just come and get the book himself?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," Simta answered. "I just— I was desperate I guess. I didn't care why. I just needed the money." A sudden surge of anger made Simta glare at Calto. Men like him and her father were why she was in this mess.

Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, the priest took a step forward. "I know what you are thinking, but you have no one to blame for the mess of your life but yourself. No one told you to whore, or thieve, or drink."

Like a house made of mud caught in a torrential rain, Simta's anger dissolved into dark streams of pain. A fresh onslaught of tears coursed over her raw cheeks at the realization all her secrets had been revealed.

"I saw it all while I was within you." Calto's cold whisper opened new wounds. "The petty remarks, the blackmail, the thieving. I even saw how you ended up betrothed to that idiot Charmaine. Did you think to hide these things from me, Anothosia's most high priest and head of our House?"

Larson turned to his brother. "I said enough. Simta might be guilty of all you say, but she is also a victim. I won't allow you to rape her mind further. All deserve Anothosia's forgiveness. All deserve a second chance."

With a toss of his head, Calto sneered at them both. "Fine. She will get her second chance, but she will also atone for this sacrilege. Tomorrow evening she will meet with her demon lover at the inn where he raped her. She will help us spring a trap on him. If she does not, I will march her straight to her father's house in the evening and explain why she is being stricken from the family books and sold off to the highest bidder in the Illian slave markets."

A cold wind tore through Simta's soul at the thought of facing Malaria again. She started shaking. Even being sold as a slave was a fate she would willingly face over being in Malaria's presence once more. "No," she mumbled through numb lips, "please no. Don't make me face him again."

Gods, is this what Calto did to others in his role as Anothosia's high priest? Is this how he gathered the truth, by shredding a person's soul, tearing out their hearts, and destroying their minds? Simta shrank as far into her seat as she could.

Kneeling, Larson placed a reassuring hand upon her cheek. "You won't face him alone, Simta. I wouldn't allow anyone to do that. I will be there along with Calto and several of my knights. We will kill him when he shows us his true form."

Simta clutched at Larson's arm. The memory of Malaria feeding on her body remained fresh. "He'll rip me to pieces again, only this time he won't put me back together."

With a gentle tug, Larson pulled his arm from her grasp. "I swear upon my soul no harm shall come to you, dear cousin." He stroked her disheveled hair. "You will be safe, but Calto is right. We need you to do this. We have tried to catch Malaria for a long time, but he always sees through our traps and murders our spies. You have no idea how many good men and woman have died at his hands. Help us stop the evil bastard, and you'll have your second chance." Drawing back, Larson looked at her with pleading eyes.

A deep shudder ran through her body. Calto had made it very clear what he would do if she didn't comply. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Seeming regretful, Larson shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not, but Simta, think of all the good you will do. Think of the men and women who will go home to their families alive and unscathed to kiss their spouses and hold their children, all because you helped us stop Malaria."

Larson stoked her cheek. The calluses on his hand felt rough against her tender, tear soaked skin, nothing like the hands of other Yernden nobles. Unlike Larson, those prigs knew little about an honest day's work or sacrifice. Unlike them, Larson's hands bore the scars of many battles. A long puckered line ran down his left check, marring the perfection of his looks. Both brothers were handsome beyond words, but she could always tell the twins apart even without the scar. Where Calto's face was arrogance and cold justice, Larson's was a sun-kissed summer day. Warmth and joy danced over his strong features. Why couldn't he have asked her to marry him? Why had her father never presented him as a choice? After all, Larson was still unmarried, and though they were cousins, they were not closely related.

With the world weighing down her head, Simta gave a weary nod and became limp within Larson's embrace. It was all just too much for her. In this one night, she felt as if she had aged twenty years, all her youth gone in an agonizing stripping of her soul.

"Good. Now get out of here!" Calto snapped. "And you had better be at the Dancing Unicorn tomorrow, Simta, at nine bells." Calto's eyes narrowed. Something unnatural stirred behind them, something powerful, something Simta knew she dared not break a promise to.

* * * *

Exhaustion still pulled at every muscle in Simta's body. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before leaving her room to meet Malaria in the commons below. Getting ready had been almost unbearable, her limbs felt too heavy to apply her makeup and put her hair into its customary array of dark red curls atop her head as best she could without servants. Heavy, but she had gotten it done, gotten dressed, and was leaving to attend her own farewell party. At least it was how she felt as she left her room and headed for the stairs. From the top of the stairs, she saw and heard a number of party goers just coming into the Dancing Unicorn, resplendent in all their finest dresses and pants and waist coats. Only two more nights of the festival remained. Simta knew these partiers were trying to get in as much debauchery and as many drunken revelries as they could in a short time. With such dark happenings upon the land, the people of Yernden needed every excuse they could find to rejoice, to forget the hellborn who dared walk in the open, and forget the hellhounds who chewed on friends and neighbors in dark alleys. The citizens of Yernden needed these five days to push back the trappings of Hell that were slowly consuming the very life force of its inhabitants with rumors saying King Vere contemplated changing his allegiance away from the seven virtuous gods to give it to the Two.

Sweat trickled down what little cleavage Simta owned, making her dress's silken green material cling in an itchy, uncomfortable way. Her shoes, pointed prisons of torture, were not what she would have chosen for such a dire meeting, but she had to dress the part Calto had given her. Men's traveling boots would have looked out of place with the rest of her finery. If she had to run for her life, she was as good as dead. One small consolation was the blade strapped to her calf. With it, she could cut her shoe's laces and rip them from her feet when a moment presented itself. Even barefoot was better than what she presently wore.

Although people were arriving, the commons room wasn't overly crowded yet. Good thing. The knights had planned a special show just for Malaria, a show Larson promised the demon would never forget. Her eyes scanned the crowd trying to figure out which were the knights and which were just celebrants. No one seemed out of place, but that was what Calto and Larson wanted, the element of surprise. There was laughter, tankards of good ale and jugs of the best wine, along with the smell of roasted pork, arvid, and chicken. If Simta didn't feel so wretchedly nauseous, the commons would have smelled like a slice of heaven. As it was, she could barely stand to breathe without puking.

Scanning the room, Simta felt a glimmer of hope when she didn't see Malaria. Maybe he had decided to not show, but from the corner of her eye she caught the wave of a hand. She turned slowly toward the gesture, horrified at seeing Malaria's languid hand motioning her over. Did she really have to sit with him to fulfill Calto's orders— within reaching distance? She knew from rumor how fast demons and devils could move. She once saw a demon change its hands into weapons, and hellborn were strong. How easy it would be for Malaria to simply reach over and rip her head right off her shoulders. At least if he killed her, Simta wouldn't have to suffer much, that is as long as he decided not to hold her on the brink of death and play with her afterward. Of late, many walking dead had been seen in the dark recesses of the city streets. No part of Simta wanted to join them.

Oh gods, this is not helping. Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy, happy— oh screw it. I'm dead.

Drawing a deep breath, Simta gave Malaria a small smile. Well, more like a grimace, but it was the best she could do at the moment, especially considering the fact she was about to die.

Simta's hand strayed to the satchel by her waist. Another book, one given the appearance of the book she had been sent to steal, had been handed to her by Calto with simple instructions. All she had to do was hand it to the demon. When she had asked what it would do to Malaria, Calto had given her a cold smile and said, "You will just have to watch and see."

Needless to say, this dubious assurance only cemented the fact she was going to die.

The demon stood. His eyes narrowed, but his calm smile never left his face. Sweat formed upon Simta's brow and did a slow slide down her neck as she drew closer. The satchel hung so heavy upon her shoulder Simta thought she was going to drop it. Malaria slowly came around the table to pull a chair out for her before returning to his seat.

The air felt thick and heavy with her own fear. When Simta sat, she envisioned shackles coming up around her ankles and upper arms, effectively trapping her in the chair so Malaria could kill her slowly once he discovered the book was a fake. If worse came to worse, she could lie and tell him she only did as he had asked, that the book she took from the Evertrue mansion was exactly the book he had wanted because it looked like the book she had been sent to steal. How could she know it was a fake?

"Things went well I assume?" he asked.

"Yes. It wasn't too difficult to get in and grab the book, but I'm a bit nervous. Anothosia's seal was on top of it."

Amazingly, her voice didn't shake or crack like she feared it might. She found it difficult to not crane her neck around looking for the knights. Somehow, she managed to continue staring in Malaria's eyes without screaming. For once, she had not had a thing to drink. Simta sincerely doubted alcohol would have helped anyway. She would never be able to get drunk enough to forgot what Calto had shown her, the horrid vision of her own body being torn apart by this evil monster's teeth, watching herself die.

"Well, let me have it." Malaria looked hungry, anxious. Both hands pressed face down on the table's surface. "That's it in the satchel, right?"

Nodding, Simta placed the plain brown leather satchel upon the table.

"Show me."

With hands that shook only slightly— which was a miracle because she was close to peeing herself— Simta untied the strings. Malaria leaned closer, his expression both anxious and greedy. When Simta lifted the flap, a bright light burst forth, striking Malaria hard in his chest, sending the howling demon backward into the wall behind him. He struck with a thick, meaty thunk.

To Simta, the world slowed down for a moment before erupting into motion. The first thing was Malaria changing form. His change wasn't the slow melting that occurred on the night he raped and ate her. No, his human flesh blew off from him in every direction, spattering everything, including herself, with gobbets of bloodied meat. Beneath was blue, charred skin, both cracked and bloodied from Anothosia's light. Black demon blood ran from his injuries.

Malaria grabbed the table and ripped it in two like it had been made of paper machete. The pieces went flying in opposite directions, barely missing fleeing customers. An insane look, one of pure fury and unfathomable rage, distorted Malaria's features.

"You lying, back stabbing whore." The demon's words crashed into her like a physical blow, sending her scrambling from her chair, across the room, and into a group of panicked partiers.

If breathing had been difficult before, now it was even worse. What little air she had been taking in seemed to be knocked from her body. Every bone, every muscle ached protest as she scrambled to get out of the way, to flee like the rest of the people. The room's air became frigid. Frost formed on the surfaces of tables and chairs. Choking, Simta tried to force air into her burning lungs. The horrid blue demon with poisonous spikes Calto had earlier ripped from her ravaged memory advanced on her, staring with eyes blacker than night, silently promising a long and painful death.

No longer able to think, move, or feel, Simta stood rooted to the spot, frozen in place by Malaria's horrid, burning stare while those nearby fled. Her mind told her to run, to hide, but where and how?

A hard jolting sensation brought her about as a powerful hand roughly shoved her aside. Simta landed with a thud upon the dusty floor, the pain knocking at least a semblance of awareness into her. Around her, the room was a madhouse. Screaming people ran for the stairs, windows, or doors while others, too terrified to move, paid the price with their lives as Malaria sent his spikes flying through the air, piercing them with his poisonous barbs.

The need to live overcame Simta's fear. She scrambled up and over a fallen table but she didn't dare try for the door. The crush of panicked people made it too late for that. The inn's air stank of burnt flesh and sulfur. The room lit up with magic. Red, blue, yellow, white, the colors flashed to a thunder of harsh sound and horrible screams as knights closed in on Malaria.

One of those knights flew across the room and thumped hard against the wall to her left. The gleaming silver of his armor was covered in blood. A chest piece and his faceplate were missing as the poor soul slid slowly to the floor, his hands full of his own intestines. The air smelled of shit, bile, and other things she could not identify. Blood bubbled up past the knight's lips as he tried to speak.

Shouted commands filled the air, jerking Simta's head away from the horrific sight beside her.

"Damn it! Form up you fools! Surround him. Don't let this abomination escape again." Calto's voice rang through the inn, demanding all who heard him to obey, to fall in and do as told. His voice could not be denied, did not dare be refused.

Unable to listen to her own common sense which demanded she stay down, Simta peeked over the table's top edge.

Five knights remained standing, all but Calto and Larson showing the gleam of light armor through rents in their evening clothes. Those two wore full armor. Two of the knights bled badly from body wounds. Another didn't bleed even though his severed left arm lay on the floor. Instead, a brilliant yellow light, seeming to boil with living things, took the place of his missing limb. Simta clung to the table's edge, shocked into utter stillness by the sight of the armless knight wielding his sword with a beam of light. Never before had she believed any of the tales she had heard about the Knights of Anothosia, but there before her very eyes the legends had come to life. Each of the five knights bore an aura of a pulsing whitish-yellow light. Their blades moved about them with unbelievable agility and speed, becoming nothing more than blurs to her untrained eyes, and all wore expressions of fierce determination. Beaded drops of blood and sweat flew through the air around them, not all of it theirs. Malaria, too, bore injuries. He stood in the middle of their circle. Ragged slices crisscrossed his body. Blood ran freely down his torso and legs. Even so, he still stood, a look of triumph on his face, a look saying pain would not stop him from murdering these remaining knights with his Hell poisoned claws.

"Give up and I might let a couple of you live!" Cackling, Malaria reached out to casually knock the knight with the missing arm across six tables and into a wall with a bone grinding crunch.

The knight howled in pain and gasped for air as he tried to sit upright. Laughing, Malaria reached for another knight, for Calto, with lazy arrogance, and that was a mistake.

Dodging to the side, Calto slammed his staff hard against Malaria's horned skull before the demon had a chance to lay his hands upon him. With that blow, the room exploded into a cacophony of sound and a blinding flash of light. The Dancing Unicorn's remaining mugs, cups and tableware exploded into wooden splinters and pottery shards. Ducking beneath her table's edge, Simta held tight while the magical backlash nearly sent her tumbling. Screaming in pain, the blue-skinned demon leapt up and over the bar at the back of the inn. Its scream traveled through the room on a wave of muddy light, sending knives of agony through Simta. The cry simultaneously shivered into her bones with wrenching pain while also bringing vivid visions of torture and mutilation to her already fragile mind. Her own scream burst forth with such force she thought it ripped her throat and shriveled her lungs.

She wanted to faint. She wanted to die, wanted to sink down into the earth, deep into the dark and disappear from sight. Malaria's cry assured her life was nothing but ruined dreams and pointless aspirations. There was no reason to live when the worms needed so desperately to feed. Ragged sobs shook her body as she raised her eyes once more above the table's edge to see the battle continued.

The remaining four knights sped over and around the bar in a blur, trailing white glowing after images behind them. With a roar which made the floor vibrate beneath her bruised knees, Malaria sprang from behind the bar to land on its top only to be knocked in the gut by Calto's staff. The demon barely had a moment to show shock as the blow lifted him off his feet and flung him into the low hanging ceiling before he crashed back down on his stomach among a scattering of broken cups and mugs atop the bar. The white light shining from the moonstone atop Calto's staff leapt from the polished jewel to the demon, spreading across his body in jagged lines. The smell and sound of sizzling flesh filled the air as smoke began to pour off of Malaria.

While Calto had been keeping him busy, the remaining knights had made their way around the back of the bar. One was Larson. The lights seemed to shine brighter around him and Calto than they did the others, almost as if the brothers not only shared the same looks, but also the same power.

"Anothosia!" Larson cried, raising his sword high. With another mighty shout, he plunged its steel deep into Malaria's back, pinning him to the bar top. The other two knights quickly began hacking and chopping into the hellborn, hewing little pieces of the demon's legs free.

A horrible, vile feeling started in the pit of Simta's stomach, traveled up her burning esophagus, presenting itself in the form of wracking, choking spasms. Her last sight before she fell to her hands and knees in shuddering dry heaves was Calto shoving the moonstone into Malaria's mouth just before the demon's head exploded.

How long she crouched behind the table spewing her bile on the floor, Simta did not know. Not until two mail-shod feet stood before her did she become aware of the room growing almost silent.

An ungloved hand reached down in front of her face and stroked her cheek, a calloused hand, gentle, caring. "He's gone Simta. We sent him back to Hell. You can get up now."

Tears pouring down, Simta covered her face and sat back on her heels, her body shaking. Strong, metal sheathed arms scooped her up and carried her across the room. She felt so pathetic, so little, frightened and lost. What would she do now? How could she pick up the pieces and carry on after all this horror, after Calto had stripped away her blinders to show how she had been mind and body raped by Malaria.

"Coddling her still?" Calto's cold voice demanded. "Look around you brother. Several of us are dead, another barely alive, and one of the remaining fine businesses in Yylse is a total ruin, all because of her."

Again, Calto's frigid voice tore at her mind, the sound of it shriveling her soul.

"Calto." Larson sounded weary, exhausted. "Just stop, please. This is not her fault. We're lucky she brought us the opportunity to trap Malaria. As for our dead and wounded, well— it's the risk they knew they took, a risk all of us take every time we don our armor and weapons. It's part of the oath we swore. This is a war, Calto. People die in war."

Sadness crept into Larson's voice toward the end. He pulled Simta tighter to his chest, cradling her like a small child. Like a father with an infant, he placed a gentle kiss upon her head. "Forgiveness, Calto, it's not just for those you think are worthy to receive it."

A small measure of relief flowed through Simta. Opening her eyes, she looked up at Larson. Dirt and blood streaked his face, but his eyes glowed faintly, their lights almost swirling like falling snow when she looked up into a blue winter sky at daybreak. Peace and serenity seemed to play within the wintery storm. If ever Simta were to believe in the gods, now would be the time. Of all the magic, lights, and sorcery she had witnessed, none came close to the power she sensed within Larson.

"Are you a god?" she whispered.

Larson's summer smile slowly appeared. He shook his head once and kissed her forehead. The brush of his lips sent warmth through her cold body all the way down to her very soul. Simta relaxed against him, and her tears stopped.

"Not I," he said, "but rest assured cousin, the gods are out there, and not all of them evil. There are god's who fight for our souls every day, gods who need us as much as we need them."

"Why are you bothering with her?" Calto snapped. He had been quietly shuffling about the room but came up behind Larson to stare scathingly at Simta. "She will not change. An arvid does not stop being an arvid because you saddle it and paint it to look like a horse. Simta will not stop being Simta because you tell her there are such things as gods. She hasn't believed her whole life. I am sure this night will only have a moment's impact upon her little world." Calto sneered at her. "Give Simta a couple of months, and she'll once more be lifting her skirts for anyone who will have her."

Larson's features turned hard as he looked up at his brother. "If we were not in a public place and suffering the effects of battle, brother, we would be exchanging more than words right now."

"Don't let the location stop you if you've a mind to try and best me. All the civilians have fled and our remaining knights are gone."

For a moment, anger burned brightly in Calto's expression, and the same strange wintery look Larson held in his eyes blew dangerously within Calto's. His, however, held a winter storm, merciless, cold, and cruel. Would they really fight one another, two grown men, priests and brothers?

The moment stretched on painfully. The air was charged with a prickly energy, making the hairs on Simta's body stand on end.

"Go take care of Arlot," Larson finally said. "I'll see Simta safely home."

Just like that, Larson's anger dissipated. He looked back at Simta, dismissing his older brother as if he were a servant.

A look of shocked rage came over Calto's face, and then solidified into cold anger. "This is not over, little brother. You need to remember who is the head of our family. I will enjoy showing you."

With a quick turn, Calto stomped off like an angry child. Watching him, Simta fought back the insane urge to laugh. After all the blood, death, and horror transpired but moments ago, the church's supreme leader was acting like a four-year-old. This was a side of Calto she had never seen. His petulance helped put things in perspective, reminding her no one was perfect, not even his supreme snobbiness, Lord Calto Morlon.

A soft chuckle brought her attention back to Larson. A barely suppressed smile teased his mouth. "He really can get into a twist when he's mad. I think I'm the only one who can truly get away with pissing him off."

A giggle escaped Simta's mouth before she could stop it. Quickly, she clamped her hand over her lips and turned her face into Larson's chest so he wouldn't see her fighting a laughing fit. Had she finally gone crazy, fallen over the edge? If she had, at least this kind of crazy was better than the screaming kind this situation deserved.

Larson's body shook as he, too, suppressed his mirth. All too quickly though, reality reasserted itself. Sadness and fatigue crept back into them both.

"Is Calto right? Am I going to Hell, Larson?" Sniffling, Simta wiped at her eyes. "I don't want to go there, but I don't know how to stop being me. I feel like I'm fighting the world, and I'm all alone."

A puzzled expression crossed Larson's face, and then he shook his head. "Anothosia says all sins can be forgiven. If you truly repent in your heart and soul, there is the promise of salvation for you. No one is ever alone if they believe in the power of faith, love, and forgiveness. Simta, you will never be alone if you believe not only in the power of the gods, but also yourself." He gave her a quick smile. "Besides, you really haven't done all that many bad things. At least I don't think you have. Why don't you marry your man and settle down?"

Larson must have noticed the look of distaste upon Simta's face, because a sharp laugh escaped him. "Oh, come on. Marriage isn't all so terrible, and if you marry more for love and a little less for money, you may actually enjoy being Charmaine's wife."

Simta shook her head. "No, Larson, I can't. I just can't. It's not that my life's ambition has been to disgrace my family, but I feel there's something missing, something I'm supposed to be, know, or have. I can't make the feeling go away. I might not know what I want. I may not know my destiny. I do know marrying that simpering, money grubbing idiot is not it."

Despair washed over Simta anew as she realized Charmaine was the only option left to her. After tonight, she could no longer steal, drink, or whore around. Larson had given her a second chance. She would take it, but by the Seven Gods and Two, she didn't want to marry Charmaine even to save her soul. There had to be some way out of it.

"Hmmm," Larson said, nodding thoughtfully. "I might be able to help you delay matters. Trelsar's church needs young women to do charity work. It's a one year commitment, and only single men and women can do it. Trelsar's priests don't want married people because the work demands a lot of time and dedication. Most of the married are too busy with their spouses and children. The priests don't want to take people away from tending their families. It would buy you at least twelve months and give you time to find a better suitor. I have several good friends within the mission. Getting you accepted wouldn't be a problem despite your engagement." Larson laughed softly. "Not to mention most of Trelsar's priesthood detest Charmaine. Nothing would please them more than putting a bee in his butter and slow his rise to nobility."

Oh gods, no. Simta hated religion, but the look in Larson's eyes and the memory of the love and peace she felt within his arms came back to her. If ever there was a time she could believe in the gods, it was now. Would it hurt to give them a chance? Could things truly change for her if she prayed to Trelsar for help or asked Anothosia for guidance?

Maybe, but maybe not. Either way, twelve months might buy her enough time to find a solution to her Charmaine problem. Hell, what did she have to lose?

Looking up at Larson, Simta nodded. "I'll do it. If I have faith in nothing else, I'll at least have faith in myself to find a better life."

A broad smile lit up Larson's face, and by the gods, Simta actually thought she could feel the summer sun caressing her skin, warming her body.

"Good girl, Simta, good girl. I know you can do this. Now up we go. You still have time to make the party over at your house and start your new life. I hear your father had a small fountain erected in the main hall with wine instead of water pouring from it, but before you go, I suggest you clean the blood from your hair and change your clothes."

They stood. Simta swayed before righting herself. The smell of blood and other body fluids made her stomach clench and her head throb. The thought of drowning herself in a barrel of wine and whiskey was tempting. Okay, so maybe she would start her new life in two days, after the festival.

Lifting a hunk of flesh off her dress, Larson flicked it to the floor.

Chapter 3— Similian Rising

The waning light from the pale slivers in the sky of Terra's two moons, Callendale and Cafia, cast just enough illumination upon the wreckage lying in the middle of the street to reveal how dangerous and out of control things had become. An hour earlier all hell had broken loose, literally. Now, the businesses and walkways in and around the Hellhole Tavern remained eerily quiet and empty, except for the few people who had not yet finished dying. There was nothing Larson could do for those except speed them on their way, but to be honest, why should he? It was their own fault they were lying in pieces instead of spending the rest of this night in peace.

A sharp crack sounded, making Larson jump. A rusted hinge had popped off the tavern's battered wooden doorframe. Out of three hinges holding the door in place, only one remained. Larson, Lord Morlon, thought this was a bit of a miracle. From the way this night's debacle had been described to him, this entire area had been one huge concussion of sound and blazing light. Bits and pieces of tables, chairs, and body parts had exploded outward from the rickety doorway into the narrow, dirty street in a wide arc. The cesspool's denizen's had run screaming off into the night leaving six people, all of them deserving their fate in Larson's mind, ripped and torn apart in a most hideous manner. A harsh judgment, he knew, but those six sleazy, depraved individuals were the cause of the mess before him. Because of them, death had arrived.

How little anyone cared about this had already proved itself. Carrid Brewer, the tavern's owner, stepped outside the tavern shortly after Larson arrived with his knights. He took a look around and shook his head. Frowning, he began pulling at the remains of his furniture, looking for unbroken pieces.

"Can't let good workmanship like these 'ere chairs just rot in the street, now can I?" Carrid grunted at Larson. "Stuff cost's money, it does, an' getting Robar Joiner to do the work is harder every week."

He kicked a decapitated head out of his way.

Now, only ten minutes later, the bar owner's statement still floated around in Larson's head as Carrid continued his search for unbroken furniture. It was a conundrum of irrationality. What in the name of the Seven was wrong with these people when death and hellborn had so little impact upon them? If this had occurred anywhere else but the Downs of Yylse, any normal citizen would have immediately fled upon seeing hellborn inside their favorite tavern, but obviously, from what Larson had seen tonight, the Hellhole didn't have normal citizens as patrons. Instead, what the tavern had were harlots too new or too old to sell their goods anywhere else and thieves looking to fence stolen goods either unusual in nature or needing to be moved out of Yylse quickly. Then there were the drunkards who were too poor or just plain too stupid to go somewhere else to feed their addiction, con men and woman looking for an easy unsuspecting mark, and a tourist, perhaps ignorant of the ways of the darker paths in Yylse, who had come to the city specifically to prove or disprove rumors that the Downs were awash in the trappings of Hell. As a knight of Anothosia, Larson knew he was supposed to feel sympathy for the lost and the unwise. He was supposed try to bring them back into the light of the virtuous gods. Maybe so, but over the last few years all the blood, the horror, all the good men and woman and children he had seen devastated by Athos's and Zorce's lies, those cursed gods of Hell, well, it had piled up on him spiritually, especially tonight. He felt tired at heart and sick of soul for the shit-assed stupid people like Mathew Changer who thrived in these conditions, and god forbid, their own King Vere who seemed on the verge of inviting more of this into his kingdom. The lies, the deceits, the deaths, they had become a gray blur of putridness to Larson, a mass of undisguised, unrepentant filth. All of them were fools, all of them damned. Maybe Calto was right. Maybe these people deserved the end that was coming to them, especially those now lying in their own blood in the middle of this street. After all, they had instigated the riot. They had challenged Hell.

"Looking a bit off there," Carrid observed to Larson. "Maybe you need a spot of drink to settle your nerves."

"No," Larson answered, wondering where his mind had gone. He had a job to do so he could get home to his secret family. He needed to investigate further and see to exterminating the guilty hellborn.

"Hold," he told Carrid as the man turned back to his tavern doors, three chairs stacked in his arms.

Stopping, Carrid turned back to Larson, cocking one eyebrow. "Hold?"

"I have questions. Tell me what happened— in your words— not repeating what others have told you."

"Sorry, got work ta do," Carrid said, gesturing at the furniture with his chin.

"I do have a sword."

Carrid set the chairs down and scratched his head. "Point taken. Okay, here's how it was. Three demons and one devil, they come out of the hole in my cellar. Now they wasn't big hellborn— little guys all, or maybe medium big, none of 'em taller than five or six feet. Definitely not bigger than seven. I wasn't paying too much attention to their size when they was sitting down on account of a fellow named Harlo looked to be challenging Robar Joiner to a fight. Once the action started, I was too busy ducking to bring out a measure. Anyway, they come up just before twelve bells. Shortly after that I heard the young devil bragging about the vast supply of diamonds what pave Hell's corridors. One brag led to another, and soon enough three or four fools wanted proof so the devil, he pulls out a bunch of diamonds so big a dozen of them couldn't have fit in my hand. Seemed to pull 'em out of nothing, he did. The fellow didn't even have pockets on account of he wasn't wearing pants."

"I suppose those diamonds captured a lot of attention," Larson noted wryly.

"That they did," Carrid agreed. "Well, everybody knows devils enjoy my whiskey, so the fools bought the hellborn several rounds of my cheapest rotgut, sort of wanting to get the hellborn drunk so they could rob them at dice, or so I assume." He gave Larson a knowing smirk. "That sort of stuff doesn't normally happen in my place but I've heard of somebody doing it once or twice a few years back."

"Of course, it doesn't," Larson said, disbelieving. "Your tavern is just as famous for its upstanding customers as it is for your foul whiskey. I'm told your cheap stuff tastes like sour piss."

Carrid nodded. "Sure does. My secret ingredient, matter of fact. Arvid piss gives it a unique kick. Anyway, by the time the devil finished his third tumbler and lost his fourth diamond to a bad roll of dice he figured something wasn't right with both the whiskey and the dice. Instead of calling his opponents cheaters, getting angry, and bashing them over the head like most of my honest patrons would do unless they used swords and knives and such, the devil simply started pulling off limbs and throwing bodies out the door. Pretty soon the two demons joined in, and that's when things got interesting." He smiled. "Good fight and it taught the smart ones to never cheat a devil."

"Any idiot should know that!" Larson snapped.

Carrid shrugged. "Most of my customers are idiots else they wouldn't be in my tavern. Now if you don't mind, I got work to do." He looked around. "Might as well do a little more cleaning up before hauling stuff in."

Idiots. Death, dismemberment, and panic in the streets because of idiots and hellborn.

Except in Larson's opinion it wasn't just the idiots or the minions of the Two who had caused this mess. It was the Downs as a whole because it owned an infectious and unwholesome attitude. Apathy.

"Doesn't this bother you," he demanded of Carrid as the tavern owner scrapped bits of flesh off a chair. "Hellkind crawl from a hole in your tavern. They wander the streets, terrify the citizens, and bring death. A few years ago it was a trickle, but the hole is growing wider, and the flow is increasing."

"Not my business," Carrid said. "Making money's my business, so the hole's been good to me. Besides, King Vere says it's a'right, so it can't be too bad. "

"It's a slap in Anothosia's and every other virtuous god's face!" Larson almost shouted. "It's allowing Zorce's get to leave the Hell She and They created in the deeper caverns to imprison all of hellkind."

"It's said the Seven created Hell several thousand years ago," Carrid said reasonably. "The vent in my cellar grew large enough for smaller things to crawl out more than two hundred years back. If the bitch goddess didn't like the little thingy's getting out maybe She should have sealed it shut back then."

"It was intended as an airshaft," Larson explained, "and only the lesser hellkind could crawl out of it, but these last years it's become bigger and more dangerous. All of Yernden is under threat."

"Maybe," Carrid half-heatedly agreed, "but I'm not. Me an' Hell get along just fine. Apparently the king feels the same."

A bitter smile crossed Larson's face as he remembered the outrage the Order had felt when King Vere announced that none were to touch the Tavern, explaining how Zorce and Athos were misunderstood and had every right to live amongst the good peoples of the world. After all, it wasn't hellkinds fault they were nano-cursed, whatever that meant.

Bah! What a load of horse shit. Vere's decision two years earlier to allow the tavern to remain open and leave the hellhole unchecked had sent more than a few of the order into Calto's office demanding action, including Larson. Calto almost choked when he heard Larson declare the king an enemy to Yernden before suggesting the king's removal.

To say his suggestion had not gone over well was a bit of an understatement, but Larson had never been known for diplomacy. Still, he owned enough sense to know when things needed to be taken in hand and dealt with. The Hellhole Tavern and Carrid Brewer were two of those things. In his opinion, the king was a third.

Carrid lifted two heavy chairs in his powerful arms and headed for the tavern. "You done asking me fool questions," he asked as he walked away, "or you willin' to accept that your time of harps and happiness is about done, an' another beginning?" Pausing, Carrid looked around once more. "I think everyone's finished dying. Could you have your knights haul the bodies away? They're bad for business." Chuckling, he pushed past the tavern's broken doors.

Larson ignored him. A hot, sticky wind blew against his face, sending prickles across his skin. This had the seeming of an ill wind, a wind of something evil blowing his way, but whether he suffered a case of nerves or something bad was about to happen, Larson didn't know. A slow gnawing despair ate at his innards as Carrid disappeared inside the tavern. The despair had been creeping up on him for weeks now, but it suddenly hit him full-blown as the stench of shit, bile, and blood wafted over him, trying to force its way up his nose and into his lungs. He wanted to add his stomach acids to the pile of filth spread out over the mud and brick packed street. For a moment, the world swam. Larson steadied himself against the grime covered wall of an abandoned building.

Straightening, he took a step deeper into the shadows, hoping the devil and his companions were returning to the scene of their depravity, but nothing stirred. Except for Carrid, none dared come near the horror in the street when Hell roamed free, and there wasn't a damned thing Larson could do about it.

A deep anger pushed upward from his chest, pushed and shoved at the weakness he felt, at the hopelessness trying to choke him. Making a tight fist, Larson expelled the vile feelings from his body. This was only a battle lost, not the war. He swore silently at himself for owning so many irrational feelings. Tonight Athos and Zorce had won, their creatures had gotten loose, but there would be other nights, nights when Larson's knights destroyed the beasts before they could harm Anothosia's people. His knights would not give in, would not give up, and would not forget their vows to serve and protect all those who worshipped and believed in the seven virtuous gods. There could be no backing down— ever. The moment Larson allowed that to happen the war would truly be lost. It was in the heads and the hearts of good people where the battles for truth and light were really won.

"I don't think they will be coming back this way," a voice whispered in his ear.

Startled, Larson jumped. With a swift pull of his sword, he took a step backward and swung at the shadow stepping in front him. Leaping away, it hissed, bringing its own sword up in a defensive posture.

"Good gods and two, Larson, put that damn thing away!"

The wild beating of Larson's heart nearly drowned out the similian's voice. Lowering his sword, he frowned at his fellow knight. "One of these days, Sulya, you're going to end up with my sword sticking out your back." And I'll enjoy doing it, Larson thought acidly as the woman's smile turned mocking.

Hate would have been a mild word for what Larson felt for his forced partnership with this thing, a price he had agreed to for Calto's return promise of trying to make nice with Simta. Any other man would have delighted at having such, a beautiful woman, as their partner, but there was something unnatural about her beauty, something going far beyond her just being a similian. Yes, similian's were strange by anyone's lights. They were naturally seductive and sexual, much like a succubus but without the stench of Hell. Before meeting Sulya, Larson had never before heard of a similian who would bed a human. In most similian tribes it was forbidden because something in their skin secretions drove most men or women crazy with desire. Not the type of mad-in-love kind of crazy, but the insanely-devoted-mentally-unstable kind of crazy where a human's desire for self-preservation disappeared.

None of this seemed to bother Sulya Ibarra. For Sulya, human sex was a game. Before reforming and joining the knights, she had loved to see how far she could push a man before he broke.

Hips swaying, displaying the natural grace of a cat, Sulya sidled her lean body closer. In the pale moonlight, her skin looked corpse gray. Her unusually large eyes were black empty pits.

Larson shuddered. In the daylight, Sulya's skin was a dusky blue when she was calm. When angry, it turned a horrid fuchsia. By day her long, black, silken tresses shone almost blue, and she owned the most sensual lips he had ever seen on a woman. By night, her appearance changed to dark mystery and fell menace.

Even so, his entire body always ached to bed her, while his mind found her repulsive.

"Relax, Larson, you're safe from me." Sulya's voice slid over him like liquid sex as she raised a hand to his cheek. "Well, almost safe. You know, your brother is a treat in bed. It took a long time to get him there, but once he had a taste..." Sulya stood before him, one hand caressing his cheek. Six feet tall, she could easily stare into his eyes. Up close, her luminous eyes cast a soft green glow as her hand continued stroking. "Imagine what it would be like if I had both of you in my bed, touching me, kissing, and tasting."

She leaned closer. Her lips parted.

The heavy air became hard to breathe. Nothing mattered except Sulya's touch and those perfect lips. Larson wanted her beneath him, wanted to drive into her, wanted to cup her heavy breasts in his hands as he squeezed.

The similian's lips touched his. Larson reached for her hair— light flared between them. A stinging sensation ran up his sword holding arm. Sulya yelled in surprise as Larson jerked back, nearly tripping over his feet. He looked down at his sword, the Sword of Justice, a gift from his goddess. It glowed, and it never glowed unless hellkind were near.

Larson jerked his gaze around. Had the devil come back with his demons? He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to regain his night vision. After several moments, his vision cleared, and so did his senses. Sulya's musky scent still drifted on the air, but it no longer made him feel drugged.

Realization struck Larson with a force so strong he almost raised his sword to remove her head. The bitch had tried to seduce him. Tried hell! She had succeeded until Anothosia's blessed sword intervened.

Smiling seductively, Sulya quirked an eyebrow. "Just a taste of what you could have."

"If you ever touch me again," Larson said coldly, "I will not hesitate to kill you."

A stiff, hot wind blew the last of Sulya's musk away, and the breeze died down, leaving Larson in an eerie stillness. Shifting her weight, Sulya gripped her sword so tightly Larson heard the leather grip creak. The similian's lips thinned to a hard-edged slash.

"Nobody threatens me!"

Larson readied himself for her attack, relished the idea of taking her head from her shoulders. Let her come. He would wipe her from the face of Terra.

She did not attack. Instead, Sulya sheathed her sword, gave him a stiff nod, turned, and left. Over her shoulder she shouted, "Good eve to you, Larson. May your goddess protect you this night."

With a quick step, she disappeared between two ramshackle wooden buildings.

The wind picked up again, blowing hot in his face, carrying her mocking laughter.

Shuddering, Larson lifted his sword and looked around as Carrid Brewer left the tavern in search of more unbroken furniture. Hellborn were out. Knights depended on him, and a hunt was on.

* * * *

Hours later, he returned to the Hellhole Tavern. Much of the broken furniture remained, but the bodies were gone. Someone, or possibly something, had removed the dead. Two, maybe three hours ago, he guessed, by the remaining stains. He wasn't sure. His exhausted mind had lost track of time.

Death's stench still hung in the air, faint and slightly metallic. The night was so silent, so still Larson could almost hear his own sweat trickle down his back and drip from his brow. Where were the night sounds? The birds that preyed after dark? Owls and bats should have been in evidence. He couldn't hear scavenging rats or barking dogs. Neither could he hear yowling cats, lowing horses, or braying arvids. Strange, especially the arvids. Arvids always complained, even when sleeping. Most importantly, where were his knights? He hadn't seen one living thing in over an hour.

The feeling of impending doom returned with sudden force, His gut felt hollow. Fear sucked at his soul.

Larson's leg muscles twitched; his shoulders ached, and his stomach growled. He desperately wanted to go home, wanted to cozy up to his wife in bed, then wake up to the beautiful sound of his daughter's laughter. Instead, he was still chasing Hell's escapees in a hollow night that felt wrong— very, very wrong. It wasn't unusual for his prey to escape back down the hellhole, but tonight felt different as if the hellborn were playing games with the knights, leading them about by their noses. The hellkind's trail had led his knight's on a grim chase from the Downs, where the hellhole was located, south to the harbor, east to the uptown estates of the Heights, then back west again to where the search had started, one big hot miserable stinking circle. He felt like they had been chasing a dozen hellkind instead of just three or four.

Well, three now, or maybe two. Larson and Gilkrend had dispatched a smaller demon back to Zorce as it devoured someone in the harbor. A ship would be short a deckhand tomorrow morning. Larson might be short Gilkrend and maybe more. Was he the last knight remaining? Where had they all gone? Why this game of hide and seek? He was used to hellkind being much more direct. Was he dealing with a different breed of hellborn? Of late, they had been smarter, more powerful, and meaner.

Larson took a deep, quiet breath. He was so weary, so sick of the games. At twenty-seven, he already felt like he had lived a lifetime. Anithia had noticed silver caught among his blond hair when she last trimmed it.

Come on Larson, he chided himself, at least be thankful the dawn is almost here, and we now outnumber them.

Maybe outnumbered them if the others still lived, not that numbers would make a big difference with only one extra knight, but it helped nonetheless. Originally, there had been five knights hunting the creatures, but Gilkrend had been injured so badly they'd taken him back to the temple. Larson prayed he lived. Anothosia's sworn knights were dwindling in number. Recruits with the right abilities, the right gifts, were hard to find. Hell had taken its toll on the Knights of the Order of the Sword and the Staff these last years.

"Larson," Sulya hissed from several feet away.

Again Larson felt his heart try to leap out of his chest while his mind settled with relief. Gods damn the woman! Now was not the time for her games, but it was good to make contact with at least one of his knights.

Larson took a deep breath to help control his urge to throttle Sulya as she crept over to him. He didn't like being caught unaware. How in the name of Anothosia had she seen him? He had been crouched down in a pitch black doorway and concealed within his magic.

Bones aching, he stood up. Feeling brittle and old, he took a quiet step out of the shadows. His hand felt raw beneath his glove from holding his sword in a death grip all night. Looking to the sky, he noticed the two moons were waning. The darkest part of the night, the one right before the dawn, was upon them. What little breeze there had been a short time earlier was gone. He felt like an over-baked loaf of bread inside his armor.

"Game time is over, Larson," Sulya whispered. "It's time for blood work. Two hellborn are inside the tavern. I saw them carrying something. I think a body." Sulya kept her distance, stopping several feet from Larson, just out of range of his sword.

"I haven't seen anyone enter since I've been here." A knot formed in Larson chest. Gods no. Not another knight dead.

Sulya gave him a quick nod. "Yeah, it's weird. I've been waiting here for a while and only just now noticed you. I looked for the other knights but couldn't find anyone. I thought they were chasing one of the demons until now. If we don't go inside we might lose more of our number."

Indecision tore at Larson. If it were the devil in there, he and Sulya would be unable to handle it. But if the captive was still alive— could he face himself in the mirror knowing he had acted the coward and allowed one of his own to die?

No, he could not.

Decision made, Larson took the lead and crept among the shadows of the dilapidated buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Even so, Larson felt eyes upon him. His skin prickled.

The tavern's door had been repaired, but it hung open. Why hadn't he noticed this before? Was he that tired?

With a curse, he placed his foot upon the tavern's threshold. He stopped, held his breath, and listened. Aside from his own erratic heartbeat, Larson heard nothing. He eased inside, looking carefully around the dingy interior. The reek of puke, blood, and stale alcohol made him want to add his own bile to the mixture. The weak floorboards groaned beneath his weight. He might as well have barged in banging a pan with a metal spoon. If the devil were here, it knew someone was creeping about.

In pitch black, Larson slid his feet carefully along the floor, feeling his way to a wall where he thought there should be a scone hanging.

A scuttling noise came from the kitchen. Larson stopped, waited a moment, but heard nothing more. Reaching through the dark, Larson touched the wall, and thankfully, found the wall scone. With a bit of willpower, he thought the wick into lighting. It flickered slowly, and then began to burn brighter, giving Larson a better view of the chaos around him. Chairs and tables had been haphazardly stood back up. Other than that, Carrid had not bothered cleaning. The walls and floor were spattered with dried blood. Broken wooden mugs, smashed casks of ale, and bottles of cheap wine littered the floor as well.

"I bet they took the prisoner down into the cellar," Sulya whispered from behind him. "Into the hole."

Larson's heart seized again and that worried him. Yes, her whisper had taken him by surprise, but he was a knight with nerves of steel. Why did she bring up his alarms? He had never before felt so violent and edgy toward any woman.

"Don't stand so close," he whispered. Don't stand in the same room, he thought heatedly. Why did it have to be Sulya with him? Where were the other knights?

Larson feared the answer would be down the hole.

Sulya slipped by him without a word and entered the kitchen. Larson hesitated before following her. Once inside, they paused to listen.

Nothing.

"Look." Sulya pointed to the cellar door. Faint light illuminated its entrance, indicating someone was down there. "Oh gods, Larson. I don't think I can bear to see another one of us dead."

Neither could he, but someone had to look. Slipping in front of Sulya, Larson cautiously made his way to the other door. The kitchen had been spared the demolition. Pots and pans still hung neatly in their places. A grime covered oven and an open fireplace stood in the same corner as the cellar entrance. Opening the door, Larson placed his foot on the top step leading to the hellhole. Black puddles shone on the worn wooden steps.

"Not good," he told Sulya. "There's blood."

"Damn right there is," she chuckled.

Something heavy slammed into Larson's back, sending him tumbling and ricocheting down the decrepit stairwell. His head slammed into a step, knocking his helm off. Another blow sent his sword flying. Pain shot through his body as he bounced and then, with a sharp crack, he landed at the bottom. His world went black.

* * * *

The first sensation he felt upon waking was a searing pain along his cheek. His eyes flew open, and he groaned as the burning switched sides to track its way along his other cheek.

"Oh my, I think I woke him up." A scratchy, whiny voice said from above and behind his head.

Larson tried to look toward the voice, but he couldn't move. Nothing obeyed his commands. For a moment, he thought he had been tied though he couldn't feel any ropes or chains. He felt nothing holding him, and yet he could not move. Cold, hard fear settled in his chest like a block of ice.

Something tugged at his leg, jerked him around. He tried to lift his head to see what yanked on him, but again, his body stayed immobile.

"Cut it off if you're hungry," the whiny voice said.

Cut it off? Cut what off?

A low hiss sounded down by his feet.

Suddenly free to move, Larson choked back a scream and rolled to the side as a piece of the darkness lunged at him. He swore as his bruised body was struck, grabbed, and thrown. Spinning in the air, Larson crashed into the wall. He gave a strangled gasp as ribs snapped.

More laughter echoed through the room. Raising his head high, Larson called to his goddess. "Anothosia, I pray to you, help me find my sword!"

The room burst into brilliant light. Hellkind screamed and scattered. Appearing as a ball of golden light in the middle of the room, his goddess's gift, Larson's sword, shattered the darkness, blinding the creatures of the hellgods. Suddenly able to move, Larson dove for it, grabbed, and rolled to a crouching position with the blade held ready. His body screamed agony as his broken ribs stole his breath. Black spots marring his vision, he stood and readied himself for battle. Again, a blast of muddy light slammed him into the wall. Larson screamed. Searing pain traveled up his right arm.

Darkness overtook him.

* * * *

Larson awoke to agonizing pain. From a faint light in the corner, he saw he again lay at the bottom of the steps. "Oh, no," he whispered, turning his head to the side. His arm. Gone. Only a charred stub remained.

Stifling a cry, Larson vowed he wouldn't scream like a woman. By the goddess, he was a knight of the Order of the Sword and the Staff. He would not dishonor Anothosia in such a base and cowardly way.

Something crunched.

Larson tensed.

"Mm— delicious," a husky voice murmured. "Never knew a knight could be so tasty. I wonder if your soul will be as good."

Squinting toward the voice, Larson had to focus his blurred vision. A squat, man-shaped thing, naked and covered in blood, hunkered by the wall, casually chewing as it pulled at the sinewy remains of Larson's arm. Bile rose in Larson's throat when he saw shreds of his charred flesh caught between the hellborn's long teeth.

"Truthfully, I would've preferred your flesh raw instead of cooked, but we can't have everything, can we?"

Stomach lurching, Larson vomited.

"My, my— how the mighty have fallen," a woman's soft voice chuckled.

Jerking his head around, made the room spin. Sulya leaned against the stone wall near the hellhole, smirking. Her long, black tresses had been pulled back into a top knot. Her visible skin had changed to a strange puce. Instead of Anothosia's shining armor, she wore black, spiked armor with a cat of nine tales insignia inlaid in its breastplate. Zorce's mark.

"So tell me, Larson, do you like my new pet? Bent, come say hello to your dinner."

Growling, the devil lumbered forward. "Your pet, Sulya? I ain't your pet. If you ever address me so again I'll drag you down to Hell and show you the true meaning of pain."

Sulya's smirk widened into a feral grin. Her color darkened into a putrid orange that seeped and oozed like slime over her exposed skin. It pulsed with a life of its own, almost as if it could crawl off her body and become a separate creature.

Larson tried to move, tried to inch away from her, but his remaining limbs had become leaden. He had no feeling from his knees down.

"Bent, you will be anything I wish you to be," Sulya told the hellborn. "If I tell you to bugger yourself, you will do so." She pushed away from the wall. "Now step off and stay the hell out of my way until I tell you to move!"

Snarling, Bent leaped across Larson to land in front of Sulya.

Sulya struck as soon as he landed. Orange light exploded from her hand, crashed into the devil, sent it cartwheeling back across the room. When it hit the wall with a solid thunk, Bent screeched and fell into a wiggling mass. Composure lost, it reverted back to its true shape of scales, horns and claws.

"Bitch," Bent growled. "You'll pay for that!"

Eyes gleaming, Sulya laughed. "Really? I belong to Zorce. To offend me is too offend him. Shall I tell him you challenged his general?"

Snarling, Bent picked himself up from the floor, but said nothing more.

"I didn't think so." Sulya looked smug, victorious.

Zorce's general? Larson's throat seized. Calto was in greater danger with this woman than he had suspected. His brother had to be warned, but how?

Larson struggled to make his body move, but the numbness spread rapidly. Thoughts of his unfulfilled mission swam in his head, drowning him in regret. He would never hold his wife or daughter again. He wouldn't be around to protect the two beings capable of saving the world. Would Zorce's minions go after them next? Did Sulya know the secret? He didn't think so, but was unsure. What if Calto had revealed it to her? What if there were demons at his home right now defiling his wife and child?

"Now, where was I?"

Sulya came closer and stood beside him, smiling while her gaze roamed up and down his broken body. "What a waste." Tsking, she rolled Larson to his side.

Sweet goddess, what was she going to do to him now?

Releasing her hold, Sulya allowed his body to roll onto its back. "Where is it?"

Larson coughed. The bitter taste of metal filled his mouth. "Where is what?" he managed.

"The sword. That damned blessed sword of your bitch goddess." She didn't give him time to answer. Instead she grabbed the lantern and furiously searched first the ground, and then between and on top of the liquor crates.

After long minutes of searching, she came back and glared at him. "Where. Is. It." She punctuated each word with a vicious kick to his ribs. Larson heard them breaking but felt nothing.

"Fuck you," Larson muttered. "D'you think I snuck around and hid it while you stood over me?" Weary and exhausted, he sighed. He wanted to get up and run her through with his belt knife, wanted to make her pay for her betrayal, but the numbness tugging at his brain made him too lethargic to move.

Eyes narrowing, Sulya's gaze slid slowly to the devil. Following her gaze, Larson saw the beast had almost finished eating Larson's arm. "You!" She turned to face Bent fully, her orange skin glowing brighter.

Dropping the arm's remnants, the devil backed against the wall.

"I can't touch the blade. It's goddess blessed." Bent tried to restore its human features. They wavered into focus like a mirage, only to fade again. "Though I did see something glow and then disappear when the lamp was lit."

Sulya stepped forward in a blur. Bent's face seemed to explode in a spray of bloody fire as her fist struck its jaw. Howling, the beast reached for her, but when its hands made contact they too burned. Its scream sounded like that of a thousand damned souls. Arms flailing, he flung himself away from her.

Cursing, Sulya rounded on Larson. He cringed but to no avail. She kicked his body and face, sending him rolling across the floor with the force of her blows. Larson tried to cry out, tried to beg her to stop, but his head was cracked and bleeding, and his mouth was full of broken teeth. Finally, energy spent, she stood above him, chest heaving and eyes closed.

His vision wavering, Larson felt no pain. He heard a distant wind gently blowing through trees and smelled lilacs as a blanket of peace settled over him. Before him, Sulya's face faded away, and her voice grew distant. For a moment, his vision cleared, allowing him to see her eyes open. Looking much calmer, she laughed. "Damn. Didn't mean to fuck you up that badly. Zorce's poison is potent. Made me go berserk."

Vision once again fading, Larson became a thing of air as the room grew bright. Sulya's faint form disappeared. In her place stood a woman of gold and white, her smile welcoming, appearing more beautiful than even his glorious Ani. One hand reached out, beckoned, and Larson followed.

* * * *

In his family's main home, located in Grace, Calto sat in his chair beside his bed. During the first half of the night, he had worked furiously to calm Queen Elise and squelch rumors that he, the High Priest of Anothosia, had become corrupt. Somehow, a rumor had spread that he caused the queen's male children to die shortly after birth, though how he could be at fault when he had never been in attendance was not explained.

The other half of the evening had been just as bad. Somewhere in Grace a hellhole had opened and be damned if he could find it. After sending knights and guards to all the likely locations, he had run out of places to look. Worse, Larson had not yet checked in through their shared link created by Anothosia's magic. Because of petulance, most likely. Larson had not been happy when Calto forced Sulya on him as a condition of Calto's promise to be kinder to Simta. Still, it was slightly possible his brother had run into more trouble than expected.

Weary, eyes drooping, and his mind drifting, Calto called for Goron, his servant. As bad as this day had already been, the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep in his armor.

"Master," Goron said upon entering the room."

"Remove my armor," Calto ordered. "Then fetch me a warm brandy and let me know if Larson sends word through his link with another knight. I'll have his head for keeping me up with worry."

Hours later three empty glasses sat by his right hand. Calto's mind wrapped itself in cottony folds of near sleep while the morning sun was a gradual lightening on the horizon. His eyes slipped closed. When he opened them again his bedroom was filled with soft light. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes with one hand.

Had Goron left him to sleep when he knew Calto waited for Larson? Growling low, Calto stood up. The fool should have wakened him.

Calto

Calto froze. His mind came fully alert as he cast nervous glances around the room. The light, he saw, did not come from his window. Instead it came from the other side of his bedroom.

Grabbing his staff, Calto walked quiet and cautious across the room, wondering who dared to enter his private chambers unannounced. Drawing close to his dressing table, he halted in surprise. The light shone from something on the table. Frowning, he leaned closer for a better look and cursed.

Larson's sword!

A slow shock overtook him. There before him, glowing in a soft, pure white, thrumming in time with his staff, lay the sword given to his brother by the goddess herself.

How in the two hells had it gotten there? He moved a step closer to the table, scanning the room around him before reaching out to pick up the sword. When his hand grasped the warm hilt the light died, and the voice came to him again.

Calto

Raising his eyes to the mirror, he started. A reflection that was him and yet not him stared back from a nimbus of white. Calto broke out into a cold sweet despite the cool, morning air.

"Larson?" He reached out to his only sibling with a shaking hand. "Brother?"

Larson reached back, his clear blue eyes sad, regretful. He said only one word before fading from the mirror's golden circle, leaving Calto behind.

Sulya

For long moments, Calto stood in front of the mirror, staring at his lonely, ragged reflection. An anguished keening sounded, and Calto realized it was his own voice raised in despair. Tears slid from his eyes. Emptiness entered his heart.

Larson was dead.

* * * *

Trying not to cringe as the junior god of Hell bellowed above her, Sulya knelt in front of Athos's throne while a pale spawn hovered near his side.. The dark god's roar rose in volume, becoming a crashing boom that shook lose precious stones and bits of rock from the walls and ceiling. His thick, barbed tale whipped around, striking his demon attendant, smashing it into the wall. The hellborn made a sick, squelching sound as it fell to the floor. Broken black bone stuck through its red scales. A dark, sticky spot marred the wall where its body had struck. Swallowing, Sulya hoped Athos dared not vent his anger upon her, not when his father, Zorce, the creator of all evil, favored her. If Sulya died, the dark god would punish his son horribly for harming his general.

Athos roared again, making Sulya's battle armor rattle. He turned eyes the color of molten lava upon her. She swallowed again and refused to drop her gaze. Any show of fear would be seen as weakness— and showing weakness, before the father or the son, was fatal.

Taking two thunderous steps, Athos bridged the ten feet between them with ease while the cowering spawn scuttled away to press against a cavern wall. Diamonds popped beneath the god's large, taloned feet, spraying her with debris. Snatching her by the topknot, Athos lifted her into the air until their faces were mere inches apart.

Sulya relaxed in his grip. Fighting would only get her dead.

"Tell me again what you did." Athos's voice grated out between teeth as long Sulya's fingers and ten times as many. His lips pulled back from his gums in a blackened snarl. She tried not to breathe in his breath's stench, but the vapors were too much. Gagging, tears ran down her face, and her skin's color shifted to mottled lavender.

"I did as I was asked. The sword disappeared of its own accord. It must have been charmed. As for Larson, his dying was an accident. I didn't mean to break his neck."

Sulya gasped in pain as Athos's grip tightened. "Stupid whore! I wanted him alive! He knew things— important things." Throwing his horned head back, the god roared. The sound shocked through her body like a jolt of lightning. He shook her hard.

Sulya feared he would lose control and snap her neck. Athos had never been a stable god.

"I do not take failure lightly. You know..." Pausing, he drew her closer. "It might take months before my father finds out who killed his trained pet, and by then he will no longer care."

He flexed his hand, and Sulya could not stop a ragged whimper from escaping. The tip of one dark talon pierced her neck's delicate skin. Athos's tongue flicked against her cheek, then stroked her throat. Two of the protruding spikes upon his tongue scraped through flesh and lapped at her blood. Sulya shivered. Hellkind found similians a treat, their blood an aphrodisiac.

Growling, Athos pulled her closer to his body and wrapped his grotesquely muscled arm around her butt. Throbbing, his barbed member pressed between her legs. Sulya thanked the gods she still wore armor.

"Before I make you disappear," he said, "let's have a little fun."

"Harm her and I'll torture you myself." A voice, colder and darker than any pit in Hell, slithered around the room.

Athos jumped, releasing her abruptly. Hitting the ground hard, Sulya scrabbled quickly away, diamonds and rocks cutting into the flesh of her hands. She rushed behind her savior, hand on her sword, and glared fiercely at Hell's lesser god, daring him to touch her again.

A living darkness faced Athos, a being clad in the abyss itself. Mercktos, Zorce's Black Knight, stood before Athos, challenging, arrogant, and angry. Like faint ripples in a pond, the void she hid behind shivered with displeasure. Sulya gasped as the edge of Mercktos's dark cloak brushed faintly against her boot. A moment of panic, of raw, cold fear, pulsed through her. Sulya took an unsteady step back and held her ground. She would not run and cower in the dark, not from the devil beside her. Cowering from him would be a bigger mistake than doing so in front of the Two. Zorce and Athos might torture and kill, but Mercktos— Mercktos dragged his victims away into the dark, shut them in his private hell, and made a hobby of tearing screams from beings who knew the hopelessness of unending suffering. No warmth remained in the creature Zorce called his right hand, his Black Knight. Even Anothosia's faithful ran from his path.

"You dare threaten me, Mercktos?" Purple veins pounded and pulsed in Athos's neck in stark relief against his head's white flesh. He took a step forward, his muscles rippling like each was a beast of its own. "You may be my father's right hand, but I am his son."

"One among many," Mercktos replied, "And yet you still tempt his anger by going against his wishes while screwing up even the simplest tasks. How do you do it?" His voice oozed condescension.

Howling, the dark god leapt for Zorce's second. Sulya heard the rasping of Mercktos's sword but didn't see him move. Like liquid night, the sword, thrust upward toward Athos's gut. Just when she thought the god's innards would shower down upon her, he spun to the side, narrowly missing the vicious blade, and landed with a heavy thud.

Athos's body ignited in flames. The fire roared outward, striking Mercktos full in the chest, but Mercktos did not stagger. No fire could penetrate his wall of darkness. Flinching, Sulya took another step back as a fetid wave of heat blew by her, a heat so intense it blistered a small patch of exposed skin on her hand. Fighting the urge to cry out, Sulya grit her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly closed against the smell and feel of her own singed flesh. If this was the worst to happen to her this night, she would gladly thank the gods for it.

"Now, now, little one," Mercktos said quietly. "Control thyself or I'll be forced to spank you and tell daddy what a bad boy you were."

Holy Hell! What was the fool trying to do? Get them both killed? Sulya sucked in a lungful of stinging, raw air and readied herself for battle. Athos wouldn't let the insult slide.

Roaring, Athos pulled himself to his full eight feet, pounding his chest with his fists. Power pulsed from the four horns jutting from his head, forming a ball of sizzling blue, electric light. The projectile flew into Mercktos's chest. Again, the darkness swallowed Athos's rage.

Painful pinpricks jumped across Sulya's skin. The air, thick, heavy, filled with hate and the promise of total destruction. How could a mere devil withstand the attack of a god? How much more could Mercktos take before he broke and got them both killed?

A low rumbling started deep in Mercktos's chest before bursting from his blood red lips as a sharp bark of laughter. "I'll let your father know you are well and send your regards. Now, if you're done playing, I have two messages for you before I depart with Zorce's general."

Athos's anger was a horrible sight. Lightning danced brutally over his body, making his muscles jump and spasm. Sulya found it more frightening than any storm she had ever witnessed. Never would she venture into this god's presence alone again.

"There'll be a day when I'll find you off your guard Mercktos," Athos promised. "I'll gorge you upon my horns and feast upon your flesh."

"Fine, fine. You've made your threats. Now is the pissing contest over or do you want to go another round?"

Groaning, Sulya put her hand over her face. Even she was not brazen enough to anger a god. Her eye twitched, her stomach quivered, and the urge to piss herself became almost overwhelming. "Please, Mercktos, tell him what Zorce wishes and let us leave," she whispered.

Mercktos sighed, sounding bored and bothered. "Zorce says he is pleased another of Anothosia's knights is destroyed, especially one from the House of Morlon. However," his voice dropped to a bare whisper, "he is unhappy you only supplied his general with one of your lesser devils, one barely stronger than Phrandex, Sulya's nursery minding son and the least of your brothers. Larson Morlon was no mere knight. He was a chosen one of the bitch goddess. It was stupid to send Zorce's best spy with such inadequate troops. Had you thought more about the end goal instead of your pride you could well have tortured him for more information."

Athos's mouth dropped open. A strangled sound of rage sputtered forth. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

"But," Mercktos's voice grew loader, more commanding, "your father is willing to give you another opportunity to prove yourself. He wishes you to collaborate with his general and myself in entrapping Calto during the end days. Furthermore, he wants you to keep Anithia Morlon, Larson's wife, under close scrutiny until he decides if she knows any of her husband's secrets. Can you manage such a simple task or should he assign the deed to one of your underlings? Phrandex, maybe, or even Berferd."

Athos hissed. "Tell him—"

Holding up a hand, Mercktos growled, "I am not finished. Your father also wishes assurance you have not disrespected his most precious gift to you, the hook. He wants to know what safeguards you have placed on your pet wizard. War with the usurpers will soon be upon us. At the least, The hook may figure prominently in your father's plans. At worst, in the wrong hands it can cause irreperable harm."

Athos hissed again. "You can tell my fucking father that I will not be—"

Mercktos shook his head, uninterested. "My message is delivered. Complain to him yourself."

Spinning in a cloud of black silk, Mercktos grabbed Sulya's arm in a painful grip, dragging her along beside him. Sulya flinched, trying to break free, but his long, nimble fingers held her fast.

Once they were far from the great hall, he stopped and twisted her around. His hand was invisible before her face, but the pain it delivered when it struck her was intense. Sulya flew into the cavern wall and slid down its rough surface, dazed and suffering.

"You idiot," Mercktos growled.

Mercktos proceeded to beat her unconscious.

Sulya wasn't sure how long she was out, but when she awoke she lay beneath a pale sky dumping rain.

Groaning, she tried to roll over, but found she could not. She knew bones were broken.

"Over here, over here! Sulya's over here!"

Pounding feet reverberated on a boardwalk, and then a blond, bearded face appeared above her. Stomach churning, Sulya closed her eyes, unable to tolerate the bobbing motion of the man's head. Another face formed in her mind, Mercktos, pale, cold, and raging. Molten black eyes poured out hatred until bile rose in her throat. Someone grabbed her head, turned it to the side, and the bile spewed out.

Mercktos had done this to her, had beaten her until she couldn't move, had brutalized her as a lesson in self-control. All the while, as his fists thudded into her body, he had laughed, enjoying her pain. Sulya's last conscious memory before her senses fled was still very clear. After stripping away Zorce's armor and raping her battered body, he had bent down, licked the blood from her mouth, and whispered in her ear.

"Do not fail us again, General, or I will delight in making you my new plaything."

Lesson learned. Sulya would be damn sure to never fail her god again. She would be equally sure Mercktos got back twice what he had given her.

Oh yes. Payback was a bitch, and she was the biggest one around.

* * * *

Pre-dawn light through her parted bedroom curtains broke into Anithia's troubled dreams. She rolled over, looking for the comfort of her husband, needing his embrace, but only found a cold and empty spot.

Ani struggled to sit up and looked to see if the clean clothes she had set out for Larson were gone. Maybe she had been sleeping when he came home and was still sleeping when he rose, but when she looked at the chair she had sat the clothes on they were still there, neat and untouched.

Maybe he had fallen asleep in the front room.

Tossing back her covers, Anithia swung her legs over the edge. She wanted to stay in bed and enjoy the early morning coolness, but worry kept her from doing so. What if Larson hadn't come home? What if one of those demons had‒had‒Ani stopped herself, refusing to complete the thought. Her husband was fine. No matter what, he was fine.

But, of late, things had not felt fine, not for a long while. Strange goings on had left her feeling troubled and uneasy. Even their six-year-old daughter, Missa, acted ill at ease. The disturbing dreams her Missa had been having these past months were unnatural, even for a child. They seemed— touched. By whom or what, Ani didn't know, and that scared her. When she mentioned the dreams to Larson he had shrugged them off as a child's wild imagination.

As if the thought had summoned her, Missa burst through the door and flung herself into Ani's arms, crying. Stomach clenched, Ani hugged her close.

"Momma, Momma, the lady took Daddy. She took him." Missa's wail grew high and hoarse. Her long, blond braids were almost out of their ribbons. Missa's normally bright blue eyes looked puffy and tired.

"Shhh, baby. Calm down. What lady, little Miss?"

When Missa didn't answer, Anithia rubbed her daughter's back and held her until Missa's sobs turned to whimpers.

"Missa?" Ani pulled her away. "Did someone come to the door this morning while I slept?" She hadn't heard anyone knock.

Missa shook her head. "No, Momma. It was the pretty lady with the green eyes and long white hair."

Anithia stilled. This was the lady from Missa's dreams? "I don't understand. How Missa? How did she take him?"

Shuddering, Missa straightened and rubbed her eyes on the back of her sleeping gown. "She took him in the light, to her garden. She said he had to come live with her."

Releasing Missa, Anithia clutched at her chest and stomach and slid from the bed to her knees. "No. Stop it Missa. Stop it. It's not okay to tell Mommy tales."

"But—"

"No!" Ani took a deep breath and closed her eyes a moment. This was Missa's dream. It was a dream. Nothing more. Missa was a six year old child who believed the sky held the ocean because it was blue. A child's dream.

"Anithia, do not despair"

Ani tensed. Opening her eyes, she expected to see someone else in the room, but there was only Missa and herself.

Gazing into her daughter's sweet, round face, Ani froze.

A voice, much like her Missa's, but deeper and sounding further away, slipped from her angel's mouth. "I forsake none who believeth in me. I will not forsake you or your daughter."

Missa's eyes swirled a misty blue so bright it seemed as if someone held the moon behind them. Peace and love radiated from her face. Ani began to shake. What witchery had come to her house?

"Tis no witchery, Ani, only a promise of light."

Missa's hand reached out and stroked her mother's hair. Anithia tensed at the touch. The smell of flowers permeated the air. Warmth stole into her numb mind and body. Unbelieving, Ani watched with tear-blurred vision as the swirling light faded from Missa's eyes. Her daughter blinked and looked sad again.

No. It could not be. Not her Larson.

Missa gave her a sad smile, just like Larson often did when he knew something was about to break Anithia's heart.

Chest constricting, Ani fought back near blinding panic. Somehow, she knew she would never see her husband's smile again. Swaying, she caught herself on the edge of her nightstand.

"Momma?" Missa's normally soft, pale features were strained and serious.

No, Ani thought. Until I see his body, I will not believe he's gone. I will not. She shook her head. "He's not dead. He is not dead," she whispered.

Anithia straightened and tried to stand. Again, she fell to her knees. A broken sob escaped her lips, and she clamped her hand to her mouth.

Missa reached out a soft, chubby hand and caressed Ani's head. Stepping closer, she wrapped her arms around her mother.

"He's gone, Momma. He's gone."

Anithia returned her daughter's embrace and let the pain engulf her. Larson gone? Her bright and glorious husband? What were they going to do now?

Chapter 4— Singing the Arvid Blues

A year had passed since the death of Larson, not that Ludwig was aware or even cared. He looked at the ass end of the arvids in front of him and wished he were walking anywhere but along this caravan trail winding itself through the foothills and up into the dark blue mountains. A stone rolled beneath his foot, making him stumble. His already abused foot protested. His other foot echoed its own complaint. New blisters were forming on both of them, which was surprising because he hadn't thought there was room for new blisters amid all the existing ones. One of his two arvids butted him in his shoulder, causing him to stumble one more time.

"The gods curse these beasts with boils" Ludwig muttered. "May worms stop their bowels. May Athos flay the skin from their bodies and use the skin to fill their lungs. Please gods, bring death and mayhem and all the ills of the world down upon their heads so I may once again know peace and own feet that are free from pain."

Up ahead, Harlo chuckled and clicked to his charges. His swarthy, sun hardened features wore a fond grin. The arms he used to pull his arvids to order were much better developed than Ludwig's. Then again everything on Harlo was better. Though they were both of medium size, and, at twenty-five, the same age, Harlo's frame wore heavy muscle where Ludwig's body remained spare.

"I take it your feet are bothering you again," Harlo said.

"Bothering me? Bothering me?" Ludwig glared down at those unhappy members and gave a tug on the reins to urge his arvids to a faster pace. "They are the death of me. They are afflicted with pustules and sores which threaten to cast me into Athos's realm with every step I take. My ankles twist and turn and snap. My calves are contorted knots that grow larger with each step. I'm surprised my skin hasn't split apart to spill my flesh upon the ground so these cursed beasts can tread upon it to soften their path on the mountain trails." He groaned. "Gods, we've still twelve hours of travel before nightfall."

Ludwig cast a look of despite at the arvids following him along the narrow trail. They were huge pack beasts, half again the size of a horse. Arvids loved to travel long distances if they were allowed to proceed at their own pace. Unfortunately, neither one of his pair thought the proper pace was the one chosen by the caravan's lead beast. His animals traveled at half the speed of every other arvid, except for those times when their stomachs rumbled, and they decided to stop entirely to grab a couple hundred mouthfuls of prickleweed. Worst of all, they loved attempting to go around the wrong side of one of the many trees abutting the steep trail.

Of course, a certain inconsistency of pace wasn't their only bad habit. Ludwig's left hand beast, Perciad, had broken free the night before. She searched him out and tried to force her way into his bedroll. The other one, Lacking, liked to alleviate her daily boredom by stomping on his right foot, and only on his right foot. Ludwig had spent the last hour walking with a deliberately staggered and mincing step to throw her timing off. His foot hurt. He was positive it possessed a few dozen broken bones. On the other hand his other foot hurt almost as much, and it had not been stepped on at all, so maybe Harlo was right when he said arvid hooves seldom broke bones in feet encased by sturdy boots.

Lacking lovingly tried to slop her wet tongue across his face. Cursing, Ludwig jerked his head away, but the tip of her tongue still slid across his nose. Cursing again, he used his already sodden sleeve to wipe at Lacking's slobber. His nose stung. Lacking was far too affectionate for a beast possessing acidic saliva.

Harlo laughed gently. "She loves you, lad. It seems you make new conquests everywhere you go."

Ludwig glared at the self-declared priest and wished he had drawn Harlo's complacent animals instead of his two. Not only were Harlo's arvids well behaved, they seemed to delight in making the man's life easier. Ludwig cursed the luck that had put him in this position. He was definitely not meant to be a caravan drover. He didn't like the endless miles of walking over hills and mountains. He hated the wind and the heat. He absolutely loathed the rancid smell of arvid and the stench of his own unwashed body.

"I'm not cut out for this," he complained. "I'm for the city and the nights. I like the feel of damp night air against my skin when my hand is shaking a dice cup. I enjoy stumbling home in the early hours to have my servants open the door and lead me to my soft bed." Raising his head, he stared proudly at Harlo. "I'm aristocrat born. It's in my blood. This trailing, it's beneath my station."

"You're aristocrat born," Harlo agreed. "You are also poor born since your father had no more sense about gambling than you do. My father warned him against his ways the same as I warned you. Neither of you listened any better than the other, and now look at the two of you. He's ten years in the grave and your lover's father has dumped you here. The dowry you gained from marrying the world's most temperamental woman disappeared when she left, and you are now the lowest paid laborer in the caravan."

"Because of you," Ludwig accused.

Harlo shrugged. "Wencheck was going to cut your head off until I pointed out just how humiliated you would be if he made you a drover."

"It is humiliating," Ludwig complained. "I'm an aristocrat, not a crusty lowborn caretaker of vermin carriers." He grimaced as loose bones grated inside his right foot. "The gods know I've fallen as low as I care to fall."

Laughing again, Harlo flashed an amused smile, but his voice carried a touch of irritation. "I enjoy being a lowborn caretaker, but I'll admit the only way you can fall further is to become a priest of Nedross. Then you'd have the task of seeing to the spiritual needs of your fellows as well as being a drover. At least this way you don't have to be woken by a bunch of smelly men who want to talk to you at all hours of the night."

Cursing one more time, Ludwig stumbled over a clod of dirt. If anything, his mood grew blacker still. "I don't know why Charle and Jorge bother you." Jorge and Charle's urgent whispers to Harlo had woken him frequently as well these last nights. Those two gave too much weight to Harlo's assumed authority as the priest of a made-up god. "For a priest of a god of hope, you've not done much good for me over the years. If you'd done your job properly, I'd be waking up right about now. Meliandra would be standing beside the bed with her robe lying on the floor, and Cook would be starting my breakfast."

"I've done my job very well," Harlo protested. "Didn't you want to get rid of Gertunda? Have you any doubts she's divorced you by now?" Clapping his hands together, he did a quick shuffle step before grabbing for the dropped reins of his dutiful charges. "Huhzaa! Your hopes have been fulfilled! Thanks be to Nedross!"

"I only wanted to be rid of the harridan. I never wanted to be destitute and exiled from my home."

"Haven't I always told you to be careful what you wish for? Isn't this another example of you not listening to me?"

Ludwig ignored his friend's mocking question. Perciad chose that moment to stop for a bite of prickleweed. The resulting jerk on Ludwig's arm threatened to dislocate his shoulder.

"May you be cast into pits of boiling oil," he muttered. "May you die a hundred thousand deaths, and may each death be more horrible than the last." He swatted Perciad alongside her head. "Move it or I'll have your lips for tonight's dinner."

"Smooth it out, Ludwig," Garland called. "Smooth it out or you'll be answering to me."

"Best be careful with him," Harlo warned. "Our caravan master is hard on slackers and brigands."

"Then he'll have an easy trip of it, for none of us are allowed to slack, and the brigands are too afraid of my blade to risk its ire."

Grinning, Harlo shook his head. "My friend, you spend so much time with your head up your ass a brigand armed with a pointy stick would be safe from you. You really aren't very good with a blade."

"I've always been good enough to beat you. You've a sound defense, but nothing more."

Harlo's grin grew. "I'll admit I used to let you win." He sobered. "Just remember, Garland sees laziness whenever he's in a bad mood, and he's always in a bad mood."

Ludwig groaned. The last thing he wanted was to be assigned extra duties just because he had charge of the most obnoxious animals in the caravan. He took a moment to glare at each of his beasts.

"You will behave," he warned them, "or I'll carve slices off your flanks for my dinner. I'll suck the eyes from your heads and spit them into the fire. Do you hear me? Do you?"

Lacking's tongue rolled loosely from its mouth. Drool dribbled onto the ground. Perciad mooed and farted.

Harlo laughed gently. "I promise," he said between chuckles, "Nedross will be kind to you. You've fallen so far pure chance has no choice but to grant some of your wishes. I'll have a talk with the old fellow."

"When you talk to him, tell him I need two new feet."

* * * *

"Ah, gentle sirs and ladies, if you thought the last display was magic beyond your comprehension, then these next wonders shall astound you beyond your wildest dreams," Califrey announced.

"Ain't no ladies here thet I kin see," Ludwig's neighbor observed. "Far as thet goes, thar ain't a one of us what fit the gentle sir part neither."

Ludwig scowled. "You may well think not, Yezman," he said, being careful to speak with trained haughtiness, "but you are wrong. I am more than enough gentleman for you."

"Get on with ya," Yezman scoffed. "Ya been spreading yer claptrap since ya joined up. I don't believe it now no more'n I did then."

A flash of light interrupted Ludwig's reply. Colors of blue, white, and red swirled in a chaotic cloud above the magician's head. Waving his hands gently in small spirals, Califrey used delicate movements of his fingertips to direct the spinning lights.

Ludwig sucked down a fast gulp of cheap ale. The brew tasted sour, but that was expected. He grimaced while the ale churned unhappily in his stomach. As a gentleman, he hated ale by right of breeding. In fact, he hated everything about the life he now lived.

With his scowl growing deeper, he turned his head and spat out the brew, but the foul taste would not leave his mouth. He frowned. A man had to drink to live. Ludwig just wished his drink was halfway decent wine instead of this swill.

Up on the makeshift stage, Califrey jerked his hands apart, and the colors separated with them. Separating into triangles, the colors shifted into tumbling spheres rolling through the night air. Califrey's hands hesitated, trembled, and the lights blurred into a brown blob, fell to the ground, and disappeared.

Ludwig snickered.

"Be kind," Harlo admonished.

"He does nothing but manipulate a cheap amulet," Ludwig replied. "The man is no more a mage than I am."

"He might be a lousy mage," Harlo agreed, "but he's an excellent entertainer, and he's needed. We're a gloomy, dour lot, us drovers. There isn't much cheer in our lives when we're trailing. For that matter, few of us are happy when we're not trailing. Every man here has a tale of heartache or misfortune. Problem is you spend so much time wallowing in your own story you fail to see the open books around you."

He gestured toward one of the laughing audience. "Jorge there, he left the graves of his three children behind him. They died because of a fire he was too lazy to bank properly. Charle killed a man, and he's afraid if he stops moving the man's family will catch up to him. Garland, our own wagon master, has his story. He was a brigand before he turned twenty. He did his share of rape and murder, and then he went home to find his own sister had been raped and killed by some of his fellow brigands. It took him five years, but every one of his former friends died by his hand. He started caravanning and worked his way up to where he is now, but he's still hell on brigands. Won't forgive a one of them."

Ludwig thought of his other neighbor. "What about Yezman?" he whispered so the other man would not hear.

"You best leave him alone. Too many of his mates have been found with knives in their backs."

Yezman must have been bored because he chose this moment to jab Ludwig in his ribs. Turning his head to deliver a well-deserved glare, Ludwig saw the other man giving him an evil grin.

"Think ya can do better than our Califrey? Ya got one of them amulets, don't ya?

Scowl fading, Ludwig fingered the leather cord hanging about his neck. "I have one."

Eyes glinting amusement, Yezman rose to his feet.

"The Gent," Yezman called out to the drovers, "thinks he kin do magic better'n our Califrey. I think we ought ta make him prove it."

Affronted by them expecting him to perform like a common entertainer, Ludwig stood regally, tilted his nose, and placed his most practiced sneer upon his lips. He met Yezman's challenging stare and used his most contemptuously superior tone. "I don't do public performances. It is beneath my station." He set his hand on his sword hilt.

"Lad," Harlo sighed, "You're an idiot."

* * * *

"Oh Gods, I ask only that you make his bowels run like water. May rocks inhabit his shoes so they pierce his feet with his every step. I ask for the earth to be blessed by the lack of his children, and I beg you to grow his behind so large it gathers nettles from the ground when he walks."

Ludwig stuck his hand into the leather sack. After pulling it out, he looked with distaste at the pale pig fat coating his fingers. Turning his head, he saw erected tents speckled across the slight slope. Men walked among those tents. Others tended to arvids staked out amid the small trees and thick brush surrounding them. He envied those men because they did not have their hands stuck in pig fat. Wiggling grease coated fingers, he scowled at the sensation. "I hate this."

"A man should never try to pull a sword on a fellow who's near his mates," Harlo observed. "Which one are you cursing?"

"It was a general-purpose curse. Garland gave me this job, but Yezman started the fight." Ludwig ran his hands over the harness lines, working fat into the leather. It was just his luck to have so many arvids in this caravan. Their sensitive skin demanded their harness had to be cleaned and greased every few days. Looking at the pile of work he still had to do, Ludwig thanked the Seven Gods and Two Garland had not visited any of the other nearby caravans. It was a sure bet one of them would have been more than willing to throw some of their harness in Ludwig's direction.

"Relax a little," Harlo admonished. "Forget who you were and remember what you are."

"What I am is gentry," Ludwig said firmly. "I'm sure His Lordship will have forgotten my small lapse with his daughter's virtue by the time we return."

"Only because sweet Meliandra will have shared her virtue with a half dozen others by then. Hope springs eternal, lad. Mayhap Gertunda forgot to divorce you. That will allow you to get your hands back on her dowry."

Ludwig shuddered. "May the blessed gods see she does not forget. The memory of her face is enough to give a man nightmares. Divorced or not, I will reclaim my just share of her dowry once Lord Wencheck sees fit to release me from this duty. See you, Harlo, if I am not dressed in robe and slippers by this time next year."

"I'll speak to Nedross on the matter," Harlo promised. "After all, I'm his priest, and he is the god of hope."

"The god of hope for causes eternally lost," Ludwig corrected. "I was there when you invented him. We were ten at the time."

"Why so we were," Harlo agreed. "I'd forgotten." He looked at Ludwig reflectively. "We have a long history, you and I."

"You were never a good servant."

"But I was always a good friend."

Ludwig thought the statement over for a moment. "Usually," he admitted, "but not always. You left my service."

"You forgot to pay me," Harlo reminded him, "and I have an extreme fondness for money. Still, I did come back in time to ensure your head stayed attached to your neck by talking his Lordship into giving you this job."

Ludwig dipped his hand back into the sack of pig fat, scooped some of it up with his fingers, and pulled his hand free. After a few moments studying the pale glistening, oily fat, he looked toward Harlo.

"That," Ludwig said, "was no favor."

* * * *

In the dark hours of the night Ludwig dreamed of Meliandra's pale form, body dressed only in moonlight, leaning over him. She stroked the long fingers of one hand down her body, pausing momentarily at strategically interesting areas, and then leaned lower until her face lay against his chest. Hair gently framing her face, she wiggled lower until her lips kissed his belly and moved lower still. Her eyes, wild with promise, fastened hungrily on his. Smiling seductively, she opened her mouth wide, wider still— and then she screamed.

Ludwig woke to discover hers was only one scream among many. A man's form leaned over him.

"Hurry," Charle whispered in his right ear.

"Whaa?"

"Brigands," Harlo snapped. "Hurry, your beasts are loaded."

Grumbling, Ludwig drew on his shoes, crawled out of his shared tent, and rose. Multihued lightning flashed, flared, and flamed in the sky.

"Califrey?" he asked.

"Is one of them. We must go!"

Ludwig tried to hurry. He stumbled as he was jerked erect by Charle's tug on his arm. After straightening his clothes and fastening his sword belt around his waist, he barked his knuckles on a tree while pulling his belt tighter. "May your roots wither and die," he cursed. "May the worms burrow into you, and may your wood turn soft and rot."

"No time for that," Charle snapped.

The colored lightning stopped. The screams quieted, fading one by one until only two voices remained. Nighttime winds carried the clang of crashing swords. Men began yelling anew. Feeling confused, Ludwig stumbled after Charle.

Before long they reached a group of already loaded arvids. Jorge handed Ludwig the reins to Perciad and Lacking. Mewing affectionately, Lacking stamped on Ludwig's foot. Perciad stuck a tongue in his ear.

"Can't I take a different pair," Ludwig protested. "These two will be no loss." He brushed irritably at his ear, wiping saliva away as best he could.

"They know you," Harlo explained, "and they carry the amber." He looked to Charle. "Hurry it up." Grabbing the reins of his two beasts, he jogged into the dark.

"I never signed on for this," Ludwig muttered while tugging on his arvid's reins. "Move it or I'll cut your pizzors off and use them as whips."

Running footsteps sounded behind him. Shooting a look over his shoulder, Ludwig released a bitter laugh when he saw Yezman's dark figure emerge from the trees. Dropping the reins, he turned and drew his thin sword.

"I should have known you'd be involved in this," he told the man.

"Ludwig," Jorge warned, "you don't want to make Harlo mad."

With an imperious wave, Ludwig silenced the drover. "We'll leave in just a few moments."

"Yer going nowhere, gent," Yezman growled. "Drop the sword." He studied Ludwig's thin blade with contempt as he raised his thick chopper.

"I have a better idea," Ludwig said and lunged.

Yezman's sideways swing would have worked excellently against a stationary tree. Unfortunately for him, Ludwig was not a tree. Ludwig ducked, dodged, and then ran his thin dueling blade straight through Yezman's heart. Surprised shock spreading across his face, Yezman's heavy weapon fell from his hand. Gently smiling, Ludwig stepped back and patiently waited for the man to fall. Yezman took a stumbling step forward, another. His knees folded, and he fell face forward in the grass.

"Took you long enough," Ludwig complained to the dead man.

"Are you coming or not?" Charle snapped. "Harlo already left, and I'm not waiting any longer."

"Coming," Ludwig told him. He cleaned his sword on his pant leg, sheathed it, and walked to his arvids. Grabbing their cursed reins, he vowed once this trip was over he would eat nothing but roast arvid for a year.

* * * *

When morning arrived, Ludwig discovered he was surrounded by a considerable number of people and beasts. This fact did not surprise him. The previous evening's darkness had not succeeded in smothering the talk and curses of the people he traveled among. It was the makeup of those people he found surprising. By the sun's growing light, he saw he walked with fifteen others, each holding the reins of two arvids. Ludwig recognized only five. The others most likely came from some of the other nearby caravans, which meant the brigands were far more organized than he had thought. It had taken skill, planning, and men to attack more than one target in a night.

Near the front a bone thin man popped out of the brush to speak with a grizzled fellow named Trel. Trel dropped back.

"We're being followed," he told Harlo. "Best we can tell there's a fairly strong magic user back there. None of our small magics are enough to shake him from our trail."

"Califrey," Ludwig broke in. "He has an amulet." He thought about his statement for a moment. "I think he has an amulet."

"He should've given up by now."

"Garland never leaves a trail," Harlo said unworriedly.

Trel cursed. "Then we have to kill the magic user or we'll never escape."

"Ludwig will handle Califrey," Harlo promised. "He's been using amulets all his life."

"Can you stop him?" Trel demanded of Ludwig. From the expression on his face he had his doubts.

"I signed on as an arvid handler," Ludwig answered. "I never agreed to fight in a magic duel."

Frowning, Trel looked to Harlo, back to Ludwig, and shrugged. "Just keep him occupied. Do that much and we'll pay you double."

"Triple," Harlo insisted. "The task is dangerous, and we've no hope without him."

Trel nodded respectfully to Harlo. "As you say, he gets triple." His humorless eyes narrowed as they fastened once more on Ludwig. "Just be sure you do your job."

Ludwig thought on his empty purse. The end of this trip would see a silver half-rugdle and eight double gold ones placed in it. A man could do something with sixteen and a half rugdles, but he could do a lot more with almost fifty. Fifty rugdles would give him a few nights at a decent bordello. The right woman might make him forget dear sweet Meliandra for a day or two. Failing that, well, any whore would help him escape his memories of Gertunda. Then again, meeting a freshly castrated boar could easily do the same. The boar would have a much better disposition than his wife had ever claimed.

Would this task really be difficult? Probably not. Califrey was a fake. He had to be. No true mage would stoop to thievery when there were so many easier ways to earn an easy living. By Ludwig's reckoning, Califrey could probably do little more than make pretty lights and follow a trail. The man's clumsy light show had already proved his incompetence.

"You have a deal."

* * * *

"You're my gal and I told you true,

that I thought you nosy.

You picked an ax from off the ground,

and cut off my toesies.

Well, my love, you know it's true,

My breaking heart belongs to you,

but my darling can't you see,

that you're too rough for me.

Yes, you're too rough for me."

"You're not all that good at this," Ludwig hazarded.

"True," Harlo agreed. "Never could sing worth a lick."

"I wasn't talking about your singing. I would have more confidence if you treated this seriously."

Harlo grinned. "Been in the same position more than a dozen times. I've reached the point where I make plans and then wait to see what happens."

"Only problem is if your plan fails, we could all wind up dead."

"Wouldn't be fun if it was predictable," Harlo responded. "However, if you really want my plan to work, I suggest you keep your attention on your job and not on my singing."

Grunting, Ludwig looked away from his friend and peered through the covering trees.

The track they had traveled along was a thin animal trail leading up a mountain slope, littered with boulders, jutting trees, and arvid dung. If the thing owned a straight line, it had done a good job of staying hidden after they took its left hand fork and followed it until Harlo found a reasonable spot for an ambush. From his position high up on the slope, Ludwig could see nothing but twists and jagged turns along most of the trail's length, but just past the fork almost thirty men climbed the start of the path. One kept far in front of the others. Califrey? Most likely. There would be other scouts out, too, but they were well hidden.

"Plan might work better if you shut up," Ludwig muttered just loud enough for Harlo to hear.

"It doesn't matter if they hear me," Harlo responded. "Nedross has promised us success."

"Now I am worried."

The hunters grew closer, though they were still distant. The scout, it was Califrey, looked up, but his eyes focused nowhere near them. He was close enough Ludwig could feel the fringes of the man's magic, and this meant if Califrey came any nearer he would know where they were, giving him warning enough to prepare his defenses.

Ludwig sighed. "Here goes."

With a gut deep feeling of regret, he pulled on the thong tied around his neck. The thought of all those rugdles didn't seem quite so appealing with the fight near. Tirelle, a dark amulet shaped like a naked fat woman, rose to meet his fingers. Shrugging because the decision had been made and there was no backing out now, Ludwig broke the thong and popped the amulet into his open mouth.

When his saliva covered her, merged into her, Tirelle's essence came to life. Far below, Califrey's head instantly twisted to focus on their position. His hand rose, pointing.

Ludwig froze. He tried to move a hand and failed. He lifted an arm, but the arm would not lift. The only part of him he could shift was his head.

"You might want to do something about this," Harlo calmly observed, but it was obvious he, too, was frozen in place.

"I'm trying," Ludwig muttered past the amulet in his mouth. Fortunately, his eyes and jaws and neck still worked. Eyes narrowing, he focused all his attention on Califrey. Grimacing, he concentrated for a moment before sending every erg of his amulet's power straight at the man, smiling when Califrey staggered and hunched. The smile faded when the magician straightened. Watching with disbelief, Ludwig's jaw dropped open, almost causing him to lose the amulet. At a time when the man should have been chittering with fear, when he should have been running pell-mell down the trail, he straightened.

"Uh-oh," Harlo muttered just loud enough to break Ludwig's concentration. "I suggest you try harder."

"Shut up!"

Ludwig tried again. Clamping his mouth shut, he narrowed his eyes once more, focused his concentration, and, desperate, bit down on Tirelle. Hard.

She screamed. When her thin voice resonated through his skull, he wanted to release his own scream but doing so would only have once again risked him dropping the amulet. Teeth clamped tight in aural pain he inadvertently parted his lips, allowing her scream to fall down the hillside. Tiny hands scrambled around the inside of his mouth. Fingernails tore at his gums and small teeth bit into his cheek. Knowing his precious life was at risk, Ludwig accepted the punishment and bit down harder, tasting metallic blood trickling down his throat.

Ludwig ground his teeth deep into the wood.

Tirelle screamed louder.

"Good lad," Harlo called from behind Ludwig's shoulder. "You're getting to him."

The scream tumbled down the hillside, pushing torn grass and debris before it. Califrey's figure staggered again and fell beneath the heavy weight of the amulet's pain. Ludwig's paralysis instantly left his limbs when Califrey's attention wavered. Straightening, Ludwig pushed his face resolutely forward and pursed his lips so the scream's effect was narrowed. Califrey started to rise, fell again, and then— slowly— he stood. Like a fakir climbing a rope, he pulled himself from the ground in a series of jerky movements which left him clinging desperately to a tree. Focusing on Ludwig, Califrey struck.

Pain like he had never known surged through Ludwig. Falling to his knees, he gasped, coughed, and Tirelle was suddenly lying on the ground before him. Despairing, Ludwig bowed his head and fought death while Califrey's attack continued unabated. Sweat poured from his face. His heart stuttered, faltered. The amulet's glittering eyes watched him with satisfaction.

"See how you like it!" her tinny voice cried out.

"Save me, Nedross," Harlo gasped. "My firstborn son's life to you, I swear."

The pain coursing through Ludwig flickered, surged, and stopped. Ludwig straightened, his face damp, feeling nothing but whole. Feeling normal.

"Gods," Ludwig muttered. "Nedross is real?"

"I always thought so," Harlo said shakily, moving to stand beside Ludwig. "Then again." He gestured with his hand. Looking down toward Califrey, Ludwig saw the man's body lying loosely on the trail. "All I wanted was for you to distract him. They did the rest."

A pair of drovers, bows in hand, were clambering up the slope. Further back, the brigands ran toward them.

"It's just as well they did the job," Harlo added, "for I've no idea which whore's belly I planted my firstborn son in."

His eyes grew suddenly huge. Gasping, Harlo jerked his sword free and shoved Ludwig to the side. A whisper of steel hissed above Ludwig's head.

Ludwig struck the ground, rolled, and was up again, seeing a cloaked figure thrust at Harlo. Frozen, Ludwig watched, stunned by the suddenness of the attack. The man Harlo fought moved like a master swordsman. His blade flickered so quickly it seemed a flash of silver light. It struck once, paused, struck again, and blood ran down Harlo's left arm. Calling on Nedross, Harlo stumbled back, and then renewed his attack.

"Could use some help here," Harlo panted just before another wound appeared on his body. The strike had been so quick Ludwig did not even see it.

Face wet slick with fear, Ludwig pulled his own blade and made a clumsy lunge. The cloaked man dodged, but his dodge put him at a disadvantage. Harlo's blade slid smoothly into the man's chest and out his back.

Without a gasp, without a curse, the cloaked man fell, taking Harlo's sword with him. Harlo leaned down, grasped the sword's hilt, and pulled his blade free with a quick jerk. When he stepped back, sunlight captured Garland's features, and Ludwig blinked with astonishment at seeing the caravan master there.

The two archers scrambled over the top of the slope, Jorge and Charle

"Time to play decoy," Jorge panted, "and we better get a move on. There's a lot more of them back there than there are of us here."

Harlo placed his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "Let's go."

* * * *

"I'll have scented rose petals in my bath," Ludwig promised. "Servants will flock to my service, and his Lordship will speak my name with respect when he passes Meliandra into my care. Gertunda will weep and wail, cursing her cold and heartless ways with every breath because her fortunes fell so low while mine rose high."

"Does he ever shut up?" Trel complained from up ahead.

"Not that I ever noticed," Charle answered. "Ludwig, what the hell are you so happy about. Look around. We're trapped deep in the mountains. We have no food, and there are a few dozen people who want to kill us on our back trail."

"Think what it will be like when we get back home," Ludwig protested. "The caravan has been destroyed, but we managed to save the most precious of His Lordship's goods. Lord Wencheck is sure to be pleased with us. I'm positive His Lordship will give his permission for me to court Meliandra."

"You were always slow," the amulet said, her voice too thin to carry further than his own ears.

"You better talk to the boy," Jorge called back to Harlo.

"If I were you," Harlo said, "I wouldn't plan on seeing Meliandra anytime soon."

Stopping his animals, Ludwig turned to look toward his friend. "Why not? His Lordship is bound to reward us. We saved his most precious goods. A rogue mage is dead. The leader of the brigands is dead." He shook his head, remembering his astonishment at the sight of Garland's slack face.

"Garland," Harlo said firmly, "was not the brigand leader."

"He must have been," Ludwig insisted, running the possible candidates through his mind. None of the others had the character or will needed to lead the brigands. "Who else could the leader be?"

"Me," Harlo answered.

"But that means," Ludwig whispered with sudden realization. Visions of Meliandra and robes and servants trickled out of his head. "Curse you, Harlo! Curse you! May Athos afflict you with boils. May your bowels flow backwards, and may you suffer an unending pain in your ass."

Harlo smiled fondly. "Athos has already given me the last," he said, "though, of late, I've seen some signs of improvement."

Chapter 5— Secrets

Simta smoothed her hands over imaginary wrinkles on her black and red silk dress. Gazing at herself in the hall mirror, she checked to make sure all was as it should be. Thankfully, nothing was out of place. A year had passed since she last saw the priest, but not because of disinterest. To the contrary, their last few meetings had gone well, mostly because she held her temper on a short leash. Then Larson had died. After his funeral, she and Calto lost touch while Simta did her twelve months service for Trelsar. Larson's promise had proved good even after his death.

Much had changed about her appearance in the ensuing year. Her dark red hair was swept into a matronly bun, her curls controlled. Only the lightest of kohl was applied around her forest-green eyes. She even forwent her favorite lip coloring so nothing she wore would remind the overly righteous priest of her past profession. Her complexion was a scrubbed pink. She was a proper lady today. Even so Simta still feared his critical eye. Long ago, back before her time serving Trelsar, when she was in Calto Morlon's presence, she had the distinct impression he found her repulsive— like she had just rolled in a pile of dung. During their last meetings before her self exile his attitude seemed to have changed for the better, as if his opinion of her was improving, through Larson's influence, she suspected.

The knob to her right clicked. A white-robed, temple priest opened Calto's door. Simta stood, staggering into the small table beneath the mirror. A nervous giggle escaped before she regained her composer. Sweet goddess, he's going to think I'm drunk.

Her stomach did a flip-flop followed by a tight somersault, and then with great aplomb, it fell flat. If she ate anything at all during this meeting it would come right back up.

The priest gave her a tight smile which she was sure hid a grimace. A motion of his hand beckoned her forward into Calto's very private office. Rumor said only a select few had ever been invited within, not all of whom were glad to be there. Stories claimed strange things went on in there sometimes, private, dark things. The priest was known for always getting to the truth— any way he could.

A shudder came unbidden to her as a memory from her first disastrous encounter with Calto reared its rather ugly and unpleasant head. Simta lurched forward. Never again— never again. She would walk the straight and narrow even if doing so led her off a cliff.

Trying to stand taller but only succeeding in swaying unsteadily, Simta tottered through the doorway. She would be lucky if she didn't fall face first in front of the Queen's Advisor.

Calto stood behind a large oak desk big enough to sleep on. "Lady Morthanhi, I am glad you came." He came around the desk to stand before her, his hand extended.

Simta took his hand lightly and bent to kiss his ring, a symbol of his status as Anothosia's high priest. She eyed the diamond appreciatively for a moment, wondering at the rare ring's value. It was a thick band of gold decorated with a diamond almost as big as her eye's iris. Held in place with a golden sword and staff crossed over the top like an 'X', the diamond represented the sun or light, the staff truth, and the sword justice. These were the symbols of Anothosia and her faithful. Only descendants of Calto's family had worn it. The thing could set a thief up for life, but she suspected its theft would come with a heavy price since gods probably didn't favor those who stole sacred objects.

Squeezing her eyes closed for a moment, Simta forcibly shoved such wicked thoughts from her mind and allowed Calto to take his hand back. It was almost painful to see the fortune slip away from her, but that was not who she was any longer. This was the new, reformed, no longer a thief, a drunk, or a whore Simta, the Simta Calto had once started to approve of.

"Please, sit down." Calto took her gently by the elbow and led her to a light-blue, velvet settee by the window. He had a wonderful view of the garden. Soft, early morning light, colored the spring flowers in soft pastels, and a breeze brought their gentle scents to Simta. Drawing a deep breath, she felt her nerves unwind a bit. Calto had not issued an insult— yet. Maybe this meeting wouldn't be so bad. Maybe his previous warming still existed.

The High Priest brought a silver tray of sweet meats and biscuits from his desk and sat it on the table between them. Tea had been set out already.

"Would you care for tea, Lady Morthanhi?" He smiled warmly. Simta nodded, hopeful but wary. She could not believe he was being so polite. Maybe after more than a year of dutiful repentance he truly had forgiven her past follies.

After pouring the tea, Calto gave her another warm smile. "Something to eat? I know it is rather early, Simta, and I do appreciate you coming here so please help yourself. I may address you by your first name, yes? Are we still on friendly terms?"

Simta blushed and nodded. "Thank you, Lord Morlon. I appreciate your kindness, and yes, we are still friendly."

"No, no— formalities aside cousin. You may use my first name as well." Giving her a wink, he sat down in the settee's matching chair, leaned back, and crossed his long, muscled legs. His booted foot casually swung back and forth as he silently studied her. Never shy, Simta looked back, and she admired the view, starting at his calves and moving up. Cream colored tights hugged his legs all the way up to a waist she found both trim and sexy. When her eyes found his broad chest, covered by a tight silk shirt and an open vest, she fought back a sigh. The silk hid none of his well-defined muscles. She thought it truly a shame he covered it with the shirt and vest, although they did leave little to the imagination. She could almost picture what he would look like naked.

Clasping her hands nervously in front of her, Simta tried to steer her thoughts in other directions. Her time of repentance had obviously been very long if she fell into heat this easily, but by the gods, Calto was a vision. She would have bet her family's fortune he was paradise in bed, especially since none of the fortune belonged to her.

"How have you been?" Calto's soft tone only added to her distress. Half-lidded eyes, blue as the morning sky when the first hint of the sun touches the horizon, regarded her almost— well— if she didn't know better, almost as if his thoughts ran in the same direction as hers. Which was just plain silly. In no way did he want her as much as she wanted him. After all, she doubted he had spent the last year in forced celibacy. To her certain knowledge few unmarried priests paid much attention to those particular vows. Had Calto? Some priests must honor their commitments to Anothosia. Calto might be one of them.

"I have been fine, thank you," she finally said. "Yourself, Lord Calto?"

"I have been all right. Losing Larson was a terrible tragedy, but I found solace in my goddess's graces. Anothosia has helped me with her strength, wisdom, and truth."

Simta nodded. Larson's funeral in Grace had been well attended. Calto had been thin, gaunt, his complexion almost transparent, and his hair shorn as a symbol of his grief. Many had thought he looked too ill to complete the three days of prayer and solitude required of a high priest when family passed.

"I see you've grown your hair back," Simta noted, although it was still short by Calto's previous standards. "I wondered if you would." A sudden imagined vision of Calto's previously long hair spilling over his shoulders as he swayed naked above her caused Simta's breath to hitch in her chest. How would it feel to tangle her fingers in all that white blond hair? Like silk perhaps? She would like to find out, but for now it was too short. Hopefully it would reach its previous lengths in another year or two.

Calto fingered the short hair brushing against his ear, and his already warm smile softened. "Yes. I liked having it long. It will get there again. Larson always teased me about having prettier hair than most women. I suppose that is why I cut it off and laid it in his sarcophagus as something to take with him into the veil." Releasing a short laugh, he shook his head. "Silly really, but we often do odd things when we are awash in sorrow and pain."

Simta felt badly for Calto. Honestly, unless he took a wife he would die the last of his branch's direct line. To be even more honest, she had liked Larson— owed him a debt she could never repay. The knight had been courageous and devout to the end even as the devil and his demons covered his body and ripped it apart. According to his partner of that night, Larson had sacrificed himself in order to protect her from the clutches of Hell.

"How is Sulya, by-the-way? Is she still without a partner?"

Calto's breath caught for a moment. His eyes narrowed. Had he just flinched? Maybe not, but if so, why?

The smile slipped back upon his face, easy once more. His features smoothed. "Physically, Sulya is fine. Mentally?" He shook his head. "Not so well. I've made her my partner so I can keep a close eye on her until she becomes better. I am hoping to prevent another unfortunate incident." He sighed, leaned forward, and placed his elbows on his knees. "Speaking of unfortunate events."

The view she received of Calto's rather impressive package when he took his pose nearly made her lean forward for a better look.

"Simta, I have a favor to ask of you, one which could possibly release you from your marriage to Charmaine."

Package forgotten, Simta nearly dropped her cup. This sounded promising. "A favor which would release me from that— I mean from my betrothed?" Simta trembled. Only sheer luck and her time serving Trelsar had kept her from being married already to the despicable piece of jumped-up gutter trash.

"Yes, Simta. Would you like that?" Standing, Calto walked over to the window. The sight of his flexing buttocks beneath his thin tights stirred her interest once more. Sunlight breaking through the window cast golden rays about his body, creating a white nimbus. Simta smiled in appreciation. Always stunning, at the moment Calto could have stood in portrait to represent Trelsar, who also happened to be the patron god of the arts. Calto looked that much like a golden god. Lost in his beauty, Simta nearly missed what he said next, but when her brain caught up to his words, she was jerked out of the moment.

"Larson left behind a wife and child." Calto turned his gaze back to her. "They are in danger. What I need from you is to befriend them— be my spy but do not, under any circumstances, let them know I exist. For that matter, do not insinuate Larson was anything but a common knight. I want none of their perceptions of him altered."

Simta frowned. She would be happy to do this if it meant escaping Charmaine's lunatic ravings, but— "Why must I conceal Larson's identity and origins, and how did she miss his obvious importance at his funeral?"

Calto eyes burned holes in her with their intensity. After long moments of scrutiny, he walked over and knelt before her. "I can't tell you why the concealment. If I did, it could get you killed. As for her not knowing, Larson had two funerals. The second was attended only by his wife and daughter. Not even his knights were there. For that matter, neither was Larson. The casket was weighted and closed so she never knew."

Simta's eyes grew large. What exactly was he involving her in? "Please tell me this doesn't involve devils?"

Calto's face grew stern. "I would not knowingly put a woman in harm's way. I simply ask you to tell me what she does from day to day, whom she sees, where she goes. Discreetly slip her a few bits of silver to help out. To do this you need to play a role, something you are uniquely qualified to do."

Simta frowned. Spying was one of the vices she had given up. She wasn't sure she wanted to take it up again, but by the gods, Calto kneeled before her. If he was offering what his kneeling implied, she would lick the man's boots if he asked it of her. The best part would be her father's blessing of their union, especially if it meant tying the two houses closer together. Lady Simta Alisa Morlon. She liked the sound. Even so, caution, an old friend, insisted she learn more.

"I don't know. Again— why? Can't they just come and stay with you?"

Calto's face fell. He looked pained. "There was a reason for two funerals. I cannot allow anyone other than us to know about Anithia and Missa. It would not be good for either of them. Besides, I have problems I do not wish them to be caught up in." He touched the side of her face. His fingers were calloused and strong, but his touch soft and seductive. Simta shivered.

"Do you not find my proposal attractive?" Calto whispered. "This favor would not go unrewarded."

Something low and warm clenched in Simta's belly. Her body tingled with a desire that had long gone unanswered. Booze and thieving were not the only things she had foresworn.

Calto's fingers trailed down her jaw. His thumb gently brushed across her lips. Her nipples hardened, poking through her gown's thin fabric. Heat rushed over her body even though she knew he played her like she was a game. A year previous their relationship might have been warming, but it had still edged closer to cold than hot. "Calto, I—"

Calto's mouth took her reply away. His tongue teased the corners of her mouth. Simta nearly slid off the settee. Yeah, it had been too fucking long.

"Please," he whispered. "I could arrange a permanent place for you within my household. Would you not love attending court with me in Grace?"

Desire shivered through her when he lowered his cupid bow mouth to her collarbone. Moaning for effect, she slid her arms around his hard shoulders and pulled him closer. "Yes, oh yes," she whispered, knowing she would do anything, even play this game, if she didn't have to marry her half-crazy fiancée of a priest, Charmaine. And to think— when this was over, if Calto kept his implied word, she would be a lady of the court.

Calto's hand slid down her leg then up underneath her skirts. His probing hand slid between her legs, thus answering her silent question as to him following his priestly vows. Simta opened for him, allowing him access as Calto pushed her skirts up about her waist and knelt to kiss her inner thigh.

A knocking at the door brought Calto abruptly out from between her legs. Cursing, he drew Simta's skirt back into place, lunged upward and back, moving quickly into his chair, and placed a pillow over his crotch.

Scooting back on the settee, Simta slapped her legs together and grabbed at her cup.

"Enter," Calto called.

The priest who had shown her in earlier bowed gracefully to Calto. "I apologize for the interruption, My Lord, but your next appointment is here."

Calto nodded stiffly. "Of course, Brother Dargot. Please let them know I will be with them in a moment or two."

Simta strangled a cry before it reached her lips. She was on fire, and now there would be no quenching it.

After bowing again, the priest left. Calto rose and escorted Simta to the door. "My apologies for getting carried away, dear Simta. It was inappropriate of me to touch you in such a manner. Forgive me."

Simta threw her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. Calto hesitated for a moment but pulled her close, returning her passionate kiss before pulling himself away.

"You will watch, Ani?" Calto stroked her cheek lightly.

"Yes, Calto, yes." She stepped away, her knees weak, her breathing raspy, and allowed herself to be ushered out. She would do anything to be in the manipulative bastard's arms again. Love and respect be damned. The man knew how to kiss.

* * * *

When Simta arrived at the run down shack Lady Anithia Morlon called home, she thought it a disgrace— only one step above where her father kept farm animals. How could Calto allow such a travesty for his sister-in-law and niece? She tried to peek through the slat boards over the front window, but it was too dark inside. She knocked.

"Are you lost, your Ladyship?"

A deep, almost melodious male voice sounded from behind her. Simta released the catch fastened about her wrist, freeing a knife for quick use. If there was more than one man she would do the same with her other wrist knife.

Turning slowly, she smiled, soft and delicate. "No, I'm here to consult with a woman named Anithia."

An older man, tall, with a care worn face, smiled back at her. His clothes were not those of a beggar but not fine enough for complete respectability. At least he was clean. "You have no need of your blades today, Lady Morthanhi. The gods walk with you in your search."

Simta stiffened. "Have we met, good sir? For I do not recall giving you my name, and the Downs are not a place I usually frequent." Was he following her? Was he part of the danger Calto spoke of?

He shook his head and chuckled. "It's good you keep your wits about you girl, but you don't need them with me. If you seek for Ani, try the wharf. Be careful and keep true to your penance, Simta. The gods smile upon your efforts."

Simta's mouth dropped open. Her cheeks grew warm. Had she been such a harlot that all knew of her crimes? Even here? Or was this some spy of Charmaine's, stalking her to make sure she kept her trillion wifely vows even before the marriage took place.

The man held out his hand to her. "Forgiveness starts from within. How do you propose to get on with your life when you refuse to let go of your guilt?"

Frowning, Simta absently took the man's hand. Blue eyes so intense she thought they saw into her soul beckoned her forward. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Have you been spying on me?"

Instead of answering he squeezed her hand gently. Warmth and a feeling of hope and love, traveled up her arm. It spread throughout her body. Simta felt like a cloud, light and unfettered by earthly cares.

"Remember, she is by the docks, Lady Morthanhi. Watch your way."

Simta blinked and found herself standing a block from the wharf. Ani's home, the man, they were both gone. Somehow, she had blacked out and lost time, but how when she had entirely forsaken drinking. Impossible, but she didn't remember leaving the Downs. Was the man somehow involved?

Simta thought a moment while unclasping the second knife's fastening about her wrist. She might no longer be in the Downs, but the wharf was little better. She tried to bring the man to her mind, but the more she tried to remember his face the harder remembering became. His features were fading from her mind but not the feeling of peace he had given her. Had he been god touched? No, of course not. There was no such thing as god touched, and for all the pain and suffering she had seen, and despite her time serving Trelsar, she wondered if there were really any gods at all outside those residing in Hell. Most likely the magic she had seen about Calto and his knights when they battled Malaria had been only that, magic, and not godly influence at all.

Someone tugged on her coin purse. Cursing her distraction, Simta's knives dropped down into her hands. She placed one against the thief's throat and the other at his groin before realizing who she was about to cut.

"Selnac? You old codger! Get your hand off my purse." Simta scowled as she studied her mentor. The old man was getting careless and slow if she had caught him even while distracted. She replaced her knives.

"Simta? Is that you?" His craggy features twisted into lines of shock. "You look...um...different."

Sighing, she waved his comments away. "I know I've changed, and so have you. I shouldn't have felt you tug on my purse, especially when I wasn't paying attention."

Selnac gave her a sheepish smile. "Ah well, I'm getting older, and I haven't had a decent partner since you left. I miss having someone young, pretty, and nimble to help me on occasion."

Smiling, Simta remembered those days well. It was Selnac who taught her to thieve when she was still a young girl. If it had not been for her family's high profile she would have continued skulking about with him, but as she grew into womanhood things changed— mainly her. She felt a twinge of guilt. He had taught her to be his partner, expected her to take him with her up the ladder, but she had not. Instead, she had left him on the bottom rung still begging for scraps.

Opening her purse, she fished out a gold five rugdle coin. Taking his hand, she pressed it into his palm. "This is for Mother Brood and her lostlings. When I'm given my next allowance, I'll seek you out and give you another. For now, I must keep what remains. I've an important errand."

Selnac's face lit with happiness. He was a thief, yes, but she knew he didn't prosper from it. His clothes were patched, hanging like rags on a scarecrow, and his body unadorned of gold or silver. Even his weapons were old and scarred. No, for as long as she had known him most of Selnac's ill-gotten gains went to Mother Brood and her street children. If not for him, Mother Brood's children would have starved, although she once heard another thief, Glace, gave her part of his take on rare occasions.

"You're too kind." Selnac bowed politely. The coin disappeared from his hand. "So what errand brings you to the wharf?"

Simta paused. How much could she tell him of her mission?

"I'm looking for someone. A friend."

"Hmm," Selnac said thoughtfully. "What kind of friend of yours hangs around the wharf? I thought you gave the old life up?"

Simta frowned. Yes. Why was Anithia here? Neither this place nor the Downs were somewhere highborn women frequented, and Ani must be highborn despite her living arrangements or Larson wouldn't have married her. Anything less would have been a disgrace. "I'm not sure. All I know is she is nearby, and I need to find her."

Selnac glanced around. "I know you're capable of taking care of yourself, but might I suggest an extra set of eyes? I'll not intrude upon your business, nor will I tell others of it."

Glancing around the busy docks, Simta pretended to be looking for something specific. She counted five men who acted as if they were not watching her. Not good. She had dressed too well for this area even though it was heavily patrolled.

"Yes, I would like your company, old friend. I seem to be attracting undo attention."

"Glace and I will follow at a discreet distance." Bowing, Selnac backed away, once again acting the beggar.

Simta walked down to the waterfront, marveling at the strange and curious sights greeting her at every turn. Dozens of languages flew through the air. Fabrics of gold, cobalt blue, blood red, dozens of colors, adorned the bodies of foreign sailors, although some sailors wore barely anything at all. And their ships! Many didn't look like they could float. Other's looked like they might fly.

"Let go of me!"

Simta turned in time to see a woman being dragged up a ship's plank by a half-naked sailor. Although she had never met Anithia, this woman matched her description.

"Look what we got here, Chai," the sailor called up to his mate. "A pretty little blond thing looking for work at one of Grace's uptown shops."

"I got work for 'er all right," Chai rejoined. "Bring 'er up an' we'll haul 'er below deck. I'll put 'er ta work, right away. Or better yet, I bet she'd fetch a fine price overseas."

The two men laughed as the woman struggled to break free. Neither of the sailors were local stock. They didn't wear shirts or shoes, only short pants and sashes for their knives. Their bald heads, gold earrings, and necklaces gleamed brightly in the midday sun. Simta hurried to the boarding plank.

"You! Unhand my cousin or I'll have the watch on you!" Simta stomped her foot upon the plank, shaking the boards.

When the woman's head snapped around Simta saw her flushed face was contorted with both fear and rage. Before Simta could say anything more, the woman slammed her heel into the arch of her captor's foot, her hand shot upward into his jaw, then doubled into a fist which plunged down fast and hard into the man's groin.

The sailor gave a strangled cry and doubled over, releasing the woman.

She shoved him from the boarding plank.

The sailor hit the water with a splat. When he came to the surface, and Simta had not thought he would since few sailors knew how to swim, he spluttered and screamed in an unknown language.

Rushing to the plank, she grabbed the irate woman by the arm, dragged her back to the dock, and ran. Her blade appeared like magic in her hand, slashing from side to side as two men who had been following her leapt into her path.

From the corner of her eye, Simta saw a flash of steel. A man howled. He screeched. Then he shifted.

Simta's heart froze. A morpho, one of the hellborn who owned no real shape. Its skin turned a lavender blue, its eyes became large and yellow. Sharp pointy pin teeth snapped and clacked when it roared, slashing at the air.

Something warm trickled down her leg. The horror of the night Malaria died played back in her in mind, the blood, the entrails, the smell of death.

"Hey, lady— whoever you are— we need to get out of here now!"

Simta jumped when the woman jerked on her arm, pulling her away from the unfolding riot. They fled through the panicked crowd, jostling, pushing, and tripping their way out. It seemed forever before they stopped to catch their breath.

"For a noblewoman, you sure are aggressive," the woman panted. "Where did you pull those knives from?"

Simta blinked. Knives? She looked at her hands. Both blades were out. When had the second one appeared?

Simta trembled. Were the hellborn coming back for her? Is that what Larson had meant when he told her they sometimes came back? Sweet goddess. What was she going to do?

"Are you going to be okay?" The woman rubbed Simta's arm, her face concerned.

"Yes. I–I have a great fear of those things. I'm sorry."

"You? Afraid of them? How can you say that when you were ready to take on a ship full of over-sexed sailors for me? By the way," she narrowed her eyes, "my name's Anithia, frequently called Ani, and I'm pretty sure you don't look like any cousin of mine. What are you doing down here?"

Anithia placed her hands on her hips, apparently wary of her savior. Simta approved. Her charge possessed good survival instincts.

Simta shrugged her shoulders. Technically they were related, if distantly. But maybe through this good deed for Calto they would end up sister-in-laws. "I'm Simta, and we are related in a way, through friendship. I was looking for you. I knew your husband."

Stiffening, Ani dropped her hands to her sides, balling them into fists. "What kind of friend?"

Simta scowled. "A strictly unromantic kind if that's what you're implying."

How dare the little tart accuse her of such misdeeds. Simta admitted she'd had more than her share of lovers but never a married man. Even she was not so low.

Anithia's brows raised, her face became blank. "What?"

"I did not have an affair with your husband."

Anithia blinked and shook her head. "I wasn't accusing you of screwing him. My husband was a knight of the Order of the Staff and the Sword. I meant, are you one of his crazy demon hunting friends— one of Anothosia's faithful." Anithia sneered. Her eyes shone anger and revulsion.

"No, I'm not, but your husband saved my life. I'd be a lost soul in the pits of Hell if not for him and his bro— another knight's intervention. Why do you hate them so?"

Anithia's eyes softened. Her face relaxed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to‒I mean‒I don't hate anyone."

Anithia seemed lost for a moment, the steam of her anger exhausted.

Simta tried again. "I've come to repay my debt to your husband for his sacrifice."

Anithia frowned while looking around her. "I–I need to go. You don't owe us anything. You helped me back there, and that's enough." She turned to go.

"Wait! Lady Morlon. A job! I have a job for you!" Simta couldn't let her leave without helping her somehow.

Anithia stopped. She turned her head. "A job? What kind of job." Her voice sounded wary, skeptical.

"I...ah...need a lady in waiting. An attendant." Simta's father would kill her for this. She already had three personal servants. He would probably make her pay for Anithia of her own pocket, as if her purse was not small enough. Her allowance was scant, and the money she had earned through theft and blackmail dried up and blew away during her year at the temple. Her gift to Selnac had been three quarters of her money.

Anithia raised an eyebrow. "Your lady in waiting?" Anithia shook her head. "I've seen the women who work for the nobility, and I'm nowhere near refined enough. I have but one dress to my name, and you're looking at it."

Simta studied her closely. The dress seemed to have been of a fine quality once, but was reduced to a faded blue with a patch on the elbow and the lace a dingy gray. The woman was clean, neat, her physical beauty striking, but again, she was three meals shy of being presentable. Most ladies in waiting were from lower nobility, not from the streets.

"I'm not nearly so refined as my peers," she tried.

Anithia stiffened and then nodded. "No, you don't talk refined. Even so, thank you Lady—?"

"Morthanhi, Simta Morthanhi."

"Morthanhi but I can find my own job." Anithia whirled about and dove into the foot traffic, leaving Simta stunned, alone, and uncomfortably wet.

* * * *

Simta fumed for the next several days. How was she to keep an eye on the woman if Anithia wanted nothing to do with her? When Calto returned from Grace would he shun her again once he realized she had failed? She had to find another way to get to Anithia. She refused to be Charmaine's wife, and she truly desired to get out of her father's house. Although serving Trelsar for a year had been a pain in her ass, living in his temple had felt almost like a reprieve. Returning home felt like being dumped in the sewers.

Flopping into her chair, she picked up her fork and pushed her roasted arvid around on her plate. She wore the pink satin dress Calto had sent over earlier in the week. It was lovely, of course. Bows, ribbons, beads, but she wanted more. Simta wanted much more. She wanted marriage to someone not repulsive, with family, and respectability. At least she thought she wanted these things. Since she could not be what she truly wished, carefree and independent, the only other option was marriage even if she and her eventual husband shared nothing but mutual lust.

"Lady Morthanhi," Nita interrupted. Simta looked at her youngest servant. "I hate to bother you, but a beggar woman named Anithia is here to see you. This is the second time she's come. She says she knows you." Nita chuckled. "I just can't imagine."

Simta flew from her chair. She shoved her servant to the side and dashed from her sitting room.

"Damn shoes!" Simta tried to take the stairs two at a time but only succeeded in stumbling down the steps. When she reached the grand hallway, she panted. More than a year of relative inactivity had stolen her conditioning.

Anithia waited nervously by the door. Lark, the footman, eyed her suspiciously, his hand on his dagger.

"Lady Morthanhi." Anithia gave her a tight smile, her eyes darting nervously to the footman.

The footman growled. "You curtsy to your betters or I'll have an ear."

Simta rolled her eyes. Lark was her father's lackey and a general pain in her ass. During the last several years he had gloried in snitching on her for everything. He considered it payback for her fucking and then dumping him three years earlier, but what did he expect? It wasn't her fault she quickly grew bored with a mere servant's attentions. Besides, Lark had absolutely no imagination in bed. He was a nice enough man before their disagreement and good looking, but again, he wasn't very good at business.

"Lark, behave. Lady Morlon. Please come upstairs to my chambers where we can talk privately." Simta glared at Lark before extending her hand to Anithia.

Anithia hesitated. "My daughter is with me. Do you mind children?"

Simta looked around the entryway. She saw no child.

"She's outside," Anithia explained. "They wouldn't let her in."

Simta glared at Lark. "You idiot! The dogs are loose, and you left her child unattended. If the girl has left the walkway or stuck her hand through the fence— well don't just stand there. Let her in."

Lark hesitated for a moment, uneasy. "I— she don't— I mean— the little girl is—"

Growling, Simta stomped to the door and flung it open.

A near perfect likeness of Anithia sat smiling on the bottom step. She held a stick high in the air above her. The dogs which guarded the grounds, the same mean spirited, ill tempered, bite your face off if you left the pathway and went through or over the fence dogs, sat mere inches from the child, wagging their tails, tongues lolling to the side. Ten feet down the path, the fence gate stood open.

"Good doggies. Go fetch the stick again." The child threw the stick. Five eager, happy dogs, took off after it.

The little girl looked up. "Hi, pretty lady. Wanna play with me and the puppies?"

Simta stood, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Something ain't right with the child." Lark muttered darkly behind her.

Simta swallowed. "Uh, little girl, come inside with me. Please."

The girl cocked her head, curious blue eyes shining up at her. "Are you the nice lady with the job?"

The dogs came galloping back to the steps. One held a stick. Simta took a step back. Even though she had known them all their lives, these animals were not safe. Looking at her, one growled.

"Yes, yes I am. Come inside, dear."

The girl turned back to the dogs. She stood up. "Sorry. I have to go now, but we'll play again sometime."

The dogs whimpered. The biggest flopped on the ground, whining.

"Oh, it's okay." Reaching down, the girl petted each dog in turn. They licked and nuzzled her hand. "We can play and talk again later. I promise. Now go back to your side of the fence and shut the gate."

Simta's head spun. Her stomach lurched as the dogs obeyed. Sweet goddess. This child was either touched or insane.

The girl walked up the steps and curtsied. "Pleasure to meet you, Lady Morthanhi. My name is Missa Markie Morlon."

Petite, fair, and blond, just like her mother, she reminded Simta of an earthly angel. Even the afternoon sun seemed to be drawn to her, forming a golden nimbus about her head.

"Everything okay?" Anithia slipped around Simta. She held her hand out to her daughter. "She likes animals. They like her."

Smiling, Missa took her mother's hand. "The puppies don't like it when you sneak out at night. They worry about you and get angry 'cause they can't protect you when you leave."

Simta took a deep breath.

"See what I mean?" Lark whispered in her ear. "She just ain't right."

Anithia fidgeted. She glanced at Lark, then back to Simta. "You do still have a job for me? Yes?"

* * * *

Simta had fulfilled her end of the bargain. Anithia was her new lady-in-waiting, but that came at a cost. Simta's purse was becoming a thing of air, for little else occupied its innards. She would have to do something soon. Even as much as Ani liked her job, she couldn't feed her child if Simta could pay only with good intentions. Calto hadn't given Simta any additional provisions to cover costs. He had left for Grace shortly after asking Simta to watch Ani. Apparently Queen Elise had summoned him. The only additional thing he sent Simta besides the dress was a velvet and emerald choker which she had not taken off since.

Pretty enough, but not a promise.

She studied Anithia as the woman bustled about the bed chamber. Simta couldn't understand why Calto didn't want such a comely woman in his house. Ani's long blond tresses, falling to a slender waist, were tied back in a dark-green silk ribbon. Her vibrant blue eyes reminded Simta of deep ocean waters, and when Anithia managed to smile, it was a thing of pure joy, full mouthed and inviting, lighting up her whole face. However, those smiles were rare. Ani's almost perpetual sorrow was the only detractor from her beauty.

As if she could feel Simta's regard, Ani turned toward her employer. "Thank you again for giving me a job, Lady Morthanhi, and the dress is much appreciated, too."

"You're welcome, Anithia."

And let's hope I can keep you employed. Let's hope after tonight I won't have to worry for a while.

"Anithia?" she asked, working on a question.

"Please, Lady Morthanhi, call me Ani."

Simta smoothed the dark green satin of her dress and smiled. She truly liked the woman. Even Ani's odd child, once she became used to the girl's strange shifts in mood, was joyful to be around.

"Tonight I need you to stay here and do me a favor."

"Of course. What can I do for you?"

"Sleep in my bed."

Ani's mouth dropped open. "I beg your pardon, but I'm not that kind of woman."

Simta tilted her head to the side. "Pardon?"

"I don't sleep with other woman. I like men."

Throwing her head back, Simta laughed. "Oh my, Ani. No, no, I assure you I like men, too. I just need you to lie in my bed so Lark doesn't know I'm not in it."

"Why won't you be in it?" Ani studied her, eyes narrow with suspicion.

Simta thought for a moment. She couldn't tell Ani the truth, but what falsehood should she give her?

"It's private." Winking, Simta gave her a secretive smile. "I did tell you I like men."

Ani blushed and nodded. "Oh, I see. Well sure, but promise you won't get into any trouble."

Simta nodded. "No trouble. I'll be just fine."

"Oh, but what about Missa? I can't leave her home alone, not in the Downs." Ani's face became drawn. "Forgive me, you've been most kind, but Missa is my life. If anything were to happen to her—"

"Of course, she can stay with you. My cousin Tildy often sneaks into my room to cuddle. It will be no different."

"All right then. I'll come back at eight bells, just before dusk."

Simta smiled. Yes, things would be just fine as soon as she made one last midnight raid.

* * * *

The night wind was soft and soothing against Simta's mud darkened skin, placing a much needed balm upon nerves shredded by Charmaine. Simta made a mental note to punch the bastard when she saw him again. The stupid lout had come in yapping to her about another law he had added to his wifely duties list. Something about her washing his feet and rubbing his back until he fell asleep every Wednesday night. The man was a charlatan, a chauvinistic pig. Maybe he should get a nanny to care for his needs. Wifely duties! What a bunch of hogwash. She couldn't imagine any woman putting up with his nonsense.

It felt strange, this breaking of her long hiatus from crime, but it was just one last job. One job was all it would take to earn her freedom. Once it was done, she would retake her vow of repentance and truly be finished with her days of ill repute. Hopefully, Calto would not learn of this. He would never consider courting her if he did. Still, if Simta didn't keep Ani in her sights, Calto would dismiss her as well. This had to work. The thought of being stuck with Charmaine for the rest of her life made her want to drown herself in a vat of Carrid Brewer's piss-brewed ale at the Hellhole Tavern.

Charmaine's visit was not the only delay.

It took forever to get out of the house. Lark had been suspicious or possibly just trying to get one last peek at her naked. He hung about her door until Ani put out the room's light. When Simta came out of hiding, her next problem had been the dogs. They kept barking and yipping at their gate. Thankfully, Missa snuck down to play with them. The girl seemed even more odd than usual, saying things to unnerve Simta, almost as if the child knew what she was about to do. That was ridicules. Wasn't it?

Those were thoughts for later, as was Simta's curiosity about the child. For now, she was dressed in browns and blacks while hugging an alley wall. Her toolkit, as well as a hand of glory Malaria had once given her, were strapped tightly about her waist. She was armed only with her two wrist knives and a dagger strapped to her calf. Simta was as prepared as she could be. If all went well this theft would set both her and Selnac up for years. Well, maybe not Selnac. He would more than likely give his share to Mother Brood. Simta chortled inside. Who was she to scorn Selnac's generosity? She would be giving a good share of her money to Ani and Missa. Worth it if they freed her from Charmaine.

Over the past three weeks she and Anithia had become friends. Ani was such a bright, charming young woman. Simta easily understood why Larson had fallen in love with her. How could a man not become besotted with such a comely, well-mannered girl?

"Simta?" The shadow next to her moved closer. "Are you sure the roof will support you?"

Simta sighed. "Yes, Selnac. For the hundredth time I will not fall through the roof. Please remember, we've burgled this place before."

Selnac slipped back into the shadows. "I've heard bad things about this place of late. I wish you wouldn't go in."

Simta frowned. Now was not the time to get cold feet. "Look, you and I both need this hit. I'm only going back on my vow this once, and then I'm through with the life. I owe you, and I owe Ani." And the gods only knew it was about time she did something good with her skills.

"It's not the same owner. There've been rumors."

Simta stood in preparation of throwing the hook and rope over the roof's edge. "Stop worrying, mother hen. This street is normally quiet, and the hellborn have been thin lately. I'm going in. Be ready at the back door. Rap loudly if anyone comes around."

"But—"

With a practiced heave, Simta threw her grapple to the rooftop and tugged at it carefully until the hook lodged itself on the roof's edge. She jerked once to test its hold, jerked again, and then up she flew to the roof. Like a cat stalking its prey, Simta slinked along the rooftop to the chimney. Tying off her rope around its base, careful not to dislodge any of the bricks, she lowered herself in.

As expected, the chimney was cold. Most business fireplaces were only ever used in the winter to warm the shop and sometimes to warm a midday meal and some tea. The merchant who owned this shop lived uptown in a large manor overlooking the port.

Something stirred below her. It growled, and Simta smiled as she pulled several chunks of drugged arvid meat from her bag and let them fall. Large, dark, gangly heads snapped and tore at the meat, devouring it in moments. The beasts growled and barked at one another while trying to grab the last bite.

Come on you stupid damn beasts, Simta silently cursed. Fall over. Sleep. Good gods and two— go hump each other for all I care, just get out of my way. Simta's back and feet ached as she pressed against the chimney wall. She was out of shape for this sort of life. The drug should have taken effect almost immediately. What was taking so long?

Eventually, soft snores and snuffles drifted up the flue. Simta let the rope drop the rest of the way to the bottom. It made a soft thud. As she wiggled and inched her way down the rope, she thought to herself more than once that she needed to lose some weight. Either the chimney had shrunk in the last year or her lard ass needed more exercise.

Simta dropped the last few feet, scraping both her butt and her pride. She landed in a crouch, ready for anything. That is almost anything.

The dogs had fallen asleep on the hearth, not a foot away from her. Unbelieving, she stared at the massive mound of flesh. One stumble, one hiccup, and she would fall on them.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her hand of glory and lit the hanged man's waxy fingers with a striker. It was a rare magic item, one she hated to waste on dogs, but with her new life she would never have need of it again.

Acrid, sleep inducing smoke soon filled the room, assuring her the animals would not rise. Since Simta had lit the fingers, she was immune.

After setting the hand down, Simta placed her left foot carefully in the center of the pile, the only space big enough to do so. She waited, making sure she had her footing. Nothing stirred. Simta lifted her other foot from the hearth, swung it wide, and placed it in a space just big enough for her to stand on the ball of her foot. The next move would be the trickiest. Balancing on the ball of her foot, she lifted her left foot and placed it next to the outermost dog's head, inches from its mouth. It was, she noticed, a really big mouth. Where the hell did the owner get such huge dogs? Simta closed her eyes a moment to get the image out of her head. She truly hated dogs when she worked.

Simta's legs were stretched wide, almost too wide. One slip, one wrong twist, and she would end up directly on top of the pile. Not the place she wanted to be. Drawing in a deep, silent breath, she released it slowly in an effort to calm her nerves. She could do this. She had to do this, for her sake as well as Ani's. She wanted to keep Anithia in her household, to have a true confident she could trust, someone who really cared what she thought and how she felt. Besides, this was the only way she could be free of Charmaine. Calto had promised— sort of.

Simta closed her eyes, opened them again, and tensed her muscles. She would need to push off with the ball of her foot with enough force to end up balancing on her other foot but not so much it toppled her over onto the floor.

Now or never.

Simta pushed. Erect, she tipped. Swinging her airborne foot behind her, she hopped with the other, pitched forward and slightly sideways, and landed heavily on the floor. Sucking in a lungful of air, she strained to listen.

Nothing.

Simta released the air from her lungs in a soft whoosh and got up quickly. That had been too close for her liking. Her heart beat so hard she thought it was trying to escape her chest. Oh yes, this was definitely her last time.

Frowning, she glided along the carpeted floor to the counter. The lockbox where the owner kept his diamonds was tucked securely behind a hidden wooden panel. She knew this because her cousin Jeral was a diamond trader. After catching a glimpse of the hidden panel, he had one just like it installed on his transport coach. The ruse had worked well until someone stole the coach.

In a matter of moments she had the panel removed and the lockbox picked. The diamonds inside were large, so large it made Simta uneasy. They were distinctive and rare and so would be difficult to fence. Only the half-were, Mathew Changer, could handle this merchandise.

Pocketing the diamonds, she replaced the lock and panel after setting the box back where it belonged. She would worry about fencing the diamonds later. Right now she needed to worry about covering her tracks.

A shuffling sounded from the store's back room. Simta heard footsteps and voices.

"Oh sweet Ano," she whispered as the voices grew clearer.

"I don't think they are the proper solution, Radno," a woman's muffled voice said. "We need someone who won't betray you to Calto."

"But my cats are perfect spies," a man's whiny voice insisted. "Nobody suspects a cat, and mine can talk."

"Some of them can talk, and those that do would rather curse your name than follow your orders. Besides, Calto hates cats. He won't allow them in his home. How about this? Can you make a couple of your cats large enough to eat him or big enough to kill him, at the least? Now that would be a proper use of your pets."

"I am so screwed." Simta whispered, but she was too old a hand at this game to freeze at the first hint she might get caught. Moving like the shadows she was trying to imitate, Simta slipped back toward the flue only to discover using the chimney was no longer an option. One of the oversized dogs had rolled over. It lay half in, half out of the hearth. Worst, the beast had rolled over her hand of glory, extinguishing its flames.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Fighting panic, Simta silently ghosted toward the front door only to find it fastened on the inside with a heavy chain and three heavy locks too large for her tools. Damn them! Who the hell would bother chaining a door that already bore six separate locks?

"Did you hear something?" the whiny voice asked faintly.

"You're so jumpy you always hear things," the woman answered. "Let's get back to my—"

"No, I swear I heard something, but not the dogs. I don't hear them stirring."

Front door chained, windows barred, back exits covered by unexpected people, and the flue blocked by a snoring dog, she was running out of options. The best she could do was hide and hope for the best. Thank the Seven and Two she had replaced the panel. The opening wouldn't give her away.

Turning, she slipped back into the main room as footsteps approached from the back. Earlier, she had spotted a small, dark opening under the counter, a perfect place to hide from notice. Simta squeezed into the tiny space, inhaling deeply to fit. Oh yes. There was definitely a diet in her future.

The door leading to the back rooms opened. Dim candlelight spilled onto the floor but did not reach her hiding spot.

"For Zorce's sake, Radno. I told you no one else is here."

Two figures stood in the doorway, waiting, listening. The taller figure, a woman by her distinctive curves, took another step into the room.

"Or maybe there is," the woman added. "Something is amiss. Does the room seem a little smoky to you?"

Simta's stomach lurched, and her bowels gurgle.

The woman walked deeper into the room, disappearing from Simta's sight. The man, Radno, followed.

Long minutes passed. Simta listened carefully as the two inspected their sleeping dogs. A chill ran up her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and arms. Had they found the rope inside the flue or the hand of glory now half-buried beneath a dog?

"Shall I?" the man asked.

"Do it," the woman ordered, and the room filled with Radno's soft chant.

Despite herself, Simta had no choice but to listen. Somehow, the words mesmerized her. They seemed to fill her in a way she had never before been filled. Her body curled in upon itself as they took hold.

Feeling trapped, Simta clamped a fur covered hand over her mouth and meowed.

Meowed?

Holy Fucking Omitan!

Screeching, she flew from a no longer too small hiding place and fell into a caterwauling heap of pain. Bones slid, compressed. More fur sprouted across her shrinking body. She wriggled, flopped, and crawled within clothes that no longer fit.

"Damn you, Radno!" the woman yelled. "You took the change too far! Catch him so we can discover for whom he spies."

Scampering from her clothes on four furred feet, Simta raced for the back rooms the two had just come from. Fear, pain, confusion, all warred within her compact body. She had to get out— had to escape— now— right now. Streaking down a short hallway, Simta entered one of the rooms and leapt on a large table covered in vials of multi-colored liquids, knocking several over. She skidded in something slimy and green, coming to a halt after sending a large candelabra crashing to the floor. Candles flew from their holder to ignite liquids she had spilled.

"My work! My work! You stupid cat!" Radno screeched at Simta from the doorway.

She saw him clearly in the growing light. He did appear to be the shopkeeper, Radno Hornblaster, but he wasn't the Radno she had studied. That Radno had been a tiny and prim man, one with too much money and no magic. This Radno was dressed in a long, blood red robe, tied at the waist with a silver cord. His long, pale, gaunt face was twisted into a mask of rage. Behind him, equally pissed, stood Sulya Ibarra, Calto's partner and rumored paramour. One of Sulya's hands rested on her hip, the other gripped her sword hilt.

What was Calto's partner doing here?

Seeing Simta, Radno lunged. Simta hissed when he drew near, raking his face with long, sharp claws. Blood spouted from four nasty scratches. Cursing, Radno covered his face with a long, stick-fingered hand. "I'll feed you to the hounds!"

Simta leapt from the table, dodging the angry man's booted foot as it kicked out at her. Sulya dived, missing Simta by a tail. The knight cursed as she kicked out, grazing Simta's side, knocking her through the open door. Simta raced down the hallway, into the main room and toward the chimney only to slam into the head of a sleeping dog. Yelping surprise, the beast shook its gigantic skull and stood up. Simta yowled when it turned its boulder-sized head to her.

This was no mere dog. It was too large, and its face bore protruding horns. The creature glowered at her with eyes of hellfire. Below those eyes was a mouth filled with long, serrated teeth. When a glob of drool hit the floor, it sizzled.

Simta's bladder released its contents, quickly forming a puddle. Frozen, she watched as the other two hellhounds woke, shook their heads, and stood.

Please Anothosia, Trelsar— help me.

No, fuck that. If ever there was a lost cause in want of hope, this was it. She needed Nedross's intervention even if he was a made-up god created by that idiot Ludwig's former servant.

A loud bang brought Simta to her senses. She turned and ran back toward the room still holding Radno and Sulya. The hounds followed. Sulya and Radno flew from the room as Simta entered. She leapt between Radno's legs, entangling his long robes about his feet. The hounds dived under Radno, sending him squawking into the air like a wingless bird. Sulya was quicker than the little man. She leapt to the side, barely preventing a hellhound's massive maw from taking off her front leg.

"Get the cat, you stupid mutts!" Sulya screamed at the beasts, kicking the one who had nearly taken her leg. It reared up, mouth baying open.

Simta gave a small and pathetic mewl as the beasts stopped to crouch, treating her like a mouse with which they wanted to play. The sound of one hound's growl ripped through her body like tiny knives. Her fur stood on end as she backed toward another chained door.

The hounds lowered their huge, horned heads toward Simta. They knew they had her cornered. Raw evil danced within their eyes. Simta jumped, yowled, and clawed against the door. She had nowhere left to go.

Simta screamed inside. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die!

The hounds charged, their jaws slathering drool. Simta leapt straight into the air, claws extended. She landed on top of one horrid beast's head, hooking her claws deep into its scalp.

Rising to two legs, the hound yowled. Its momentum carried it into the door with a resounding crash, splitting the door in two.

Simta might now be a cat, but she was no fool. When safety beckoned, she grabbed it. Leaping to the ground, she fell into a tumbling roll of fur and feet. Dazed, she regained her footing and took off through the split door and into the dark with the hounds on her heels.

Simta twisted and turned through the dark streets of Yylse with the hounds baying behind her. She rounded a corner onto a main street, and the hounds still followed. Her legs felt like jelly. Her head ached, throbbed, feeling like it would explode if any more blood was pumped through it. She couldn't last much longer. Soon she would be a hound's next snack. They were closer. She could smell their breath, the stench of sulfur and rotting meat. She heard their panting just behind her back.

Slam

Something crashed behind her. Simta whimpered. Ahead, she saw Trelsar's white marble temple looming large against the darkened sky.

Come to me, Simta. Come to me if you wish to live.

Simta howled at the suddenness of a voice inside her head. Who called? Radno? Did he have the power to call to those he changed?

Slam, Slam!

Something else struck the ground behind her. A hellhound howled pain. Before her, the door to Trelsar's temple opened wide, a soft light shining from within.

Simta didn't hesitate. She sprinted the last hundred feet, sliding and rolling into the temple's open door, landing in a pathetic heap of furry feline. Behind her, she heard a click, and felt someone stroke her head and body. She wanted to hiss, wanted to bite the hand touching her, but she was too weary, too exhausted to even open her eyes. She couldn't have defended herself if she had too. Her strength was gone, her paws swollen, and the way her back leg felt, something might be broken.

Giving up, Simta opened her eyes to view her fate.

Standing above her, smiling sadly down, was the old man she had met in the Downs, the one with the kind, blue eyes. Only this time he was dressed in a simple, white robe.

"Oh, Simta. My sweet, sweet Simta. I know you meant well."

Simta mewled, wanting to stand, wanting to tell him she was sorry for her lapse, but it was too much. She closed her eyes and began drifting off to sleep with the kind man's hand still gently stroking her fur. She had wanted to be carefree and independent. Part of her supposed those words described the life of a cat. Maybe so, but it wasn't the life she sought. She was ruined, but she might still be of some use to her family. When she woke, she would find Calto and warn him about Sulya. Or maybe when she woke she would be back in her own bed, the entire night nothing but a bad dream.

Or maybe she should just get used to being furry.

* * * *

Sulya watched from the mouth of a dark alley as her fellow knights murdered her pets. Silent, angry tears slid down her face. Those hounds had been gifts from Zorce. She had earned them with her hate. Inside her, Zorce's poison roiled like an angry beast, wanting to rise up from the depths and destroy Anothosia's knights. It wanted to send its fire burning through their bodies and watch them die in agony. Sulya agreed with the poison, but she did not have enough strength to handle its aftermath, not when she hadn't slept in two days. Angered by her refusal, the poison nibbled at the edge of Sulya's soul and worried at her organs.

It hurt. Always, it hurt. Waves of dull pain shivered through her body. Sulya knew she would have to soon give the poison back to Zorce. No one but a dark god or his genetic minion could hold such true evil in their bodies for long. Not even similians, creatures bred and born of magic, could contain such fell energies. Only if Sulya allowed a powerful devil of Hell to partially transform her into a created hellborn could she continue to control the poison.

She found the thought of having scales upon her body and having her beauty defiled disgusting. Her allure over humans was one of her greatest weapons. She would not throw that weapon away. No, she had lived three hundred years in this body, two hundred of those spent battling her way up Hell's hierarchy, lying, stealing, betraying, and killing to gain Zorce's attention. She would not betray her body for a doubtful promise. More often than not Hell's gifts were a double-edged sword, cutting a person on both sides, cleaving the unwary in half if they could.

When the door to the temple fully closed, Sulya growled. Somehow, she would have to find a way into the temple to retrieve the cat. Gods only knew what the thief had seen or who it might tell if it had gained Radno's gift of speech.

Maybe they were safe. After all, not all of Radno's transformations could talk. Hell, most didn't live more than a couple days. Few people could withstand or complete the change. Those were gruesomely fascinating transformations to watch. Too bad Radno would die tonight, but if the cat talked it might lead Calto's knights to him. Radno knew too much to be allowed to live. Maybe his gift ran in his family?

Pondering the notion for a moment, Sulya decided it would be best to get this information from Radno before she killed him— or maybe Zorce would like to play with the shapechanger first? It was something else to ponder while she murdered the two knights who had destroyed her pets. Yes. Tonight would be busy for Sulya Ibarra. Lots of killing to do. Fortunately she liked killing, killing time, knights, and people and— well— just about everything. Tonight killing a certain cat would make her the happiest.

Yes, happy, very, very, happy.

Chapter 6— Queen's Knight

Calto Morlon's second in command watched as his superior paced back and forth in his office. The older priest scowled.

"Sir, I assure you your cousin is not trustworthy. She might be playing at redemption now, but before long she will betray you. Besides, it's not right to take another to your bed."

Stopping his pacing, Calto addressed his inferior. "Simta will not betray me, Dargot, not in this. She owes Larson's memory a great debt and finds me a tempting treat despite our past differences." Calto's gaze hardened. "I dare say there are few others within the temple I can trust with this task, and none who would not be noticed by either our enemies or Anithia. Since Larson's death, Ani has hated anyone affiliated with Anothosia. She will not accept our protection. Besides, how would I explain putting a royal guard on a commoner without jeopardizing everything we have worked for— everything my brother died for? Furthermore, there is nothing wrong with me courting my cousin. She is of a noble house and not closely related to me by blood

"It is not right to sully yourself with this charade," Dargot said. "There must be another way."

Calto threw his hands about him in exasperation. The strain of so many things going wrong were evident in his lack of control. When Dargot opened his mouth to protest, Calto signaled him to silence with a violent hand slash. He stared intently at the priest. "For the sake of Anothosia and my brother, I will do whatever it takes to protect them, even if it means whoring my way through half the population of Yylse."

Calto meant exactly what he said. He had too much riding on his brother's lowborn family. Several mornings past he had deliberately allowed Simta to see him disrobed, wearing only his leggings, shirt, and vest. He wanted the harlot to have the most tempting eyeful of him possible without him having to strip down to bare skin. Knowing Simta's blood ran hot and how she hated Charmaine, he had thrown in a long, sensuous kiss. A bag of gold rugdles and a flagon of wine would not have gotten a better response from the woman. After his disgusting display, he did not doubt she would do anything he asked of her.

Dargot grimaced. "Lord Sir, I meant no offense. I would certainly make the same sacrifice— for our goddess, of course."

Calto snorted and resumed pacing. Of course Dargot would be willing to make that sacrifice. He was a terrible womanizer. If it were not for Dargot's high position within Calto's personal retinue, the under-priest's wife would have asked for a divorce long ago. For his part, despite the reputation he had gained with Sulya, Calto did not find the idea of bedding Simta such an attractive option. He was Anothosia's High Priest. As such, he regarded allowing the similian into his bed as a period of weakness to his vows, barely acceptable only because she was not human. Their personal relationship had ended after Larson's ghostly visit. Because of that visit Calto suspected there was more to Sulya's story of Larson's death than what she had related. He was not entirely sure it was not her fault Larson died. He could not prove it, and so he kept her by his side to maintain a close eye on her.

"However, Lord Sir," Dargot continued, "if you are so worried about your only heir, maybe sending the woman and her daughter to your Grace estate would be best."

Calto shook his head. "No, I have told you Anithia would not fit into my lifestyle there. She is lowborn, not fit to associate with the gentry." Not to mention with Larson gone and the king increasingly becoming religiously strange, Calto was forced to spend most of his time in Yylse, leaving his queen to fend for herself.

This did not set well with Calto. As High Priest, part of his duties was to be Queen Elise's confessor and personal knight. It was impossible for him to fulfill those roles from Yylse, but because Hell's strongest known infection was here, he had no choice but to remain in this city as much as possible, far away from a king who seemed to be more and more comfortable with the idea of hellkind walking on mortal soil. Of late, his visits to Grace were becoming infrequent.

"I understand, Lord Sir, but if she is so unacceptable, why did Larson marry outside his station? Did the woman mislead him? Did she claim false pregnancy?"

Calto's jaw tightened. The reason had to do with none of those things. The two brothers had been directed by their goddess, Anothosia, to find Anithia and impregnate her. It was an unseemly task easily accomplished, but Larson had fallen in love with the wench the moment she opened her mouth. Larson instantly decided he would make the strumpet his wife even though the goddess hadn't said shit about marrying the woman. Oh no, that folly had been Larson's own stupidity. Fortunately, Calto had been able to talk his brother into agreeing the marriage should be kept quiet so his lowborn wife would not enter the public eye. Obtaining Larson's agreement had been a major battle.

A swift pang of anger ran through his body at the memory of Larson standing up to him. Calto hated being challenged, especially by an idiot brother who should have known enough to get the job done and walk away.

Still pacing, he controlled his features. In life as well as at dinner, presentation was everything. "Larson fell in love with her. He married the tramp for love, or so he told me. I could have stricken him from the family ancestry for such an act, but he is— was— my only sibling."

Calto stopped pacing and faced Dargot once again. He needed to change the subject before Dargot asked more questions about Anithia and his niece. Too much scrutiny was not what Anithia and Missa needed. It was not what he needed. Calto had kept the secret of Missa's birth for eight long years. He intended to keep it even unto death.

"Discover what dress size Simta wears and send her something appropriate. Also, give her this as well." Walking to his desk, Calto opened a side drawer and withdrew a flat, square box, five inches by five, holding a velvet choker with a heart shaped emerald centerpiece, proof of Calto's assumed intentions. "Make sure your lips do not utter a word of this to anyone." Calto thrust the box into Dargot's hand. "I do not need another scandal regarding my private actions. The queen is already somewhat displeased with me. I see no reason to make her more unhappy." Actually, Elise would be within her rights to request his dismissal if yet one more scandal scarred his name.

"Yes, Lord Sir." Dargot bowed and walked to the door. "Just one last question, Lord Morlon."

Calto frowned. "Yes?"

"What of Charmaine and his courtship of Lady Morthanhi. They already have a date set for the wedding."

Calto's left eye twitched. That particular charlatan was a pain in his ass, driving people from Anothosia's temple in an effort to save them for the one true god, Trelsar. What a pile of crap. The fool was nothing but a crazy cultist who denied the existence of the other gods. If Calto were not so focused on the war between the Seven and Two, he would have long ago thrashed Charmaine publicly for his blasphemy. Unfortunately, in the current political climate, if Charmaine was to be dealt with it would have to be quietly, a subtle disappearance. With a bit of effort Calto could arrange it, but he wasn't sure it was worth his while. Given time, Charmaine was sure to self-destruct.

"Why should I worry about his half-baked claims to the woman?" he demanded of Dargot. "I do believe he is, far, far beneath the house of Morlon. Not even noble, a fact he is trying to change."

Dargot winced, apparently realizing his misstep. Bowing reverently to Calto, he left without another word.

Once the door closed, Calto paced again. His mind whirled in a flurry of chaos. His early morning meeting with Simta had gone well. He had her cooperation, but the price she thought him willing to pay for her assistance made him tense, stressed. If she did exactly as he had asked, honored her end of their agreement, she would expect him to keep his unspoken word, expect him to make Simta an honest woman. That meant a ring upon Simta's finger and a place in his home. An appalling thought.

Calto stopped pacing and contemplated the woman being mistress of his household. Would she remain honorable if he actually did this or would she lapse into her old ways and embarrass the house of Morlon?

The thought of what Simta could do to the reputation of his House if he actually intended to honor her expectations brought on a shudder. Calto walked to his desk, pulled out a bottle of Evertrue Whiskey, and held it up so he could study the dark amber liquid. Fear of Simta somehow bringing disgrace to his household curled around his bowels like frozen ice. According to the archives, his family name had been pure for more than three-hundred years. Could he risk his family's virtue and honor on a woman with the morals of an alley cat?

Calto uncorked the whiskey. Like a commoner, he stuck the bottle's mouth between his lips, tilted it back, and let the liquor burn its way down his throat. Calto did not care if the time was barely eight bells. He needed something to ease his nerves.

Lowering the bottle, Calto wiped his lips with the back of a hand, corked the bottle, and replaced the whiskey in its drawer. He went to the window and looked out, seeing the morning sun lighting the garden in soft pastels. Gentle scents drifted on the breeze. Often, this view brought him peaceful comfort, but not today. Studying the panorama, Calto tried to focus his thoughts, calm his inner demons, but after several minutes of deep breathing, he gave up. He shook his head as its beauty failed to soothe him.

How had things gotten to such a state of desperation? Of the six years he had spent as High Priest battling Athos in the streets of Yylse, and now Zorce in Grace, none had been as despairing as this last year. Things had become so bad Calto carried Larson's sword strapped to his waist at all times, even during blessings and ceremonies. After Larson's death, Anithia and Missa had lost their house and moved into the Downs, one of the worst parts of the city. A disgrace for Larson's daughter and Calto's heir, but he could not allow them to live with him. The time was not right, and if the truth be told, he despised the woman Larson had married. She was beautiful enough, golden hair, large blue eyes, trim figure, but she was still a lowborn. Good enough to fuck on a chill night. She might make a nice mistress, but that was about it. What did it matter if she was God touched? Lowborn was lowborn. She did not belong in the Morlon family tree. But Missa— he would take her if he could and be done with Anithia. Missa carried Larson's blood.

Feeling helpless, lost, Calto clenched his hands in frustration. By the Gods, he wanted what he wanted, what he deserved, and the fact circumstances denied him his due made him rage. He was High Priest, Lord Calto Morlon, eldest and last male heir to the Morlon family trust given to them by Anothosia herself. He hated it when matters did not go his way.

A soft knocking brought Calto out of his reverie. Turning, he straightened his vest and clasped his hands behind his back. "Enter."

When the door opened, a woman hesitantly stepped into the room. As soon he saw her Calto stiffened, and his mood sunk even lower.

"Lady Gertunda, how unexpected." Calto walked over to the noblewoman, his face wearing a blank, forced, expression of indifference. He hoped the gadfly was not here for yet one more request for a divorce from her prat of a husband, Ludwig. The matter was not Calto's concern. It belonged to her family's personal priest. Divorces were minor issues, far beneath his station, but her father's indignation and need for a public spectacle brought her to his office time and time again no matter how often he told her she needed to return to Grace to have the issue properly resolved. For that matter, until this moment he thought she had returned to Grace over two months ago.

The woman, brown eyes tense and shining, took Calto's hand with a jerk and smashed his ring to her lips. She released his hand so fast she almost threw it from her.

Calto scowled. "Your Ladyship."

"Sorry–sorry. Please, High Lord, I have a request from her majesty. You are needed back in Grace immediately."

Calto's eyes widened, realizing Gertunda was here on an entirely different matter than he had suspected. Why was this woman bringing him news from the queen? Where were the queen's personal messengers?

"Is she all right?" he instantly asked, knowing the question sounded inane, but news of the queen was always his top priority.

"Queen Elise bids me to tell you things have become worse within the city and the castle. Almost all of her personal attendants have been replaced by those loyal to Belsac and Helace. She has but one reliable attendant left, Wenda, but even she cannot escape the prying eyes of the king's pair. Last month, when I attended the Summer's Eve Ball, the queen asked me to come and get you."

Calto's breath caught in his throat. The king's pair. Helace was the king's mistress and Belsac his newest advisor. Despite the fact he had seldom seen them, or perhaps because of this, Calto trusted neither. Whenever he entered a room, both quickly left. To his mind their absence brought up the question of what they were hiding. He knew, like so many of the other sycophants within the court, they were trying to wrest power and influence from Elise, but that would never happen. Calto and Elise's father, the emperor of the Altude Empire, would not allow it. She was Calto's queen, queen of the realm. She would remain so no matter how often the king urged her to grant him a divorce due to her lack of living male children.

"Does she fear for her life?" Calto asked. His voice trembled at the thought. He might not be able to murder the king, but he could damn well arrange unfortunate accidents for the two usurpers. No one threatened his Elise.

Calto caught himself in his thinking. His Elise? The queen would never be his.

Gertunda shrugged. "I have no way of knowing. She had but barely a moment to give me her message."

Calto nodded. "Go back to Grace and tell her I am coming. No. Wait. I will leave today and provide you an escort."

After all, despite her annoying personality, Lady Gertunda had put herself at some small risk to deliver the queen's message. Goddess only knew whether the king's pair had someone watching the woman. The least he could do was reward her bravery with an armed escort.

Lady Gertunda curtsied so low Calto received more than just a pleasant view of her breasts. They nearly fell out of their confines, allowing him a brief sight of pale nipples. Quickly stepping forward, Calto helped the petite woman stand, wondering where in the name of the goddess did such revealing fashions spring from? If this trend continued the next fashion might well result in women baring their legs in public.

"Now, now, needn't bow so low. Not for me. Despite my worldly station I am, at heart, only a lowly servant of the goddess. Would you please send in Brother Dargot on your way out?"

"Of course, High Lord." Gertunda did not move.

"Is there something else, My Lady?" He eyed her impatiently.

"My blessing, High Priest."

Straightening, Calto gave her a stiff bow. "My apologies, Lady Gertunda."

Reaching out his left hand, Calto reluctantly touched Gertunda's forehead with the tips of his fingers. Her pale skin felt almost feverish.

With a slight harrumph, Calto cleared his throat and closed his eyes. He focused his mind on Anothosia's presence. Since Larson's death his goddess had been harder to call. She had not yet failed to answer, but sometimes he feared she would not.

Goddess, fill me with your truth— your justice.

Deep within his being Her Presence stirred, slow and sluggish as if She were waking from a long sleep. She grew larger within him, stronger, filling his soul with warmth and love.

Focusing Her Presence through the touch of his fingers on Gertunda's head, he spoke. "May the Goddess bring Her blessing to your heart and your home and give you guidance. And may she stay with you on your journey back to Grace and see you safely to your hearth."

Lady Gertunda sighed as Anothosia's peace entered her body. Calto opened his eyes to see bliss and a soft glow spread across her face. The High Priest exhaled a breath he did not know he held. Thanks be to the goddess. The blessing had worked. It had never not worked, but there had been times when Anothosia's presence had been so faint he feared she had abandoned him.

"Thank you, Lord High Priest. Thank you." Sounding breathy, Gertunda looked more than a little lightheaded.

"Are you fit, My Lady?"

Pausing, Gertunda drew a deep breath and then slowly released it. "Yes, of course. Your blessings are just— well— stronger than our family's priest. I will send in your attendant, Lord Calto." She stepped lightly to the door and left. Moments later Dargot entered.

"My Lord?" Dargot bowed. The top of his bald head caught the morning light, appearing to almost be a pale pink moon. His white robes looked mussed, as if he had been in a state of undress. Frowning, Calto wondered exactly what Dargot had been doing and with whom.

"I'm leaving for Grace. Tell Goron to pack my things for a fast, light trip. I want to leave within the hour. Also, Lady Gertunda is returning. Brigands have been about so I've offered her an escort and my coach. Arrange it. When those tasks are finished, come back and deliver a message to Simta for me. Oh, I want to ride my own war horse to Grace, and be sure I have two extra remounts. It is important I get to the queen quickly."

Dargot's face appeared shocked. "Is her majesty ill?"

Calto did not want to disclose any information unnecessarily, especially when he did not have all the particulars himself. Dargot was his second, yes, but it did not mean he trusted the man. Of late, some indefinable uneasiness made him shy from confiding in him. A feeling, a doubt, which wiggled its way around in Calto's brain, made him keep the under-priest at arm's length.

"I have been summoned to her side. I am unsure what she wishes of me, but I am not in good standing of late with the queen or her husband, so my haste would be prudent."

Nodding, Dargot left. While watching the older priest's exit, Calto felt a sudden unease creep into his gut. He stood a moment longer, searching for the cause of his qualm but gave up in frustration when he realized an answer was not coming.

Damn. So many things were wrong and not enough was right with the kingdom. The queen's repeated miscarriages of her male children, his brother's death, hellborn entering the kingdom, and now this? What was next?

* * * *

Sneering, Sulya watched as her former lover helped Lady Gertunda into her coach. She had been ordered to ride with her ladyship, but that would not happen. Sulya had sent another in her stead, infuriating his Noble Snobbiness. No matter. Calto was in too much of a hurry to come looking for her and insist she attend the arrogant wench.

Since Larson's death, Sulya had possessed little time to pursue her true purpose, which was figuring out why the High Priest had an unusual preoccupation with Anithia and Missa Morlon. What was so special about those two? Why did Calto concern himself with them? Were they truly in need of protection? If so, why didn't he just bring them into his home? Lowborn or not, Anithia had still been his brother's secret wife, and Missa was Calto's only legal heir. Perhaps something was wrong with the child, a mental or physical birth defect, something so shameful Calto refused to have his home brushed with its scandal. If that was the case, then why did he keep such a careful eye on them?

Sulya frowned. Yes, she was sure her questions had something to do with the child, but what? Did Calto feel honor bound to look after his brother's family despite their low beginnings, or was it more?

Sulya waited until the carriages disappeared and Dargot stood alone. Sauntering up to him, she began to emit her musk, knowing exactly how much to release to get her desired effect from the womanizing priest. Two glands tucked up close to her womanly area secreted a scent which drew any male of a compatible species to hers. As a rule, the more they succumbed the harder it became for them to break free of her allure. Eventually, all humanoid males, except those of her own species, soon became her mindless sex slaves if she so desired. All except Calto. Somehow, he had escaped her. Sulya wondered if his wretched goddess had something to do with that.

Dargot stiffened when she approached. He turned slowly, brown eyes hungry, his pupils dilated. Unconsciously, the priest's long, broad nose flared, drawing in her scent.

Sulya smiled, a slow curving of full, black lips, when she saw his instant reaction to her presence. For a man in his late forties, Dargot had proved to be incredible in bed. There was not an ounce of fat on him, and remembering the things he had done to her made Sulya wet with anticipation. The information he passed on afterwards was even better.

Her voice was low, sultry. "Dargot."

"Mistress."

To her satisfaction, his manhood stirred beneath his robes. His hands clenched into white fists at his sides. She shivered with anticipation. His big, rough hands not only knew their way around a woman's body, they were also very deft with a whip. Sometimes, when the mood was right, she liked a little touch of the lash.

She stepped within reach of the crushing strength of his arms. "I'm lonely." Her skin's deep blue turned a mottled purple.

Dargot's breathing quickened, and Sulya's smile grew as she trailed her nails down his chest. After spending an hour or two with the weak-willed priest she would know all Calto's scheming. The High Priest might have kicked her out of his bed, but he had not yet banished her from his head, not when he had so many underlings who would do anything to entice her to spread her thighs.

* * * *

Calto stood at the castle gate glaring at the guard. A week's hard ride had him in a right foul temper for a good glare. After the long and grueling journey, he was in no mood to be challenged by someone so far beneath his station, even if his dress made his station not quite apparent. As yet, he had not stopped at his estate to clean-up and change into his formal robes, not when the queen had need. Even so, both he and his horse were parched, hungry, and tired. Now this–this thing, was blocking his way to the queen. It was all he could do to restrain himself from beating the man senseless. He found it unbelievable the infuriating lowborn actually had the nerve to pull his sword on Calto and deny him entry.

"L–Lord B–B–Belsac said you were not to be admitted." The guard stuttered. Fear and sweat covered his face, and he seemed to be struggling to hold his sword. "K‒kings orders." He pointed his blade toward Calto's stomach and thrust it out until it almost touched Calto's shirt.

Calto fumed, infuriated. How dare this buffoon have the effrontery to threaten him? Ineffectively, true, but still a threat.

Calto sneered. "How dare you raise your sword, let alone your voice to me? I will see you drawn and quartered for this insolence. No High Priest of Anothosia has ever been refused entrance to the castle. King's orders or not, I am here at the queen's request."

Rigid with rage, Calto stared into the guard's eyes, daring him to continue denying his will. The moonstone atop his polished white staff flared up, nearly blinding with the intensity of its light. At his hip, Larson's sword hummed. Calto reached inside, drew his Goddess's power to him, ready to turn the man to ash if he did not let him pass. This defiance of Belsac's orders might cost the guard his head, but that was of little matter. Calto would not abandon his queen. If he had to do so, he would battle his way into the castle and lay waste to any who tried to stop him.

Hissing when the blazing light struck him, the guard seemed to writhe in pain before dropping his sword. "Forgive me." Falling to his knees, he prostrated himself before the priest. "Please, I'm a faithful man. It's known a priest of Anothosia may not strike an innocent down."

Snarling, Calto withdrew his hand from his sword's hilt even though he wanted to kick the guard hard enough to make his bones rattle inside his armor. "You are a disgrace. Stand up. Escort me to the queen, and then clean yourself up. For goddess sake— you are a palace guard— and yet you look filthy."

Truthfully, the man smelled even worse than he looked— like sex, blood, and something else. Calto wasn't sure what. He only knew the guard smelled wrong.

Whimpering, cringing, the guard stood up. "Yes, My Lord. Yes, I will attend to my appearance. The queen is somewhere inside."

Calto brushed past him, his mind twisted in knots of rage. He would kill any man who dared threaten his queen.

Behind him a screech rang out, sending stabs of pain through his body. Acting on trained instinct, Calto dropped and rolled to the side, swinging his staff as he did so. The blow landed alongside what should have been the guard's head.

The creature materializing above him bore row upon row of needle teeth in a lizard's skull, and it possessed long taloned fingers. Appearing at least a foot taller than Calto, its red, filth-covered scales shimmered like liquid fire. Calto was unsure exactly what type of creature it was, but did know one thing; this monster came from Hell, and it thirsted for his blood.

The beast screeched in pain and spat blood when the staff struck. The place where Calto's staff landed sizzled and popped, burning a ragged trench deep into the side of the thing's face. It lunged at Calto again, its grotesquely long muzzle snapping and biting at Calto's throat while trying to pin him to the ground with its weight.

Calto jerked his body sideways and rolled as serrated teeth took a chunk out of the hard packed earth next to his head. Dropping his staff, he loosened and pulled free his sword, slashing at the Hell creature's side, biting the blade into its flesh with blinding light. The evil stench of cursed blood filled the air, and black liquid sprayed across his white robe. The smell of the thick, tar-like substance filled Calto's senses, making him light-headed and nauseous.

Ripping his sword free of the creature's flesh, Calto struck again. Rearing back with a scream, the creature staggered away from the burning blade, swinging its sinewy arms wide. Calto surged to his feet and drove the blade into the damned being's belly. A screech tore from its lips like a physical force, almost driving the priest to his knees.

"Anothosia!" Calto shouted. "I beg you! Cast this creature to the depths from which it crawled! Send it back to its despised master!"

Scales parted and innards flowed as Anothosia's searing white light burned into the being's body. A look of evil rage tore across its face. It opened its mouth to scream again, but the light engulfed it, cutting short its cries of defeat and pain. Scales, talons, teeth— all disintegrated.

Calto's body shook from adrenaline, ready for the next attack. Whirling about, he looked for more hellkind, but none came. None at all. Panting, he cleaned his sword on his already befouled robe. With careful movements, he shoved the sword back into its scabbard and stared at the spot where the hellborn had been.

What in the two hells had attacked him? It was not wholly hellhound, snake, or demon. Were Athos and Zorce continuing Zorce's original nano experiments, started back when Zorce and the other gods were still human? Were they crossbreeding a new species of hellkind?

Calto grabbed his staff and tried to brush black ash from his face and hands. He looked down at his stained robes and growled. Though not his best, the robe had once been valuable. Someone, or something, would pay dearly for this outrage.

Entering the castle without further challenge, Calto made his way silently through the deserted halls. Fear urged him to run, but common sense told him to be cautious. He saw no courtiers, attendants, or guards while traversing the halls. There were no merchants or dignitaries haggling and hobnobbing in the corridors leading to the great hall. And what of the clerks? The palace seemed curiously inactive for the center of the kingdom's administration.

Calto quickened his pace. Fear sat in his belly like a heavy boulder. Politically correct or not, he would seek the queen in her bedchambers. With the mood he was in, he dared anyone to try and stop him. Unfortunately, no one did.

By the time Calto ascended to the section of the castle reserved for the queen and her court, the knight's heart hammered hard against his rib cage with anticipated action. Upon reaching the queen's corridor, he paused and looked carefully around for any sign of opposition. Not a soul stirred. Not a guard attacked.

Where were her personal guards?

Still being careful, quiet, he crept to the door of Queen Elise's chambers, half afraid of what he would find. If she were not in her rooms he would next search the dungeons and the cemetery. There would be hell to pay if he found her in either place. His fear worsened at the thought. How dared her personal guard leave Queen Elise unprotected, unless there was no longer an Elise to protect? Reaching the door to the queen's chambers, he knocked softly and released a sigh when she hesitantly spoke from the other side.

"Who is it? What do you want?"

"My Queen, I beg you answer. It is I, Most High Priest Morlon." Despite his best efforts, Calto could not keep the tremble from his voice.

The door opened a crack, then the queen threw it open wide, allowing him to see her pale face flood with relief. Her beautiful green eyes looked tired, tormented. Hair tumbled down her shoulders and back in a lose tangle of copper and chestnut curls. Calto's eyes drifted to Elise's pale pink lips. Her tongue darted out and licked them to a shiny moue. Dazed, he felt as if he had drank a bit too much wine the night before and still felt its effects. Even in this, her most dire straight, she was a vision that filled his eyes.

Eyes narrowing, the queen looked at his stained robes. "Lord Morlon, are you injured?" She reached out a weapon callused hand— a hand he wanted to kiss.

Calto knelt before her, took her strong, slender fingers in his own. Touching them to his forehead, he forced his mind to focus on the seriousness of state affairs instead of the soft scent of her skin.

"My Queen, it is not my condition I worry for. You called for me, and I see things are seriously amiss. Tell me, are you all right?"

She squeezed his hand before slowly pulling hers from his grasp. Her touch left sweet warmth behind.

"Yes and no. Please, Lord Morlon, rise. We must speak."

Calto stood but did not enter her chambers. To be found with the queen alone would be a death sentence for him and perhaps, also, for her.

"Is there another place we could speak, My Queen?"

She turned and looked at him. "Please, Lord Morlon, there is no other place. I am spied upon everywhere but my private chambers and am seldom allowed to leave except under escort." Her hands clenched at her side. "I know the risk Calto. I would not ask, but..."

Calto drew his shoulders back and steeled his resolve. If his beautiful Elise wished this, then so it would be. Without hesitation and with breath quickening, he walked into his queen's chambers. Although he had been close to the queen many times when giving her the goddess's blessings or called upon to give his council on matters of religion or commerce, he had never before attended to her in her private chambers. The idea of it seemed intimate— perhaps too intimate.

Relief spread across Elise's face when he crossed her threshold. "I need your help. The king's pair have stepped up their efforts to get rid of me, and I'm afraid my husband is listening to their pleas. Calto, one month ago I miscarried another son."

Calto's stomach tightened. If he had been here a month before— but he had not known her pregnancy was endangered, and he had not been at liberty to return to the castle until summoned.

"Forgive me, My Queen. I should not have left you." He began to drop down to one knee. Elise stopped him with a held out hand.

"It's not your groveling I need. If I cannot produce a male heir the king will divorce me, and I'll be sent back to my father in shame."

Anger stirred in the pit of Calto's stomach. "That will not happen. I will personally see to it." He cringed inwardly at a sudden image of the king's grotesque mountain of flesh smothering the queen's firm, lithe body.

"You will personally see to what, Lord Morlon?" The king's angry baritone boomed from hallway behind him. "And why are you here? I gave the gate guard specific orders you were not to be admitted."

Stiffening, Calto turned slowly while anger and insult at the king's words poured over him like scalding water. "So, you admit to trying to have me murdered?"

The king's porcine eyes widened in shock. "Murder? No‒I‒How dare you question me in that tone, and who said anything about murder? Damn you, Lord Morlon, you're putting words into my mouth, but you condemn yourself by your presence in my wife's rooms." After pushing the rest of his girth through the doorway, King Vere drew his sword.

Face stone hard, Calto stepped in front of his queen. Unbidden, the power of Anothosia filled Calto's soul with more force than she had ever filled him before. Like jumping into a too hot bath, her power scalded him, boiled his innards. His senses momentarily reeled. The queen's chamber filled with golden light, and the king dropped his sword, stumbling backward.

Calto scowled. How dare the rotund bowl of lard threaten him, Anothosia's High Priest! Vere might be king, but Calto's family had endured as a house of respect and strength for centuries longer than the king's family dared claim. The Morlon's were one of the founding fathers of Yernden.

"You have shamed yourself before the goddess. Kneel and beg her forgiveness." Calto's voice filled the room and spilled out into the hallway like an angry beast. For a moment, it looked as if the shuddering king would obey. Instead, he opened his mouth and yelled.

"Guards! Guards! I'm being attacked." Fat jiggled as he tripped over the hem of his long blue robes while stumbling back out into the hallway.

The goddess within Calto raged. Anothosia propelled him forward, but before he could strike the cowardly king with his staff, firm, strong hands pulled at his arm.

"Calto! No!" Gripping his arm, Elise yanked him back into her chambers. "He is the king. You can't kill him or we will both be hanged."

Slumped against the hallway wall, the king whimpered. The footsteps of approaching guards echoed off the cavernous hallway ceiling.

Calto's frown grew deeper. This was another sign of how slack the castle had become. By rights, those guards should have been in constant attendance on the king. By the Seven and Two, what was going on here?

Shivering with the strength of Anothosia's rage and acting without thought, Calto pointed the staff at the king. Power shot from the moonstone, encasing Vere's body in a brilliant flash, sending him to the floor with a groan and a loud thud.

Swords drawn, the guards came upon their king. Looking from king to priest, they gazed in shock at the golden visage of Calto. Some swore while backing away. Others trembled in fear, circling their hearts with shaking fingers, then crossing them, giving the sign of one faithful to Anothosia.

Bending down, the guard captain warily touched the king. "Your Majesty?"

Mumbling something indistinct, King Vere blinked bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "What? Why are you all standing here?" He looked over to where Calto stood in the doorway of the queen's chambers. "You? How did you get past my guards? Which one disobeyed my orders?"

A guard Calto had never seen before pulled the king's immense girth from the stone floor as easily as if he were lifting a small pebble. Calto watched the man's craggy, aged face. Brilliant blue eyes sparkled knowingly at him. Strangely, Calto felt he should know the man. The feeling became strong, and the power within him increased as his goddess flared hotly for a moment. Calto gasped in both shock and wonder as the guard's face shone with power and knowledge. He started to reach for the man, needing to make the power within him and the power without connect, but just as quickly as the force had come upon the old man, it dissipated, leaving Calto unsure of what he had seen.

The guard's mouth twitched into a knowing smile as he brushed the dust from Vere's clothes. "My King, this is Anothosia's most High Priest. He and the other priests of the Seven have always been welcome here."

Vere's beady eyes shifted right, then left, and sweat beaded his brow. "Where's Belsac?" he whispered. "I need my medicine."

The guards looked at the king and then back to Calto. The captain stepped forward. "Lord High Priest, what would you have us do?"

"Take him back to his room. Make sure he lies down. I have business with the queen to conduct."

"Yes, he does, and next time," Elise's eyes lit with green fire, and her voice became a low growl. "You will address me as to what is to be done— not my priest."

The guard's bearded face became stiff. "Yes, Your Majesty. Forgive my lapse of propriety." Bowing deeply, he took the king's arm and led him away.

The guard gone, Calto turned to face Elise. Her pale, oval face looked drawn and sad.

"Calto, what am I to do now? You have just seen a part of what I'm facing."

With Anothosia's godhead still upon him, Calto placed his hand upon Elise's forehead. Power leapt from his hand into her body, lighting her from within. The queen's eyes instantly turned a soft gold, and her hair reflected a coppery haze of dancing lights. Rapture came upon her, erasing the sorrow from her eyes.

Never before had Calto felt such power course through his body as he had this day. Shaking his head, he wondered where the added strength came from and why. For a moment, the image of the unknown guard flared bright and intense in his mind, revealing to him someone other than an aged warrior. Then, just as quickly, it faded, leaving behind an odd afterimage which fused with the power of his goddess. Another surge of raw power filled his body and then passed into the queen's.

Elise's visage became even more radiant and, if asked, Calto would have sworn he looked into the beauty of her soul. It was like a flickering white fire, intense in the middle, soft around the edges.

Words not his own issued from his mouth. "Child of light and courage, none may take another from your womb. The light of the gods will walk with you in these dark halls, never leaving your side so long as our lights shine within the heavens."

Elise and Calto gasped as the light released them. Swaying, the queen stumbled into Calto's arms. He held her tight against his chest, relishing her warm, feminine curves, afraid to let her go. Despite the blessing he had delivered, he loathed the thought of leaving her alone. He wanted to bury his face in her soft curls, inhale her delicate scent, and swear his allegiance to only her, but that would be far past what was proper. Holding her like this was indecent enough, and besides, the muck upon his robes was certainly ruining her green silk dress.

The queen seemed to think of this as well for she suddenly pulled herself from his embrace.

Swallowing, Calto dropped to his knee. "Forgive me your Majesty. Your beautiful dress— I–I meant no—"

Her voice was warm, soft. "Please rise, Calto. You did nothing but bring me peace and give me the comfort and reassurance no one else had the courage to give. Besides, I have dozens of beautiful dresses just like this one. None hold meaning."

Calto dared to lift his head and look into his queen's eyes. Heart stuttering, he locked his gaze with hers. Could she see his adoration, feel the love nestled deep in his soul?

Glorious woman! She shone not only with her own beauty, but with the beauty of the blessing just granted her. He could not keep his eyes from trailing down the length of her body and back up to her face. The afterglow of the blessing still flashed in her eyes, and her smile radiated pure peace. At that moment she looked more goddess than mortal.

Calto stood. "I will send two of my knights here to guard you."

She waved a hand in dismissal. "No, Calto. Neither the king's advisor nor his whore dare touch me now. I have faith in the power of Anothosia's blessing. The next child I carry shall come to term, and I will be gifted with a son. This I was promised by the gods themselves."

Elise smiled, slow and sweet. Calto's heart warmed. He nearly fell to his knees. Her beauty was a thing of awe and her presence a balm to his aching soul.

She sighed. "And the safety of the kingdom comes before my own. You cannot afford to pull even one knight from the task of finding the second hellhole in our kingdom. Thank you for coming for me. You are truly one of the few I can call friend. I'll be fine now. Go. Go before more problems arise or your king gains any sense about him."

Calto's heart crumbled. He longed to hold her flesh to his in an intimate embrace. He knew this impossible, but a heart will want what it wants. His wanted Elise.

Chapter 7— Nursemaid

Thump, drag, thump, drag, thump, drag.

"Berferd is almost useless. There must be some way I can get some other help." Phrandex reached the rock wall of the nursery and turned around to pace the other way.

Swoosh. Thump, drag, thump, drag, thump, drag. Chomp!

Painfully wincing, Phrandex looked down at the teething demon locked securely around his leg. Drool coated the black and copper colored scales on the baby's face. The devil smiled at his young charge. "By the Dark Lord, you are a cute one! But there are just too many of you."

Phrandex turned his attention back to pacing. The child mewled and hissed and began dragging itself up Phrandex's leg. Long, scaly arms rasped against his upper thigh as the child pulled itself up to the older devil's waist. It found a soft spot on Phrandex's hip and sank its fangs into him.

Phrandex winced again. He didn't mind the teething so much, just, of late, so many new demons were being born lately. He couldn't take care of them all, especially when the new babies started teething about the time the older ones decided they were ready for solid food. Every inch of his six-foot frame was often covered in biting, hissing— and most often angry— demon babies. Of late, it had become so bad he barely kept things under control. If he were not careful he would eventually lose one of the little demons into the belly of several others.

Phrandex shuddered at the thought. If he were to lose one, Athos, the lesser lord of Hell, would personally see to tearing his scales off one by one until he was a bloody mass of exposed tissue. Athos would then allow Phrandex's scales to re-grow and do it all again. He might even invite their shared father, Zorce, to join in. Neither of the hellgods would tolerate a hint of a delay to their planned takeover of the upper world.

"What is it those humans use to take care of their young?" Phrandex mused. "Milk maids? No, no. I've had one of those before." He grunted. "Taste nothing like milk. Hmm. And maids clean. What was that confounded name again? I know it has something to do with a human woman."

The baby climbed onto to Phrandex's back and clawed its way up to his horns. Phrandex sighed at his young half-brother. "Orloc, please go to sleep. I need to think, and you're not helping."

"I'll take him."

Phrandex whirled around, accidentally flinging the baby from his head. Inertia carried the demon across the cave and into the arms of the similian standing in the doorway. He laughed nervously. "Nice catch."

Scowling, Sulya's skin turned dark magenta. Two cat-like eyes glared at him as she cuddled the demon close to her chest. She was tall and lithe, and had no need to fear the little demon's bite because she was dressed in black battle armor. "Careful Phrandex. We're trying to get you noticed by Athos in a good way."

Nodding foolishly, Phrandex bowed furiously at the woman. Sulya deserved respect. After all, she served the father of Hell, Zorce, as his general and was considered a nasty bit of work by most of hellkind even though she was not, technically, one of them. "My apologies, my lady. My apologies." Phrandex hated bowing to the similian. It was demeaning. He was a half-blood devil, a tough as hell being, and she was nothing but weak flesh and blood. But Zorce needed his weapons, and Sulya was his most cunning tool. Not to mention she was not only Orloc's mother, but Phrandex's as well.

The baby nuzzled her armor for a place to gnaw. Phrandex thought about warning her Orloc was teething, but he needed some relief. Besides, if the child did manage to bite through the armor Phrandex would enjoy hearing his mother scream. The sound of strained vocal chords often helped him think, and her screams would be more pleasant to hear than most.

To Phrandex's displeasure the child only nuzzled her. After long moments of cooing, a detestable humanoid trait, Sulya hugged Orloc before walking across the room and placing him in his crib. Asleep.

Phrandex scowled. "How did you do that?"

"I'm its mother, idiot." Sulya smiled fondly down at her offspring and gently stroked his head. When the baby gurgled, Sulya smiled wider and then turned to sneer at Phrandex. "Not much of a nursemaid, are you?"

Nursemaid! That was what he needed! Yes! Phrandex smiled broadly and shook his head. "No, General. I'm not, but I'll soon find somebody who is."

* * * *

Feeling nervous, Phrandex clutched his cloak around him. He didn't like the idea of being above ground at such a terribly young age. According to the tales around the caverns, humans smelled funny, had weird habits, and resented being eaten. He hated the thought of walking among them, but really, how else was he going to gain experience so he could properly teach his precious brood about the world they would someday own.

The devil peeked around the corner of the Hellhole Tavern's kitchen door. According to his teaching the low amount of light coming through the window indicated it was early morning as humans reckoned things. The place appeared empty. Good. He didn't want to face off with one of those pesky knights he had heard were often lurking about. The tales said human knights had always tried to catch his kind as they came out of the hole back before the king forbade them doing so. They waved their swords about, shouted, whacked, jabbed, and just generally annoyed his brethren. Pains in the ass, every one of them,

Or so he had heard.

Phrandex quickly scuttled across the dirty wood floor and took up a position near the entrance. He glanced carefully about and found the street full of loud and nauseatingly sweet smelling people.

How in the two hells was he going to find his way around and get what he needed? He clacked his jaws in frustration. Maybe he wasn't going to get a nursemaid after all. Ideally, he could reach out the tavern's door and just snatch a woman, but what if she hated children, and what if one of those knights were out there with their pointy things? No. He had to have a milkmaid. Or was that a nursemaid? But how?

"Can I help you, stranger?"

Phrandex nearly jumped out of his scales when a man's voice spoke from behind him. How had he missed the fellow? He turned slowly, making sure his face was in shadow and his shape change remained mostly intact. Standing behind the bar was a large, stout man with his hands resting on the bar top. He was as tall as Phrandex and almost as hairless. What little hair he did have swirled in gray wisps around his head. He wore a brown shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"I...ah...am looking for someone."

"Hmm. Who would that be?" The man's hands remained carefully near the bar's edge, probably because he had a weapon of some sort hidden there. Was he one of those knight things?

Phrandex frowned. The man was most likely the owner, but he had heard human knights were slippery fellows good at deceiving even the most careful of devils. No easy feat. This human seemed to be sizing him up as well. Maybe he should eat him and be done with it. Still, the man didn't appear to be armed so he might not be a knight. What a quandary. To eat or not eat, that was the question.

Not. He needed answers, and this human was the only intelligent being around who could give them to him. If he proved useless, well— it was past breakfast time wasn't it?

Phrandex stepped closer to the bar and examined the surroundings. Behind the bar were many bottles of liquor, one of them labeled 'Evertrue Whiskey.' At the sight of the bottle Phrandex drooled. He loved Evertrue Whiskey. His mother once brought him half a bottle of it for his seventy-fourth birthday.

Fishing out a large diamond, the devil threw it on the bar. "I want two bottles of your best Evertrue." He looked down to see that a large puddle of his drool had fallen to the bar top.

Looking disgusted, the bartender eyed him suspiciously before picking up the diamond and biting it. "Huh. Feels real. Where did you get this?"

Phrandex pulled his tongue back into his mouth and allowed his shape to revert slightly back towards devil. "In Hell."

With his expression suddenly cool, the bartender moved through a doorway leading to, Phrandex assumed, the kitchen.

Phrandex frowned. Was the man being tricky? There were tales of tricky humans, and this one, Carrid Brewer, Phrandex remembered from the tales, had a reputation of being especially tricky.

Just to be careful, he walked around the bar and into the kitchen. When he walked through the door, the bartender wheeled on him with a pan, smacking Phrandex directly in the face.

Phrandex blinked. "You hit me."

Carrid looked at the ruined pan.

Casually, Phrandex grabbed the man by the throat. Carrid gasped when Phrandex lifted the bartender off his feet and shook him. "Now that was not nice. You will give me back my diamond plus four bottles of whiskey. Now!"

After shaking him once more to make sure the fellow got the message, Phrandex released his hold. The bartender scuttled quickly out of the devil's way, ran into a back room, and reappeared moments later with the requested items.

"Good. Furthermore human, you will get me a..." Phrandex paused. Was it a nursemaid he wanted? Yes, yes, at least he thought that was it. "A nursemaid. Now."

With a slow shake of his head, Carrid Brewer's face scrunched into an odd, perplexed expression. "I ain't got no nursemaids. All I have are barmaids, and none of them are here yet. You have to go uptown to get yourself a nanny."

Phrandex tilted his head. "A what?"

"A nanny, nursemaid, brood mother. Same thing. Just depends on where you're from."

Puzzled Phrandex didn't know if it was better to have a nanny, a boob mother, or a milkmaid? This human was confusing him. Irritated, Phrandex grabbed and shook him again. "What is a boob mother, and is she better than a milkmaid?"

The man's feet kicked frantically as his face turned an odd shade of blue. "Gack!"

Frowning, Phrandex loosened his grip and allowed Carrid's feet to touch the ground. After a considerable amount of coughing, color returned to his face.

"Fascinating. You humans change color just like Similians do?" Because he liked experimenting, Phrandex played with the man for a while, testing his color range until he passed out.

"Oh hells bells, now what?" Phrandex nudged the big man's still form for several minutes before a shrill scream rent the air. For the second time that morning, Phrandex nearly shed his scales.

"By Nedross, you killed him. You murdered Carrid." A skinny, bedraggled, young woman stared at Phrandex from the kitchen doorway. Her long skirted dress was the same drab brown as her hair and eyes. A filthy gray apron was tied at her waist, and she looked like she had just crawled out of a garbage pile. When her eyes grew huge, Phrandex remembered he still wore his devil face.

"I did, most certainly, not kill Carrid," Phrandex replied, allowing his features to shift back to something near human, a bit insulted at the idea he would kill someone without first torturing them for a day or so.

The woman looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He liked that. A feeling of perverse pleasure stole over him. The urge to grab her and experiment was nearly overwhelming. He resisted the temptation. Maybe she knew about boob mothers.

Reaching over, he casually snagged the woman by her hair. She screamed and kicked in a useless attempt to hurt him. "Now look, stop this nonsense. I only want to ask a question or two, and then I'll let you go." At least he thought he might. After all, she had brought up the subject of killing first.

The smelly creature stopped howling. Tears still ran down her dirt smudged face, but the noise was gone. Much better.

Phrandex grinned with satisfaction. "I need to find a boob mother or a ninny or something like that. Or a milkmaid if you know of one. Hmm. No. Wait. I don't think milkmaid is it. What was that word again?" Phrandex's mind twisted and turned as visions of mother's with three and four boobs popped in and out of his head. "No, no, milkmaids are the women who don't taste like milk."

His captive whimpered. "I ain't no milkmaid, and I don't know what any of those other things are either."

Blast it all. He had played too much with the bartender so he had to start all over with the explanations again. Fortunately, this human looked intimidated and pliable. She seemed like someone who would give him the information he needed with almost no persuasion. However, she kept one hand near her pocket, probably where she concealed a knife. A trace of anger stirred in him. Briefly, he thought about breaking her for her effrontery, but refrained. She was the only human he had left.

Compromising, he stopped hurting her after she wore only a couple dozen small bruises. Phrandex carefully released the woman and once more explained what he needed. She rewarded him with detailed instructions on what he had to do.

"So, I have to go uptown to 356 Workers Lane and apply for a nanny? Correct?" Phrandex asked ten minutes later.

She nodded quickly. "Please, may I go now?"

"No, I can't possibly go out there and do this. I've never actually walked in the human world before. I would end up lost." Or worse, he thought darkly, he might run into one of those knights he had heard about. The king's stricture about them leaving hellkind alone didn't apply outside the tavern. "You go. Give them these diamonds and tell them I want their best milkmaid. When you have her, bring her to me here. If you don't—" Flexing his talons, Phrandex snapped his jaws shut. "I have your scent. I'll know where to find you."

The woman shuddered and shrank toward the door. "I'll be back soon." She turned and ran.

After she left, Phrandex sighed and sat down next to the unmoving bartender. He hoped the woman returned with his–what was that again? Boob mother? No! Oh, damn it all, he just wanted to get back to his babies. Hopefully his threat was enough to bring the woman back because he honestly didn't know if he could find her again. These humans all stunk the same, probably the result of too much bathing.

* * * *

Nearly two hours and six frightened customers later the barmaid returned with a tall blond woman owning light green eyes. The new woman looked and smelled very different than either the bartender or the barmaid. Her dress was of a soft material and very yellow. She appeared disgustingly clean and neat. Her hands were small and soft, and she carried a large bag that was probably stuffed with all sorts of useless human junk. All in all, she looked nauseating, but Phrandex didn't care as long as she tasted— no— no— was good with children.

Phrandex carefully bundled himself up and went to greet the boob mother. At first, the woman didn't notice him because she was too busy squishing her face up at the filth and dirt on the tavern's floor and tables.

"Is there a reason why My Lord Phrandex wants us to meet in this..." The woman seemed to be at a loss for words. Grimacing, she briefly closed her eyes, apparently unable to finish her sentence.

The barmaid fidgeted and wrung her hands. "I don't know, missus. He just told me to bring ya here."

Stepping closer, Phrandex bowed to the woman. "Good morning Miss—?"

"Miss Imalda will do, Lord Phrandex." She curtsied and extended her hand.

Phrandex looked at it a moment and wasn't sure if she was offering him a bite. He hoped not. The other milkmaid had tasted bad enough. He didn't want to think about what the boob mother breed might taste.

The barmaid stepped back a bit, raised her hand to her mouth, and then kissed it. She motioned for Phrandex to do the same. Phrandex quickly kissed the woman's hand, and just for good measure, gave it a quick lick. Not bad. Much better than the milkmaid. If she didn't work out he could always feed her to the children a little sooner.

The woman quickly pulled her hand back and wiped the slobber off. "Are you from a foreign country, Lord Phrandex?"

She eyed him suspiciously. Maybe licking her wasn't such a good first impression. "Sort of," he replied. "Are you good at cooing?"

Imalda tilted her head and a curious look crossed her face. "Cooing?"

"Yes, you know, the sound you human's— I mean mother's— make when their children are crying. Are you good at soothing babies? And how about teething issues?" Sidling closer, Phrandex counted her boobs. There were only two. Shouldn't a boob mother have more? Did she keep extras in the large bag she carried?

Scowling, the woman pulled herself rigid. "Lord Phrandex, I will have you know I am one of the best nursemaids in all of Yernden. I have no less than five letters of recommendation from the top three families in this city alone. Why, I could tame the children of Athos's himself, sir."

The woman looked down her nose at him and haughtily patted a stray hair back into her bun. She then proceeded to 'hmmpf' in a well-practiced way.

The blood in the barmaid's face drained completely upon hearing this brag. It turned an odd shade of white.

Humans, Phrandex thought, really are amazing. Red, blue, now white!

Throwing back his hood, the devil smiled. "Excellent. Just what I wanted to hear, Miss Imalda. You're hired." Phrandex reached over, grabbed the woman around her waist and threw her over his shoulder.

The woman screamed, kicked, and then fainted. As Phrandex got to the kitchen door, the barman, Carrid, stumbled out. When he saw the devil, he immediately got out of the way.

Phrandex stopped and gazed at him. "You know, the next time one of my kind come up, try and be more helpful. And uh..." Phrandex drew closer, "...just so you know, boob mothers don't have extra boobs."

Carrid looked at the demon with a mixture of disbelief and fear, then scuttled back behind his bar.

Phrandex smiled. He grabbed his whiskey and headed for home. He couldn't wait to show his little demons their new milkmaid.

Chapter 8— Knight's Pawn

Troubled, on edge, and tired, Calto arrived back in Yylse far later than he had originally planned. He had stayed an extra week in Grace searching the castle for the king's advisor and mistress, Belsac and Helace. Both were strangely absent. Pressing duties, rumor said, but when asked nobody knew what those duties were. No matter how much he tried, Calto found himself hard pressed to believe a whore's duties were all that pressing. Still, his time in the palace was not wasted. He did find more hellkind. Within days Calto dispatched three additional hellhounds and almost lost his arm to a demon before managing to shove his blessed staff down its throat while the hellborn tore off the shreds of Calto's armor. Afterward, a number of the servitors mysteriously disappeared. Calto was about to send a missive to his brethren about the need for a purge when the king, roused from his stupor, ordered him to leave the castle immediately. Even so, if he had not had such troubling dreams about Simta, mainly that she was being devoured by cats, Calto would have defied the king's order and stayed longer, making sure to take care of Elise's two problems in a permanent fashion once he found them. Unfortunately, the king was still the king, and exalted as he was, Calto was not. Besides, three additional sweeps through the castle turned up no further hellborn, so the infection had apparently been cured.

Three weeks travel by fast coach got him back home. The trip was hard on the horses and on him, but it was a much less grueling journey than the two week he had taken before to reach Elise. On the first journey he had gone unescorted, at breakneck speed, leaving Gertunda far behind with his coach and guards. He nearly killed his remounts before he began trading horses along the way, adding a few gold rugdles each time to sweeten the deal. Expensive and taxing, but he would have done anything for his queen.

The trip back was slower, should have been more relaxed, but something still nagged at him, worried his unconscious brain. Calto could not quite shake the feeling all was not well despite the numerous precautions he had taken and letters he had sent. Unfortunately, his influence and efforts were limited by the fact that Vere more and more often leaned toward accepting hellkind as citizens of his kingdom.

The coach went quietly through Yylse's streets. Nothing but his horse's hoof beats broke the silence. Once, Yylse had been a bustling city at all hours of the night, teeming with laughter, music, and merriment. Merchants, whores, magicians, singers, all would walk the streets calling out their wares to sailors and visitors alike, turning a profit, and in turn, making the temples gleam with their offerings. That was but a scant two years ago. Now the streets were almost empty and so were the temple coffers. With limited resources, the priests helped fewer and fewer people. Despite receiving several not so subtle hints, Calto refused to support the temples with his own wealth. The idea was absurd. He tithed his proper share to Anothosia and that was enough. Despite his calling, he would not make himself a pauper for any man, woman, or god. He liked sleeping in a soft bed and drinking fine wine. Eating every day was a favorite pastime of his as well.

The coach turned into the circular drive of Anothosia's temple. Twilight colored the sky a soft blue in the distance and a darker, more comforting blue above. A few faint stars were dim pinpoints, winking at him from the heavens. Sighing, Calto's shoulders drooped as the coach drew closer. The thought of climbing into his own feather bed relaxed him, put his mind at ease. For this time, this night, he was off duty. He would get a good night sleep then tackle any problems in the morning.

When the coach pulled to a stop, his manservant exploded from the temple doors.

Goron Axgrinder, second eldest son of the house of Axgrinder, Calto's apprentice and manservant, flew from the broad temple doors as if he had been shot from a bow. Calto barely had time to set foot on the ground before the young man stood before him, babbling incoherently, waving his hands wildly in front of Calto's face. Calto fought down a desire to slap the boy and shake him till he made sense. Instead, he placed a steadying hand on Goron's shoulder, willing the peace and calm of Anothosia into the boy's body.

Goron's face, once tight and filled with panic, relaxed, as did his body, though he still clenched and unclenched his hands at his side.

"All right," Calto said sternly, "No more babbling. Start from the beginning and tell me, slowly, what is wrong."

Spinning around, Goron pointed at the temple doors. Calto looked. The white and gold doors stood open, spilling warm, yellow light onto the marble steps. He squinted when a shape caught his eye. Something small and dark sat in the middle of the doorway.

The 'something' got up and nimbly made its way down the many steps. The dark shape, small and delicate, slipped between the two men and sat on Calto's booted foot, looking up at him with large green eyes. Meowing, the thing rubbed against his leg.

Scowling, Calto shook the cat from his boot. He hated cats. Smelly, dirty, flea infested pests— they made his skin crawl when they looked at him with their slitted eyes. Cat eyes reminded him too much of some of the hellborn he had encountered.

Face twisted with disgust, he rounded on Goron. "What is that thing doing in my temple?"

The fur ball kept getting close to him, trying to rub up against his legs. He wanted to kick it, send it sprawling into the darkening street, but restrained himself. He fought demons, for god's sake. It was irrational to fear such a small thing as a house cat no matter what dark memories its eyes brought to him.

"She was brought here by a priest of Trelsar. He said to give her shelter as she was a war victim." Goron's face again turned panicky. "He claimed you made a promise to take care of her."

Calto pulled his lips back in a grimace. "I what? Who in the two hells said this? What is his name?"

Goron paled and looked down at his feet. "He never gave it."

"Well, what did he look like? Maybe I know him?"

Goron again fidgeted, avoiding Calto's gaze.

Tired, sore, and angry, Calto lost his patience. He grabbed Goron by the chin and yanked his head upward, pulling the boy closer at the same time. Trembling, Goron stood on tip toe trying to match Calto's tall frame.

"You are my apprentice. Look me in the eye when I speak to you. If you cannot look me in the face and answer my questions then I have to wonder why and ask myself if you are worthy of the position I granted you." Jaw thrust forward, Calto spit his words through gritted teeth.

Whiskey. By the gods, he needed a large glass of it before he went to bed.

Releasing the boy, Calto shoved him backwards. Goron stumbled, almost fell, but much to his credit, he righted himself, squared his shoulders, and met Calto's eyes. The boy swallowed hard before he spoke.

"Yes, your Lordship," Goron whispered. "I apologize for my un-knightly behavior. Forgive me."

Calto nodded. The boy might make a knight yet, if he ever learned to not only grow, but to keep a backbone. "I will ask you again. What did the man look like?"

"I don't know, sir. His face has faded from my memory."

Calto blinked in astonishment. "What? When did he bring the thing to you?"

"This morning, Lord Sir."

Calto frowned. How in the two hells did the lad forget the features of someone he had just met? Calto was about to lay into Goron for being incompetent when the cat leapt onto his shoulder. Calto jerked and twisted to get away from the animal.

"Malto!" the cat screeched, legs flailing as it flew through the air. It landed on the stone driveway, twitching its tail furiously.

Shocked, Calto stared at the thing. Had it just attempted to say his name?

Goron cleared his throat. "I, uh, was going to tell you about that, sir."

Calto jerked his head around, staring at Goron like he had suddenly grown an extra head. "Did the— I thought I heard—?"

Goron nodded. "Yes, sir. Simta said your name."

Calto's eyes widened. "Did you just call her Simta?"

Goron nodded once, never dropping his gaze. "I did, sir. The priest told me her name was Simta."

Turning his head slowly, Calto studied the cat with new determination. It sat at his feet, forlorn, lost green eyes, staring at him. She meowed and pawed the air.

"Simta is no ordinary cat, sir. She can say a few simple words, refuses to eat on the floor, can use a chamber pot, and has a right snit if you watch her do her business, and I swear to Anothosia she can read." The boy's soft brown eyes were huge with amazement.

Eyes narrowing, Calto leaned in closer to the animal. When the cat meowed his name again Calto's heart thudded heavily. Was this really Simta? In truth, the cat bore little resemblance to her. Where Simta's skin was pale, the cat's coat was a long, glossy cinnamon. Her feet, face, and belly were all white, but about her neck she wore a choker— a black velvet choker with a heart shaped emerald swinging from it, the same one he had sent to Simta before he left for Grace.

Calto looked into the cat's sad, luminous eyes and reached to stroke her head. Was this creature truly Simta or had someone put the choker about her neck as some sort of joke?

The dream of Simta being eaten by cats suddenly came back to him. He carefully lifted the cat and pulled it close his chest. Goron showed concern.

"Lord Sir, are you all right? You look as if you've just seen a demon."

Calto shook his head. "We're going to the Morthanhi household— now." Turning, he climbed into his coach, Goron following closely behind, stopped at the open coach door.

"But, sir, the household will be bedding down for the night."

Calto glared at the boy. "Do not question my actions. Not only am I above the Morthanhi's in social standing, I am, also, Anothosia's head priest. They will see me now or at any other time I demand. Get in the gods damned coach and shut up."

Goron blanched but leapt into the coach on the opposite side, slamming and latching the door behind him.

Nodding satisfaction, Calto closed his coach door, but his stomach twitched and turned in every direction as if his bowels were trying to escape his body. The cat sat quietly in his lap, huddling in upon itself, looking like a piteous creature indeed.

Was this truly Simta? If so, how had it happened, and how could he change her back?

Looking down, he saw the cat staring back. Its eyes were lost and confused, and somehow, accusing. Almost, it seemed the animal thought this was Calto's fault.

* * * *

With only a little fast talking Calto succeeded in having Anithia and Missa released from the Morthanhi's dungeons. Apparently, Ani had been immediately suspected of Simta's murder when she was discovered in Simta's bed after Simta did not come home. Calto then called in magicians to check the cat for enchantment. When the results showed positive, Simta's father relented and allowed the pair to go so long as they left unseen by the side entrance and never returned, which shot down Calto's plans for keeping them safe and under the radar someplace other than in his home. He should have known Simta would screw this up somehow.

Feeling drained and ill at ease, Calto sat in his soft leather cold and unwelcoming office chair. During the last three days he had searched for answers. For three long, horrible days he had routed out every scumbag he could find, demanding any hint of a clue they could offer. Finally, his sources came up with two suspects. One was a thief. The other was someone he would never have suspected. Because he was unwilling to face a truly unpleasant duty so soon, he decided he would speak with the thief first.

A sharp knocking on the door startled Calto out of his thoughts. The cinnamon cat sitting in his lap hissed and dove for cover beneath his desk. Standing up, Calto straightened his robes and ran fingers through his hair to make sure everything was where it belonged, wishing he could use his staff to pull this truth. Unfortunately, the staff could only be used in such a manner when his goddess directly observed.

"Enter."

Two warrior priests, both knights of the Order of the Staff and the Sword, stepped through his door half-carrying, half-dragging, a chained, ragged older man between them. They halted directly before Calto, dumping the man in a heap at his feet.

"As you requested, Lord Sir, the thief Selnac."

When the stench of an unwashed body rose up to meet him, Calto wrinkled his nose. He pulled a kerchief from a front pocket and covered his nostrils, involuntarily taking a step back0.

"Good gods and two, where did you find him? In a garbage pile?" The stench was so overpowering Calto's eyes began to water.

Eyes red-rimmed and cloudy, the thief looked up from his prone position. He held up a hand, piteously reaching for Calto's robes. "Please, Your Lord Sir, a cup of water. It's been almost two days since I've eaten or drunk anything."

Calto stiffened and growled at the peasant, daring him to complete the touch.

Slowly, the thief drew his hand back and dropped his head.

"You will not touch me. If I find you innocent, I will release you and you can find your own food. If I find you guilty, the gallows will be your destination after you receive a final meal. In either case, you will not touch me, or it will go worse for you."

The thief sagged, looking as if he would fall flat upon the ground.

Calto's scowl deepened. "I know you were with Simta the night she disappeared so do not tell me you do not know her. I have been informed you and she were close friends, that you had once been her mentor in crime." Calto sneered, daring the thief to lie. "You will tell me exactly what you were doing on the night in question, and what happened to Simta."

Releasing a low despairing groan, the ragged man lifted his head, sadness twisting his haggard features. "My Lord, I swear to you I didn't hurt Simta. She was a bright woman, undeserving of her fate." Selnac sat up straighter. "We went to rob the jeweler's shop, Radno Hornblaster's. She went into the building while I stood watch without. After that, I don't know for sure what happened. There was a commotion inside, and then a little later the door was broken down and something small ran from the building with people and things chasing it. I had no choice but to think she was caught, and so I faded away, but later— later I put out word on the street for people to look for her. Even offered a reward if they would win her free."

Calto narrowed his eyes. He was willing to believe Simta and this thief might have planned a robbery together, but he knew better than to believe Selnac would be so altruistic as to offer a reward for Simta's safe return. Street scum did not behave in that way. "Why would she need to burgle a jewelry store? She had shelter. She had food and clothing and position. What more could she want?"

"She was trying to keep a woman named Ani as her lady-in-waiting. She didn't have enough to pay her weekly wages so she needed a way to make some extra . As I understand it, Simta also wanted to move Ani out of the Downs."

A cold feeling seeped over Calto. "Simta hired Ani and wanted to bring her into her household?" Gods, how could this have happened? How could Simta have been so stupid as to bring a guttersnipe into her own home permanently? Damn it, he hadn't asked her to adopt the woman. He had only asked Simta to keep an eye on Ani and Missa.

The thief nodded. "She said she wanted to gain your favor so you would make her a respectable woman."

Calto's chest tightened. A throbbing in his head started at the front and began to work its way back. "Why? Why would she do this?"

Sighing, Selnac shook his head. "I guess she wanted to do the right thing. She cared for Ani and her daughter, was good to the both of them, and I suppose she‒she desired you or at least what you represented."

Calto clenched his hand into a tight fist. No, no, no, no, this was not his fault. The woman was daft— insane. All she had to do was as he'd told her.

Selnac continued. "I don't know what happened. All I know is a fire started inside the building, and then several large dogs flew out of it, chasing the small creature I mentioned. Honest, sir, I wanted to go inside and find her, but the owner was in the building still and also a woman. I couldn't go in and look for Simta, not when there were younger people about. I'm too old for those games now. Too stiff."

Calto's anger built. From the reports he had read earlier this day, it was this thief's fault Simta had learned to steal. By leading her astray, he had ruined Simta's life.

Drawing his sword, he looked down on the terrified man. "You are correct, she did not deserve her fate, and you do not deserve to keep your head."

A red blur suddenly shot from behind Calto and skidded to a halt in front of the thief. Back arched and hissing, the cat, Simta, stood before him, stood between him and the thief. Fur standing on end, she growled and shook her head. "Mreowwww."

"Get out of the way, Simta. Because of him, you have besmirched the Morthanhi family name. It is my right— no, my duty to see he pays for his life of crime."

Simta growled louder. Her eyes grew bright, and her body became haloed in a soft light. Calto's sword began to vibrate in a way it had never done before, stinging his fingers, sending tendrils of pain up his arm.

Yelping, Calto dropped the sword. After striking the floor, the sword vibrated for a few short moments and then stilled. Hand tingling, Calto took a step back.

"Why do you defend the mangy man?" he demanded of both Simta and his goddess. "It is his fault you are a cat."

Simta hissed and then turned toward the cowering thief. She gently pawed at the man's hands where they covered his head in a worthless attempt at protection. Selnac looked up at the touch, gasped, and then Simta stepped closer to rub her head beneath his chin, purring.

"Holy Thom. What happened? Is this— is this— Simta?"

Calto fumed. "Yes. It is."

Someone knocked at the door.

"What?" Calto yelled. His anger roiled about him like a heat wave.

The door swung wide. Two more knights entered into the room, dragging a struggling Dargot between them.

"I told you I would see to him when I was finished with this one."

The knights were unfazed, taught to show only calm in the face of adversity. Havlar, a dark-haired man, stepped forward, gracefully swinging his braid from his shoulder.

"High Lord, this traitor insists he has information about the thief and the cat." The knight looked upon Calto's angry visage with disdain. For those knights in Anothosia's service, it was base to lose one's control. Havlar's expression said Calto lessened himself with this display, a silent message Calto accepted with ire.

Calto reigned in his temper, barely. The sight of Dargot made him want to behead the man where he stood. Just the night before Dargot had been arrested after being caught in Sulya's bed. After Larson's shade had given Calto reason for suspicion, he had ordered all his upper ranking knights to avoid her wiles.

"We already know of your traitorous ways, Dargot. After discovering you have been bedding Sulya, we searched your quarters. Do not tempt me with your presence any longer than needed or challenge me with lies because we know of your dark dealings."

Dargot shook his head. "My life for the needed information to save the slut."

Calto snorted. Simta hissed. "You call her a slut! Cat or not, she is still a-a— whatever!" Calto waved his still aching arm out in front of him. "Oh hell, she is still a member of the upper class of Yernden. You will watch your tone and how you address her."

The knights looked at him as if he had lost his mind, unaware of the predicament before them. Calto wiped his face and took a deep breath. "I will be the judge of whether you live or die. Spill it or I'll have them take you away."

Dargot shook his head again. "No, my life for her cure."

Calto growled.

Walking over to Calto, Simta meowed softly. Her soft green eyes were moist. Calto's heart thawed— a bit.

He looked at Dargot, his anger simmering, but still formidable. "If what you tell me is found to be true, I will spare your life. You have my word."

Dargot nodded. "The man who did this to Simta is Radno Hornblaster. He is a transfigurer, but the only thing he can do is change someone into a cat." Inhaling deeply, Dargot paused.

Calto motioned him to continue, his hand straying to his dagger. "This much we already know."

Dargot eyed the dagger nervously, swallowed, and continued. "Hornblaster is dead. However, he has family in Greenswale who might have inherited his gift or are able to understand his spells."

Calto thought a moment. If Dargot was wrong he would personally decapitate him. "How do you know this?"

Dargot looked at the floor.

"Tell me or I will consider this an attempt to fool me."

Dargot hesitated, lifting his head to stare at Simta. "I— it was Sulya. She reported finding Hornblaster dead, ripped apart by hellhounds."

Calto's body tightened. By hellhounds? How convenient. "We have suspicions you have been dealing with hellborn. We know you have been fucking Sulya. Tell me, has she also been dealing with hellkind? Have any other of our brethren been doing so?"

Dargot shook his head violently. "No, Lord, I swear no. It was only me, and I didn't want to deal with the hellborn, but I'm older than I used to be, and I'd been having trouble pleasing women for more than two years. I had to deal with them, you see. I had to, or I couldn't have satisfied Sulya."

"Had to," Calto muttered, disgusted by his under-priest's weakness. "Had to in order to break your vows to your wife. Fine. You say you've given me your information." He looked to the two knights. "Take him back to the dungeons and give him to a questioner. Before long we'll find out the truth of this and how much he hasn't told us."

"No! You promised to spare my life! You gave me your word!" Swearing profusely, Dargot struggled in his chains.

Calto arched an eyebrow, staring snidely down his nose at the traitorous bastard. "And I will keep my promise if the information you gave me is found to be true. You will live, though you may no longer enjoy the experience."

Dargot swallowed hard. "Please, have mercy on me, My Lord. Don't send me back down there. I swear I've told you the truth. Please! Set me free."

A slow, wicked smile crawled across Calto's face. "You only asked for your life, not your freedom."

Dargot's expression twisted into a mask of horror. "No–no–you promised."

"I despise traitors even more than I hate not being obeyed. You will be my whipping boy for the rest of the ranks— for a very long time. Take him away."

It took both knights to subdue the desperate man. Dargot screamed and cried as he was carried from the room. Once he was gone, Calto turned his attention back to the thief. Simta still hovered near him protectively.

Calto scowled. He felt loath to do it, but he would allow the thief to go free.

"Get up, peasant. Get out of my sight and never let me see you again."

Shaky and unsure, Selnac stood. Obviously unbalanced on cramped legs and still in chains, he tottered slightly to one side and then the other.

Simta brushed up against him, still glowing. At her touch the thief seemed to grow stronger; color returned to his face. His eyes became clear, and the chains fell away. Calto sucked in a harsh breath as Simta's nimbus transferred to the thief.

Selnac smiled, his face lit with peace. Reaching down, he picked Simta up. "Thank you, friend. I'm so sorry this happened to you, but I'll do all I can to find a way to help."

Simta's purr was loud, appreciative. She rubbed her head beneath Selnac's chin.

"Go on. Leave." Calto said, disgusted to see Simta treat the thief with such reverence. The man was a nothing, an eyesore to his goddess. Even Flinstar would have rejected the thief's worship, but then Flinstar was probably gone, maybe dead, but certainly disappeared. It had been a very long time since that stand-offish god had spoken to one of his priests or acolytes, much longer than Calto's lifetime or even his father's.

Selnac hugged Simta one last time, then left, walking tall, proud, but with a decided limp.

When everyone else was gone Calto glared down at Simta who suddenly became very frisky and playful. She jumped back and forth on the floor, swatting at Calto's sword. He bent down to retrieve it, hesitating a moment before picking it up. For the first time ever, he was not sure what its touch would bring. Once it was in his hand, he turned the blade before him, studying its design. What had happened to make it vibrate earlier? Why had it hurt him, refused to be held? Worried, he placed it back in its sheath and collapsed upon his settee. Simta instantly jumped upon his chest, laid down, and purred loudly.

"Now what do you want?" Calto demanded. He thought about shoving her off. After all, his anger still buzzed in his head, but her purr was soothing. For the moment, he could not. Instead, he relaxed back against the small sofa, his eyes closing on their own. The purring seeped into his weary mind, settled in his brain, and drained away his anger. Simta stretched out on his chest, snuggled closer to his chin, and soon both fell into a dreamless slumber.

* * * *

Sulya was certain something about Anithia and Missa Morlon was of supreme importance to Calto. Sulya tapped a long, pointed fingernail against full, dark blue lips, watching the two disinherited Morlon's beg for scraps of food. A part of Sulya sympathized with them, knowing the wealth they were being denied. She had once traversed such a hard road. A small part of her wanted to grab Calto by the scruff of his neck and shake enough money from him to support the woman and child, but she quickly squelched the unnatural feeling. There was no room for compassion among the damned. No one had ever offered her a hand when she was young and alone, forced to slut her way among the humans, being treated like dirt, hungry, hurt, and denied. Although Sulya had been free of guilt for her begetting, her family had cast her out with the trash. Defective they called her, a bastard child. Her mother had spread her legs to a man from the wrong clan. Sulya had paid the price. She had even been given a bastard's name so the other clans knew of her questionable birth. Sul, nothing, yana, child. Nothing child, but no one said she had to keep the name. Within hours of being cast out she changed her first name and then grabbed a clan surname, one with honor, dignity, from a clan located far away from Yernden. No. Sulya's fortunes had risen through determination and ruthlessness. She felt no pity for Anithia and Missa. No pity for anyone.

"Is she the woman you want me to hire?" Carrid Brewer scowled. Stepping up beside her, he tried to intimidate Sulya with his girth. He was a big man, strong in the chest and arms, stout like a tree. His eyes were deep, commanding, but he didn't frighten Sulya. She had stared Zorce in the eye. She knew true power, real fear. More than three quarters of a century earlier, in order to gain her own power, she had given her body over to Zorce's use until it was nearly destroyed by his insatiable and monstrous passion. Almost two years later she had been split open giving birth to Phrandex, the hellgod's child, Athos's half-brother, to gain herself a new place and new power in Hell. This man, this brewer, was nothing.

"Yes," she answered, "and you will hire her, or I'll send a few visitors your way."

Grunting, Carrid shook his head. "She better be able to handle herself, or she'll end up raped or dead or both."

With ice suddenly running through her body, Sulya turned more fully toward him. Her skin became a bright fuchsia of barely suppressed rage. "Raped does not bother me. Manhandle her, beat her, do whatever you desire to the woman, but make damn sure she stays alive until I get what I need, or it won't be me you'll answer to."

Carrid's tan faded from his face. Sweat trickled from his temple. His hands dropped from his hips.

"I see we understand each other perfectly." Sulya smiled wickedly, enjoying the sensation of inspiring fear. It thrilled her to know she held all the power against this large, intimidating man. There had been a time when she would have been his willing victim, when she would have obeyed his depravity for the promise of a quarter loaf of bread. That time was long ago. Very long ago. "And you make sure no one else offers her a job before you do." Her eyes narrowed at his lack of immediate action. "Well, just don't stand there. Go offer her a job."

The big man glared at her, his lips pressed tightly together, turning them into a thin line. Sulya didn't mind. He could be as pissed as he wanted just so long as he obeyed her will. Passing out the door, Carrid set his foot to the street and crossed to where Ani and Missa were begging.

Sulya sighed. At last, something semi-positive she could report back to Zorce about, hopefully enough to offset her report that Radno Hornblaster had disappeared before she had a chance to rip his heart out. A spark of hope ignited in her soul as evil thoughts once again began to circulate. She just might be able to salvage something from this mess after all. Then again, maybe she should just go kill Calto to get this cat and mouse game over with. True, according to Zorce's plan that wasn't supposed to happen for quite some time yet, perhaps as long or longer than a year. Perhaps even three or four. Still, Calto's death would simplify matters for her.

Sulya smiled. The possibilities for mayhem and murder seemed endless.

She would wait. Wait and watch as her plan unfolded, her ambition expanded. Calto's time would come. When it did, he would learn exactly what she thought of men she couldn't control.

Watching silently from the shadows inside the tavern, Sulya waited for the moment when the wench fell into her trap. Suddenly, she frowned and tensed. Anithia backed away from Carrid, shaking her head. Responding with a careless shrug, the big man turned and walked away. Sulya nearly ran out into the street to stop him, to thrust him back toward the woman, but that would make her presence obvious, and the altercation would build further suspicion. Instead, when Carrid slipped into the doorway beside Sulya, she shoved him hard against the door.

"What did you say to her? Why did she back away from you?" Sulya felt almost angry enough to gut the man in broad daylight, very angry indeed. As a rule, she saved those particular treats for the night, for those times when there were no stars, no moon, no light of any sort. Her victim's terror was always so much sweeter then.

"Nothing," Carrid answered. He tried to shove her away but found Sulya's knife tucked in close to his ribs.

"Nothing? Nothing! Then why did she look frightened?"

Carrid scowled. "All I said was I needed another barmaid at the Hole and did she need a job?"

Sulya frowned. "What did she say?"

"Said she wasn't that desperate yet."

Sulya eased away from him, thinking hard. "Not desperate enough, huh? We'll see just how desperate she can become."

Spinning upon her heels, she left the big man to ponder his fate. Her boot heels clicked loudly upon the cobblestones as she tramped down the street, not caring if the stupid bitch had seen her leave the doorway. Sulya was done messing around.

"Desperate, huh?" Sulya muttered. "I'll find a way to make her desperate. So desperate she'll be sorry she ever refused the job."

Evil poured from Sulya's mind. Hatred filled her body. She would make the stupid wench sorry for her refusal. Repeated rape and injury would do the job, and maybe fear for her daughter. Afterward, she would find someone more pliable, more in line with Hell's priorities, to run the Hellhole Tavern. Carrid was now a liability. In Sulya's world, liabilities ended up dead.

Chapter 9— Spawn's Fee

Robar Joiner released a sigh when he settled his abused body onto a tavern barstool. He rubbed a battered hand over the swollen lumps on his face, across his lips, and grimaced at the too familiar pain of a split lip.

Carrid Brewer eyed Robar while he poured three ales from the main cask and set the filled oak cups on a battered wooden tray. A thin smile played about the corner of his lips, but his eyes were gauging as he studied Robar's bruised face.

Scowling, Robar eyed the man back. Carrid might be huge, but to Robar size did not matter. No matter what the bartender expected Carrid would not get the best of him again.

"You might be the bravest man I know," Carrid finally said, "but you never did have much sense." His mocking smile grew larger. After a few moments of continued silence, he lifted the drink filled tray and headed onto the floor.

Still scowling, Robar turned his head to watch the man wind past a scattered array of empty tables and broken chairs. Half of those tables leaned hazardously. Some lay on their side while others were supported by having the back rail of a broken chair shoved beneath a sagging corner. By any reasonable reckoning the place was a total disaster. Robar figured less than a quarter of the Hellhole Tavern's twenty-three tables were actually stable and solid. A week earlier the number would have been closer to half, but fights over dice games and women and the color of another man's hair had taken their toll. In this place broken furniture was one of the costs of doing business because its environs were often filled with a dark miasma which rose from the pit leading to Hell located in the tavern's cellar.

For most businesses, the miasma and the resulting violence would have been a death knell. Because of the king's newfound tolerance for hellborn, Carrid Brewer's tavern thrived on it. Carrid made a fortune off those who were drawn through the tavern's door. Gamblers, thieves, slavers, whores, murderers, shifters, and all the other dark elements of the city found the place a comfortable fit for their natures. He made even more money off the rich and influential who wanted to feel brave and daring by taking a drink in such a notorious den, but now, at this early hour, the Hellhole was almost empty. The sun had not yet settled out of the evening sky. Most of the Hole's habitual patrons had not stirred themselves from their beds. Selnac, the thief, and Mathew Changer, the half-were fence and crime lord, occupied one table along with Glace, Mathew's apprentice. A hunched figure, barely visible in the dim light, sat on the floor in the far corner. Head bowed, its folded arms pressed in upon itself so tightly Robar instantly knew what the figure was.

Another escaped spawn. Pity, contempt, and distaste welled up in him. Like most other humans, he knew spawn were almost always the thin remnants of children sacrificed to Athos by one of their parents. Once their souls descended into Hell, they were given new bodies and trained by Athos's demons to be the unwilling servants of Hell's elite. As a rule, the parent who sacrificed his child gained wealth or power or some other glittering promise that soon became a nightmare when their new gift slithered away. Most knew a person never gained when he bargained with Hell, but there were always a few brave fools who were willing to try.

Almost as if it felt the weight of Robar's stare, the spawn stirred, raised its head, and met Robar's eyes. It started, shifted its gaze nervously, and bowed its head once more. Robar turned his attention back to the tavern's owner, dismissing the frightened and eternally damned creature from his mind.

Carrid's mocking smile, Robar observed, became thick and false while he served the two thieves and the half-were. Robar wished the man was half as eager to pay his debts.

When Carrid returned, he laid the tray on the bar's knife carved surface, placed his elbows on the front rail, and studied Robar's face.

Accepting the unspoken challenge, Robar leaned forward to push his spare body's presence into the other man's space. Carrid was large and heavy and strong enough to frighten the worst of his customers. He sometimes needed reminding that no man intimidated Robar. Like always, Carrid seemed to pay the invisible message no mind, but deep inside Robar knew Carrid took note of Robar's unwillingness to ever back down.

"So you lost your fight again," Carrid finally said. He was, Robar suspected, deliberately bypassing the reason for Robar's visit. "When are you going to give up on the woman? There isn't a whore out there who's worth the price you pay or the beating you take every week."

"She isn't a whore!" Robar snapped. "She's a prize, and by the Seven Gods and Two, she's a prize I'll win. A week with her would be enough to satisfy any man for life."

"I doubt it. That Heriod fellow has won her every week for the last half year, and you don't see him passing her on."

Robar snorted. "No, what I mostly see is his fist just before it knocks me down. I've made it to the final round for the last six weeks. I can hit him easily enough, only he's too big, and I'm not strong enough to make those hits count. I figure the time will come when he either gets tired of beating me up or he gets tired of the succubus sucking on his soul. I'll get her then."

"I don't think he has enough soul left to make the decision on his own," Carrid observed, "If you'll take my advice on the matter, you'd do well to let her have him instead of you. I've made it my business to stay out of her way ever since she climbed out of my cellar. The thought of her turns my knees to water. Truth is I think she might be the scariest hellborn I've ever encountered."

"She has no fangs," Robar insisted. "She has no claws or poison. She's only beautiful and alluring. I'm telling you, Carrid, I'm not afraid of her, and I'm going to prove it."

"She's a succubus," Carrid replied, "and you're a bantam with no sense. I suppose you'll continue proving how brave you are until it's the end of you, but that's your business, and I've business of my own." Turning away from the bar, he poured an ale from a keg set against the back wall and turned back to Robar, setting the ale before him. "I've a need for new tables and chairs. My customers have pretty much worn this set out, and it didn't take them long to do it. I don't think you made these as sturdy as you did the stools."

"Your customers would break a table made from solid rock," Robar said, "and you'll never again see wood as strong as the stuff I used on those stools. Still, a new supply of hardwood just came in. I'll see what I can put together, but I'm not joining two boards until I see some money."

"But I'm your friend!"

Robar snorted. "Only when you want something from me. You haven't paid one rugdle for the last job. I have to eat, and so do the girls."

"You'd eat better if the contest didn't use up so much of your money."

Robar waved the concern away. "I can't afford to work for free."

"You could work cheaper if you gave the brats to your wife," Carrid said.

Shrugging, Robar tried an experimental sip of the ale and grimaced. Carrid was, at best, an indifferent brewer. When this fact was added to the miasma inundating the tavern the piss flavored result was often something undrinkable by civilized men. Fortunately for Carrid, few of his customers were civilized.

"She's been gone for more than six months," he said after setting his drink back down. "Don't know where she is. Don't care enough to look. I got my workshop and my two girls out of her, and I don't want nothing more. So, how about my money?"

He heard a stirring from the tavern's corner. Turning his head, he saw the crouched figure rise. This spawn looked mostly like a man, but the body Athos had given it was thin and pale and perhaps too tall. Its gaunt face was partly hidden in the shadows, but Robar saw it well enough to know its expression held the typical fear all its kind wore. Using short, clumsy steps, it shambled toward the bar in a jerky, hesitant way. Its arm motions were tight, protective, typical for every spawn Robar had ever seen, but an evilly pointed jade green hook was attached to its left arm where a hand had once been, and this surprised Robar. To the best of his knowledge spawn were not supposed to be armed. In fact, he once heard a demon say spawn were too unstable to be trusted with any weapon no matter how small.

He gestured toward the figure. "He's what, the fifth escaped spawn this last half year. Why don't you seal the damned hole up so they'll stay where they belong?"

"Four," Carrid corrected. "I don't seal it because the hellborn are good for business. Every week a few of the city's rich put on their servant's clothes and come down here just to see what something out of Hell looks like. Of course, one of my regulars normally rolls the fools so they never come back again, but I get a quarter of the take so that doesn't matter too much. Besides, these spawn are always too frightened to cause me trouble. In fact, they're too scared to even step outside the tavern's door. I generally let 'em hang around for a week or two, and then a demon comes up to fetch them back." He smiled. "I get a bit of something from those demons, too, though I don't know what to do with most of it. Got a jar of 'damned souls's on a shelf in the cellar, and one cheery fellow gave me the scars off a hanged man's neck. Took 'em out of the jar once just to see what they felt like."

Refusing to play this game by Carrid's rules, Robar sat silent for several minutes while Carrid waited expectantly. Finally, Carrid shook his head with exasperation.

"You're impossible. Aren't you even a little curious about what they felt like?"

"A little," Robar answered truthfully, "but not enough for you to lead me into it."

"Do you remember the fellow who came by here about four years back, the one who had a roughly formed ball that could bounce?"

Frowning, Robar cast his thoughts into the past, trying to draw out a memory of something he probably cared nothing about at the time. "Maybe."

"Well," Carrid said. "The ball was made out of something called rubber, and rubber's what those scars felt like. What do you think of that?"

Lifting his mug, Robar took another sip of the foul brew and set the cup down. "Don't think much about it at all. I only heard of the fellow you're talking about. Never met him and never touched his rubber. Better yet, I don't really care what those scars feel like. I'm here about my money. You owe me."

Carrid's fingers twitched irritably and then stilled. "I don't have enough here. The wife keeps her hands on most of it, and she's at home. I'd have to talk long and hard to get her to part with a single coin."

"Then you better moisten your throat before you start talking," Robar warned, "because I'm not joining one board to another before I get paid for the last job."

Sighing, Carrid straightened and brushed his hands on his shirt. "Dealing with you is a sight harder than bargaining with any hellborn I ever met. Watch the bar while I'm gone. This will take a while."

He left. Robar noticed he took the tavern's money box with him.

Once the tavern's batwing doors squeaked closed, Robar thought about sipping his ale, but the memory of its urine taste and the sight of several strands of something floating on its surface, changed his mind. Instead, he pushed the cup away and rubbed once more at his bruised face, wincing at the familiar pain. As usual, his eyes were half-swollen shut. It was a blessing he could even see. For some reason beyond his understanding, his eyes were always the first targets Heriod went for. To Robar's way of thinking, this was unnecessarily cruel since Heriod could beat him just as quickly whether or not his eyes worked. Sometimes, after a fight, it took days before Robar could see well enough to work again.

"Please— please, sir?" a thin voice pleaded.

Lowering his hand, Robar turned his head to find the thing standing four feet away, crouched and cringing, sweating out its sulfur stink. Fear swirled darkly in its eyes. Its arms were held tight against its body. Its right hand partially hid the hook's curve. Robar thought briefly about ordering the disgusting thing away, but pity overcame his contempt when he remembered his recent thoughts on Heriod's cruelty. Even though spawn were almost human, they were slow and clumsy. Most were stupid, and even the smartest ones were cowards. During the last several years Robar had encountered more than two dozen spawn. Not one had acted as if it owned half the spine or a tenth the soul of a man.

"What do you want?"

"Your drink, sir. That is, you don't look as if you are going— I'm hungry and thirsty and— I'm sorry. I won't bother you again." It cringed further in upon itself until it stood less than five feet tall. Robar considered this an amazing feat because he was positive the being would stand at least six feet if it straightened.

"Take the drink and leave me alone," Robar ordered.

The thing did not move.

"Well!"

"If you please, sir," the spawn said. "I have very good hearing. You mentioned a succubus, and I wondered if she might have light blue skin, green hair, and dark eyes."

Robar's heart stilled. He waited for it to regain its accustomed beat before he carefully spoke. "What do you know about Belthethsia?"

The spawn's lips twitched nervously. "Then it is her. Belthethsia was once my mistress. She had a deft hand with a whip, and she was accounted one of the most accomplished soulwrights in our section of the underworld. It was quite a scandal when she left, but I was glad for it because I was given to a lesser demon who was not nearly so accomplished at disciplining its servants."

"The woman I speak of is a succubus, not a soulwright."

Pausing for a moment, the thing drew in a shuddering breath and released it slowly. "If you please, sir, she is both, born of mixed parentage and not nano set to one or the other while still in the womb. I–I know Belthethsia from long ago, and I've known many devils who were her lovers. Sir, their satisfaction was complete just so long as they rejected her before a month passed."

Apparently nervous, the spawn stopped speaking and looked jerkily around.

Frustrated, Robar grabbed it by its jaw. "A month? Why is a month important?"

"Be–because after that she has eaten far too much of their souls. Her mixed heritage allows her to dine on flesh and soul alike."

Robar scowled. When the spawn caught his look, the thing raised its arms protectively before scrambling back several clumsy paces. "Please, sir! I can give you strength." It gestured feebly with the hook. To Robar's amazement, the hook glowed a faint jade green. "I can help you win Belthethsia if you've the courage to accept it."

Robar's hand leaped forward and grabbed its wrist. Sinking lower to the floor, the thing released a small sob. Its skin felt cool in Robar's grasp, almost parchment dry. The wrist he held, the arm, the entire being trembled before him.

"I've the courage to dare anything," Robar growled, low voiced. "I've wanted Belthethsia ever since I saw her seven months back. At first, I thought I had no chance at her body, but she started the contest, the challenge. I've fought to win her since then, but I'll use her only for a week. I know I can't survive her attention for long, but I've the courage to take her for a week, or maybe two."

The thing raised its eyes and looked fearfully into Robar's. "And so you murdered your wife to clear the way."

Robar felt his face pale. "I murdered nobody!"

The thing gathered itself together. From somewhere inside it seemed to find a small trace of the courage that had led it to escape Hell. "I heard it when you spoke of her. I heard her murder in your words. It made me think you might welcome me."

"I'll kill you if you speak of it," Robar warned, gripping the wrist harder, sinking his fingers deep into slack flesh.

"Please," the thing whimpered, squirming. "All I want is to be free. I want— I want to dare looking at the sky. I want to never go back. I can give you strength if you give me what I need. I can give you almost anything you want."

Snorting disbelief, Robar released his grip on the pathetic thing's wrist. "There's nothing you can do for me."

"There is," the spawn whispered, waving the hook before Robar with small movements of its arm. The hook's glow intensified, casting its ghastly green light deeper into the tavern, covering Robar with its essence, its influence. The sensation made Robar's skin crawl, made him feel as if he were dirty inside, filthy. Even so, it drew him, pulled at his greed, his desire, and the sensation was insidious. Robar's fascinated eyes noted that no leather cuff attached the foul hook to the spawn's wrist. He saw nothing but a small blurring where metal met flesh.

"Belthethsia removed my hand. I wanted something to replace it." The spawn's whispered caress cut into Robar's flesh, a promise sinking deep into his brain. The spawn's voice was stronger, its bearing more insistent, perhaps even bolder. "I stole this hook from a mage after he fell into a magma pool. His duty was to prepare us spawn for our position and tasks. He used the hook to remove our resolve and our will and other things. It holds the strength the mage took from us. The strength can be yours. All I ask is that you give me a chance to leave here. I want to walk beneath the sun."

Shuddering, Robar drew slightly back and studied the spawn. This one was different from the others he had known. More intelligent perhaps. Stronger, though it still quavered before him even in its unusual boldness. "Why don't you use the hook on yourself?"

"It doesn't work that way," the thing sighed. "I wear this. I can't take anything directly from it."

Nodding with sudden understanding, Robar smiled. His dead wife had been a minor mage. He knew a mage could seldom use their tools directly on themselves. The restriction would be worse for a being with no training. So yes, perhaps he could make use of this spawn if he were careful. After all, it suffered from far more restraints in this matter than did he.

"And how," he demanded, feeling a need to know the deeper story, "did this mage fall into the pool."

"I helped him fall," the thing admitted. "A dead soul, a woman, taught me how to set a trap. I waited two weeks before the mage fell into a magma pool. When little more than melting bones remained, I reached in and grabbed the hook. The magma destroyed the last shreds of my hand, and the hook merged with my flesh, so you see, we both have our murders." Its tentative smile was half-eager, half-fear. "The strength? Do you want it?"

Robar wanted to laugh with delight at the possibilities. The image of Belthethsia's pale blue face wavered before his inner eye. She was more than beauty. She was allure, whim, and glory. Even an idle glance from her half-lidded, smoky eyes made him feel more the man than he had ever felt before. A week lying between Belthethsia's thighs was worth everything, his wealth, his wife, and even his children if such a price were asked of him. Surely she was worth taking a chance on this pathetic thing's fable.

"Give it to me then," Robar ordered, "but I swear to you if this is a trick, I'll rip your heart out."

"No trick! No trick. I'll give you great strength. All I ask is that you give me what I need to leave here. I want—"

Slashing his hand through the air, Robar cut the spawn off with a curt gesture. Before speaking, he cast a glance toward the table where the thieves and fence had been sitting, but Mathew and the others were gone. Nobody else was in the tavern.

"I've the courage for anything. Do it. Do it now."

The spawn nodded, and then its hook flared brighter than Robar had seen it before. A sickly green light oozed from its razor tip, pulsating, pulling. Nearing him, it almost touched the clothes over his chest, almost sank into his flesh.

With a yell, Robar shook himself from its spell and grabbed the being's wrist again. The thin wrist trembled in his grip, bent almost to the point of breaking. Robar's hand tingled.

"Wait, Hell spawn. You know what I'm called, but I know almost nothing about you. What name do you go by?"

The thing looked confused for a moment. It licked its thin lips, blinked, and then appeared faintly surprised. "A name? I remember a name. When I was a human child, a crying man, my father, laid me on a slab of stone. Sometimes, when Belthethsia played by peeling away my skin, I remembered hearing my father whisper 'sorry Jolson' before plunging a knife into my heart. Belthethsia used to laugh when I cried out to him. She said he gained great power by killing me."

Robar snorted disbelief. "Hell's bargains are never what they seem. I'm not fool enough to believe the strength you give me will last forever. A week is all I need. A week so I can beat Heriod and have Belthethsia." Releasing his grip on the wrist, he squared his shoulders and thrust his chest toward the foul hook. "Give me strength, Jolson, and remember I've your name. Play me false and you'll regret it."

Jolson jerkily nodded and moved the hook toward Robar. Its glowing nimbus touched Robar's clothes, merged with them, and then the green metal sank into his chest. Robar gasped, shook, and used all his courage to remain still when sensations both glorious and foul, both delightful and evil, ripped through him. The hook was heat and chill and the pain of fire. It sucked and radiated, filling and draining until he thought he might collapse. During it all, Jolson's gaze rested on him, at first fearful, then firming with resolve before he drew the hook out of Robar's chest. Moments later, the hook's light dimmed, faded, until it was once again a solid appendage on the end of Jolson's arm.

Bracing one hand on the bar's rail, Robar drew in a steadying breath and frowned because nothing had changed. If the spawn's promises proved false Robar would, by the Seven Gods and Two, make him regret this game. "I don't feel any stronger, spawn. I'll rip your head off and send your soul back to Hell if you've played false with me."

He looked at the spawn when he spoke, hearing his own words, his voice, his delivery, and the words didn't sound right. They were not forceful enough. In some way, they even seemed hesitant.

Lifting a stool with his good hand, Jolson held it out. His gaze was weary, but his eyes exuded confidence. "Hold this to your chest and squeeze it tight."

The idea seemed ridiculous. Robar knew exactly how strong the stool was. After all, he had built the tavern's stools out of the only load of ironwood he had ever received.

"Do it," Jolson ordered.

Robar hesitated, but the spawn's insistence gave him no choice. He took the stool, held it to his chest, and squeezed. The stool shattered.

"Gods," he gasped, astounded by the feat. "I did it. I broke the thing. I must be the strongest man alive." He looked at Jolson and grinned, feeling vibrant and alive despite the slight quiver in his knees. "Heriod doesn't stand a chance."

He laughed, but the thought of the other man sent a shudder through him. Heriod really was a heartless monster. Why had he not noticed this before? "I–I think I'm ready to fill my part of the bargain."

"You already have," Jolson said, appearing more confident than before. He stood almost fully erect. His arms hung freely at his sides, and for the first time during their conversation his gaze held steady. Worst yet, his voice sounded firm. "The dead soul who taught me how to set the trap was once your wife. She told me you would be here, and she told me what you had to trade."

Nodding once, Jolson turned and moved with a confident, though clumsy, walk toward the tavern's closed door. It opened before he reached it. Carrid stepped inside, a dissatisfied smile on his face. He was huge, larger than Robar remembered ever seeing him. Something about his bearing, the confident way he held himself, the dangerous glint in his eye, made Robar wonder how he had ever felt contempt for the man.

"Where do you think you're going?" Carrid said to Jolson. The sound of his deep voice made Robar tense with sudden nervousness. His mouth went dry, and he took an involuntary step back.

"Out," Jolson replied. "I am going to see the sun." He pushed past Carrid, paused briefly when he stepped into the outside air, and then he was gone.

Carrid looked momentarily bemused. With a slight shrug, he frowned and turned his attention on Robar. "Never expected him to leave. Athos's demons will have to hunt him down, and they'll blame me for their trouble." His eyes took in the shattered stool, and his frown grew deeper. "The missus wasn't happy with my taking the money. She says I pay you too much for shoddy work."

A chill ran through Robar. His nervousness increased, and his hands began to shake. He tried to meet Carrid's eyes and found he could not. "I–I–I'm sorry." His damp hands shook, and sweat dripped off his forehead. "I could lower my prices and–and maybe I could not charge you for these last tables. I–I—"

When Carrid's frown faded into an expression of bemused confusion, part of Robar's nervousness dissipated. There was something about Carrid's frown he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortable thing to see. Frightening. Reaching for his courage, Robar found none.

Carrid peered thoughtfully toward the closed tavern door. "What did the spawn do to you?"

His expression cleared with understanding. A thin smile formed on his lips. A calculating light entered his eyes. Turning his attention back to Robar, he pointed a finger, and his eyes narrowed. "Well then, maybe we do need to talk a bit about the price. The way I see it the last work you did for me was inferior. It didn't last, and I won't pay for shoddy work. In fact, you owe me a complete new set of tables and chairs for free. Now, if you were to give me your word..."

Chapter 10— Queen's Challenge

Elise stamped her foot, shifted her shield, and backed away from the attack. Her left arm ached horribly from holding her shield, and her right wrist fought a losing battle against the weight of her sword's point. Panting, she struggled to bring the point up, but exhaustion left her barely enough energy to breathe. Her only consolation was her opponent was not in much better shape.

"Milady," a small voice said to the side.

Tired or not, Pol Swordbreaker did not let up. Face grim, Pol stepped in and struck. Elise barely blocked his overhand attack. The attack was swiftly followed by a second. His weapon swept at her side, flickered towards her face, an instant before Pol came after her in a low line. Elise shifted her weight, partially blocked the blow, and chuckled when Pol's sword became tangled in the voluminous folds of her clothing. There were, it seemed, some advantages in having to dress like a queen. Still chuckling, she lowered her shield, drew back her arm, and thrust her point straight toward the man's chest, already tasting victory.

"My Queen," the small voice tried again.

Damn. Apparently she had tasted too soon. Dropping his shield to his waist, Pol knocked her rapier aside, and the pointed top of the shield swept up toward her belly in a move too quick for her to avoid. She tried to twist away, but the shield's sharpened peak pressed against her belly, stopping before it laid open her skin.

"I declare this match a draw," Pol grinned.

"A draw?" Elise panted. "How so? You just gutted me."

"And you very handily sliced open the veins under my shield arm," Pol replied, lowering the shield.

Elise shook her head. "I did no such thing." Pol raised his arm, showing her where a line of the chimney black she had rubbed on her wooden practice sword resided. "Or at least I don't remember doing it."

Pol placed his sword on the wall braces where it belonged when not in use, turned back, and brushed her cheek with gentle fingers. "That's because you have the instincts of a warrior. You knew you were going to die so you decided to take me out, too." Smiling ruefully, he handed her a towel he had earlier tucked into his belt. "You did a good job, My Queen. I've not faced many opponents your equal."

As always, his smile, and the sound of his approval, sent a warm rush through her. Though they had known each other for only two weeks, Pol had quickly become an important part of her life. He was her friend during trying times, her confidant, and he sometimes hinted he would not mind becoming more. He was, in effect, everything she had always wished High Priest Calto Morlon could be, but that was a hope she had given up long ago. Though attentive and efficient, Lord Morlon was far too impressed with himself to be anybody's true friend.

"Damn it, Elise!" the voice, no longer small, demanded.

With a shake of her head, Elise drew herself away from her reverie. Wiping sweat off her face, she turned to look at her irritable and last remaining maid. Wenda, a pale, dark-haired woman of thirty years stood with awkward self-consciousness in the castle's abandoned, historical armory. Hung on the pale, polished wood wall above her head was Wynderfyte, the war hammer carried by Olnac, King Vere's grandfather, when he first won kingship of Yernden. To Wenda's left was the common soldier's sword used by Vere's father when he killed Olnac after Olnac refused to abdicate the throne until he was dead. Though she stood surrounded by the bloody history of Yernden's successions, Wenda remained oblivious, and for this Elise loved her. Wenda was a simple soul. Loyal and hardworking, it sometimes seemed like she went out of her way to ignore the ugliness surrounding them, though even she could not ignore everything.

"Yes, Wenda?"

Wenda's expression showed more than her usual impatience with Elise's eccentricities. Her normally smooth face was twisted into lines of near panic. "The king searches for you, Majesty."

"Oh damn indeed," Elise muttered, abruptly thrusting her sword and shield into Pol's hands. "He'll try to exile me if he discovers I still practice at weapons."

"Only because you're twice the warrior he was even before he became so fat," Pol's smile grew. "Or so rumor says."

"Why do you risk yourself?" Wenda demanded.

"Because my father would disown me if I quit training," Elise explained. "What does my husband want of me now?" She swept her hair back with a quick motion of her hand and tied it up with a length of ribbon she ripped free from her dress. While grabbing her wig from a peg on the wall, the exhaustion she had felt moments before disappeared in a wave of irritation.

"He knows of the child," Wenda whispered, but her hands quickly fastened the wig to Elise's head. "I heard Helace say she hasn't smelled your courses for more than three months. Oh, Milady, what will we do?"

"The whore is an unnatural woman," Elise cursed. "There's no help for it. We've no choice but to brazen it out. After all, Vere never ordered me not to produce an heir, and the gods know I couldn't have got this way without his help."

"You know he'll claim it isn't his. The entire world knows he seldom calls you to his bed. He'll use this in another attempt at divorcing you." Wenda jabbed one last pin into place. "There! That will hold it."

Elise patted her hair and then nodded. "Seldom is the operative word, but the one time was enough after Lord Morlon granted me the goddess's blessing. I've already been to two temples to have its parentage verified. This child belongs to the king. I've a dozen of Anothosia's priests and three of Omitan's who say so. A king's divorce without proof of infidelity or his wife's consent is against the laws of the gods and the land. My husband will not be allowed to divorce me. He will not gain my consent no matter how desperate he is to marry his mistress. My father paid a dowry for me to become queen. I refuse to allow it to be money ill spent."

"Go!" Pol snapped. "The king waits."

"She stinks of common labor!" Wenda wailed.

"I'll grab a quart of rose water along the way," Elise said. "I'll not give Vere reason to accuse me of ignoring my duties."

* * * *

Rubbing at the not yet swelling results of her husband's unexpected passion, Elise fumed at the sight of his mistress seated on Elise's throne while King Vere gave audience to his head scholar, Issac Van Wess.

"They make a handsome couple, do they not?" Belsac, the king's chief advisor, said quietly. He stirred beside her, drifted inches closer. Elise wanted to scurry away from something indefinably foul about the man. Well set-up and not yet in his middle years, he was dark and tall and had a set of gray eyes speaking of such depths she was sometimes afraid she would fall into their pits and never pull herself out. She wondered if Vere had fallen into those eyes. It was only after Belsac and Helace's arrival that the king's body ballooned so greatly he could no longer sit a horse. Could those eyes have captured her husband's mind?

No, she admitted. Vere's downfall owed less to Belsac's eyes than they did to what resided between Helace's thighs. Elise had spent most of her life surrounded by stunning women. All of them paled when compared to the king's mistress. Helace was perfect skin surrounding an exquisite frame. Dancing red hair held court over a child's face glowing with inner strength and fire. Helace's soft voice invited trust from women and lust from men. She was, in effect, every man's wet dream. Only a succubus could shine brighter.

"They are disgusting," Elise said, edging unobtrusively away from the man so she could rebuild a safe distance.

"Because she is beautiful and he so fat?" Belsac's smile grew warmer. "That is part of their appeal. Being next to him makes her appear like delicate china, too precious to use except on special occasions." He chuckled. "I expect one of those occasions will be the day when you lose your head and she becomes queen."

"The church and our lords will never stand for it," Elise said calmly, refusing to be drawn into his games. "Murdering me would flaunt the will of the gods and centuries of law."

"Yes." Belsac ran his fingers across his chin. "Well, I'll soon deal with the gods, and even now Van Wess is leaving on a journey which will take care of any problem we have with the lords."

"You will deal with the gods?" Elise chuckled. She gave him a doubtful grin. "Don't you think your attitude is a bit arrogant or perhaps overconfident?"

Belsac studied her for several moments. "No." He gestured toward the throne with an imperious wave of his hand. "Come, we must attend your husband so he can order you to abort the child."

"I've had four stillbirths." Elise responded. "I'll not have another." She looked to her maid. "Wenda, wait here so you don't risk the king's ire." Gathering her courage together, she wished Yernden's politics could be handled with a sharp knife. Matters would be so much simpler if she were allowed to slit a few select throats. Not many, just two or three dozen. A small part of her felt sorry Ludwig's one-time manservant had joined Ludwig in exile from Grace. Ludwig was a fool, but Harlo was quite efficient and rogue enough to have cut those throats for her if the price was right.

"Follow," she ordered Belsac, knowing the advisor would resent the command. She mentally threw on her regal mien and strode to Yernden's twin thrones, almost giggling inside at the thought of how much Belsac would resent having to follow to her rear.

Every trace of her good humor disappeared when she reached the thrones. Lounging in a seat not meant for her, Helace ran her perfect fingers over Vere's corpulent arm. Her pointed nails glistened natural silver, and her lips formed a delicate curve while she pointedly studied Elise.

"Yessss," Helace said slowly. "I can smell it much better now. You stink of sweat and scent, but beneath I smell woman get." The tip of her tongue darted briefly from between parted lips. "Have you been untrue to your vows, My Queen?"

Vere leaned forward, a not inconsiderable feat considering his girth. "I'll not be cuckolded. This child will be ripped from your belly. We'll be divorced, and you'll hang the next day. No law of god or man insists I remain married to an adulteress." He grunted when he leaned further forward. Rolls of fat rippled across his body, and when he bent his neck Elise was unable to see his chin. Looking at her husband, she wanted to weep for what had been lost. On the day of their marriage, Vere had been a trim youth already well known as a hunter and warrior. Eight years had passed since then. She, who had born two live daughters and miscarried four dead sons, was more fit than ever. He, who had done none of those things, had come to this.

"You should have acted the part of a proper woman," Vere said, "and given in to my will."

Frowning, Elise wondered when she had become the stronger of the two. She shook her head slowly, denying her husband's will yet one more time.

"The child is ours," she said, "attested to by Anothosia and Omitan themselves, as witnessed by more than a dozen of their priests. Furthermore, the goddess has cast her blessing on the fruit of our union. No one shall cause this child harm or order harm to come to it before its birth 'less they are willing to face Anothosia's wrath. Go ahead, my husband, kill our child. Hang me, but know you sign your own death warrant when you do, and you ensure the deaths of any others complicit in those murders."

Red suffused Vere's face. His eyes narrowed with anger, but then his anger changed into confusion. Turning his head, he met Helace's accusing eyes. Her eyes, in return, swiveled to fasten on Elise.

"You are a stubborn woman," Helace said, every trace of little girl coo disappearing from her voice. Her tones were harsh, her inflection sharp, and a growl sounded deep within her throat. "I should murder you now, and then I will be queen. Belsac?"

Shaking his head, Belsac moved into Elise's view. "Not now. Not under these circumstances. Remember, My Queen, she is an emperor's daughter. Not only is the Altude Empire ten times the size of our kingdom, it also has the habit of expanding its borders through warfare. Emperor Dade will declare war on your kingdom if his daughter is killed without just cause. We are not yet ready for war. Soon, but not now."

"Our kingdom," Elise said pointedly. "Not yours."

Helace's eyes were hot ice daggers. "What!"

"This kingdom belongs to my husband and me. You two are merely an advisor and a whore. Vere is king, and I remain queen because Anothosia protects the heir."

Helace parted her lips to show pointed teeth. "Foolish, foolish child. Did you not know the gods reign in a land only because its ruler says they may? As of today Yernden begins to worship new gods. Powerful gods. The gods of Hell. Less than an hour ago King Vere signed a resolution which accepts Athos and Zorce as Yernden's future. Before long the worship of any other god will be condemned. Heretic priests will be drawn and quartered. Heretic priestesses will serve in the whore houses. The false temples will be destroyed or turned to new, better purposes."

A small mewling noise drifted across the throne room. Hearing it, Elise's heart leapt within her chest. She slowly turned to see Wenda crouched down low, silent tears dripping from her cheeks while she wrapped inadequate arms protectively about her body.

"I forgot about our witness," Belsac said. "Can't have people going around spreading rumors and lies, can we?" Coughing, he raised one hand and pointed a finger.

"No, please no," Wenda pleaded, but her crumbling face said she knew she would gain no pity or compassion here. Straightening, she backed up until she met the closed throne room doors. Once there, she fastened hopeless eyes on Elise. "My Queen! Please don't let them harm me. I'm your vassal. Protect me."

"You will not harm her!" Elise ordered.

"Of course not," Belsac answered, "unless my king orders differently."

Elise looked to her husband and saw his flaccid manhood exposed. Helace stroked his member gently with two long nailed fingers.

"You want the woman dead, don't you, my darling?" Helace asked. "You want to make me happy"

"Yes," Vere answered, closing his eyes. "Oh, yes."

"You see," Belsac said, shrugging. "What can I do? The king must be obeyed."

"Something you should remember," Helace added.

Turning in a panic, Wenda tried to pull a door open just as Belsac's fingers morphed into hissing snakeheads.

Belsac grunted.

Five winged snakes shot from his hand, flew through the air, and attacked the maid. Wenda screamed when fangs sank into her body, screamed again, and then she dropped to the floor. Moments later, when her body stopped thrashing, the snakes slowly dissolved, disappeared, and Belsac's hand held five fingers once more.

"Feel fortunate we need a plausible reason for you to die," Helace said. Beside her, Vere giggled and tried to slide his hand down the top of her blouse. Helace slapped his hand away and resumed her idle stroking. "Belsac, this idiot needs more of his medicine. I'm not in the mood to be crushed under his body yet again."

"Of course," Belsac said. "As soon as this interview is over."

"You aren't human," Elise whispered. "Neither of you are." Sadness welled when her gaze fell upon the prone form of her next to last friend. Until now she had thought she dealt with nothing more than a normal power grab combined with kingly lust. It appeared she had been very wrong.

Belsac's form shivered, shimmered, and for a brief second she looked at a leather-winged mongrel devil wearing scales.

"Satisfied?" Belsac asked. "Go ahead, play queen until your brat is born. Just remember, Anothosia's protection will disappear the moment you shit the brat from between your thighs. Then Helace and I will play our own games."

"I'm leaving now," Elise said carefully. "I've a funeral to arrange."

"Don't bother." Helace's smile was thin. "We will dispose of the body. I have many hungry friends."

"I need my medicine," Vere said, looking around the room, his eyes unfocused and slightly confused. "Does anybody know where it is?"

"I do," Belsac answered. "I know where all your medicine is located.

* * * *

"Gods! What is it?"

Elise looked upon the courtyard from the obscurity of her chamber window. From her higher vantage the courtyard was curving pathways formed by inlaid mosaic tiles. Gentle gardens of flowers and herbs grew between the pathways, and two couples strolled decorously through the castle's maze with a lady's chaperone walking close behind. Outside the maze a scarred and misshapen creature carefully trimmed a sour cherry tree. Gazing down on the creature, Elise was appalled. Though Yernden was often a land of disease and want, Elise had never before seen anyone so hideously scarred.

Despite royal decree, Pol Swordbreaker wrapped his arm protectively around Elise's shoulders. He was tall, strong, and clean, everything Vere no longer represented. He smelled of assurance, and his sad eyes bled pity. Elise wanted to lean into his embrace, but the dignity of her station and upbringing would not allow it. She did, however, permit his arm to remain.

"It's a spawn," Pol said. "They are slaves to most of Hell's creatures and abused by all. I've not seen one yet who doesn't cringe even from a kind word. The things are so eager to please in order to avoid punishment they'll do anything, no matter how low." Tightening his arm around her, he sighed. "I've heard the king is replacing all the disappeared castle servants with spawn. They are stupid and slow but also obedient, and their upkeep is almost nothing."

"But where do they come from?" Elise asked. Try as she would she could not tear her eyes from the misshapen thing. Its motions were clumsy and slow, but the results of its work were most precise. She thought it astonishing something so hideous could create such beauty.

"Your husband now worships Athos and Zorce," Pol reminded her. "In payment, the gods of Hell have widened the second passageway from their realm to ours."

Elise shuddered at the thought of another hellhole outside of the one in Yylse. Was this the one Calto had sought. Probably, which meant the king's collusion went back months or even years.

She silently cursed. If Vere had listened to her council the Yylse hole would have been sealed beneath several tons of stone long ago. Unfortunately, he had not, and too many of her subjects had suffered because her husband played games. The thought of her husband and king actually bargaining with Hell for servants and influence at the cost of another opened hole was unbearable.

"Please don't be afraid," Pol whispered, tightening his arm about her even more. "I'll protect you with my life."

Remembering her position and dignity, Elise pulled Pol's arm away. "My maid is dead, and we are alone. There must be no hint of impropriety."

"Your chamber door is open," Pol pointed out, but he stepped several paces away. "No one would dare accuse the queen of being improper when her chamber door is ajar."

"I would," a voice said from the doorway. Belsac strolled into the room, wearing an affable smile. The smile, however, went no further than his lips. His eyes were dark, flat orbs which studied Elise like he was deciding which herbs would best enhance her flavor. "Have I just caught you alone with another man? Your husband would be most interested. Pol Swordbreaker, leave."

Elise felt her face turn pale at the cavalier way Belsac ordered people around within her chambers. Furious, she imagined what it would feel like to run a foot of steel through the advisor's neck. Her hand twitched, wanting to reach for the sword she could not wear, aching for the reassuring touch of steal, but in this battle her only weapons were an iron will and words.

"Stay," she ordered her friend, demanding his obedience with a long steady gaze.

Much to her amazement Pol slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry. I have to go. He is the king's advisor."

"I am your queen," she insisted, but one look at his pale face told her his bold words a few moments earlier were nothing but a sycophant's lies. "I order you to stay."

"He'll kill me. At most, all you'll give me are a few stripes. I'm sorry, Milady." After throwing her an apologetic glance, Pol hurried out, closing the chamber door behind him.

With him went a small chunk of Elise's heart. She had lost yet one more person who claimed to be her friend. Firming her resolve until it became almost as powerful as her courage, she squared her shoulders and turned her attention back to the king's advisor.

Ignoring her, Belsac ran a long finger along the gentle contours of the doorway's molding. He studied his fingertip carefully, as if he were checking for mites or dust. Shaking his head, he looked back to Elise, wearing a slight frown.

"The king wants a divorce," he said. "Forget Anothosia's blessing. Claim another as the child's father and we'll let you live. In fact, we'll give you gold equal to twice your dowry and a safe exile to any land you choose. You can even take Swordbreaker with you as your lover. Vere won't complain. All he wants is to be free."

"He'll never be free so long as you ply him with your drugs!" Elise snapped.

Belsac shook his head sadly. "Helace is a very demanding woman. I'm afraid Vere needs a certain drug in order to— perform— but there are so many side-effects he needs other drugs to maintain what remains of his mind. He hasn't much time, Elise. A few months. A year. Two. He'll be dead before long, and he'll die still tied to a woman he doesn't love. Be merciful. Give him his freedom."

"My husband is free to play with his whore," Elise said bitterly. "He is free to leave his throne and abdicate his power to whomever he desires, but he will not be free of me. I was traded by my father for political favors. I did not want to come to this poor land, but I did, and I did become queen. I have a duty to my new people which supplants any desire or need for gold and physical security. My father's honor, and my own, demand I fulfill my obligations, even onto death. I will not abandon my people to your care."

Nodding agreeably, Belsac grinned and raised a hand. "I hoped you would say that, but the king insisted I try to speak reason with you. Tell me, did you know some bites leave no marks?"

Elise's heart stilled when his fingers became winged snakes. She fought to make her face a mask but knew she failed. "You wouldn't dare,"

"Oh, yes," Belsac said, "I would."

Five winged snakes shot through the air. She flinched back from their darting forms and refused to scream when wind from their beating wings stirred her hair. Fanged mouths set in multihued heads surrounded her as the five Hell-cursed snakes hissed and dripped venom around her body and head. Yet, their spitting venom somehow struck the floor while missing her person. Acrid smoke rose from the tainted floor, filling her head with vile fumes that made her senses reel and her knees weak. Flailing wildly, she struck out, but the snakes were too fast, too agile. She did nothing but miss.

Belsac chuckled dryly when she finally accepted defeat and held still.

"Decide," he said. "Death or exile."

Elise tried to swallow with a suddenly dry mouth and wished she were allowed to carry at least a knife. With a knife she might have injured one of the snakes. "My honor is worth more than my life. I will not abdicate my responsibilities. I choose death."

"Very well." Belsac gestured with his fingerless hand.

Elise refused to close her eyes. She had been trained to face any situation, no matter how ugly, with her eyes looking forward and her shoulders firm. Around her, the snakes darted in. Their breath brushed against her face. Venom dripping fangs touched her skin— and then a sheet of light burst around her.

Five charred corpses fell to the floor.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Elise curled her lips into a thin smile. Her one hope of salvation had come through. "Anothosia protects. You can offer me no harm while I carry this child, and once his heir is born my husband will throw your worthless carcasses on top of the traitor's wall."

Frowning, Belsac stared at his fingerless hand. When he looked at her, his eyes oozed hate. "It will take months for new fingers to grow, and they'll be only fingers. You have killed my snakes, girl, and stolen one of my most potent weapons. For that, your end will be unpleasant."

Turning, he strode to the chamber door and jerked it open. Pol waited outside.

"Don't kill him," Elise ordered the advisor, but she need not have bothered. Belsac gave her friend not one glance.

Pol looked at the charred snakes, at Elise, and looked ready to cry. "I'm sorry, My Queen. I cannot disobey the king's orders— not until I'm ready to leave his kingdom in exile. If you come with me, I will defy the gods, but until you decide to join me, I'm helpless to give you succor. Dear Elise, I wish there was something I could do."

"There is," Elise said evenly. "I need to train. There are some things I need to kill, and I've anger to burn."

* * * *

When Elise and Pol reached the armory, they had no difficulty getting in unnoticed. Nobody wandered the hallways. Elise opened the heavy oak door, slipped through, gestured for Pol to follow, and quickly swung it closed. Unlike her habit during their previous training sessions, she slid its locking bar into place. With her maid dead, no one remained who would give her warning of the king or his minions approaching.

Without saying a word they walked to the armory wall where the weapons and shields were hung. Ignoring her shield, Elise pulled down a practice knife and a thin, blunt bladed sword. When she turned around, she discovered Pol remained unarmed

"We need to talk." Pol's tentative smile was both infectious and unsure. He pulled the weapons from Elise's hands and dropped them to the floor. Shifting on uneasy feet for a moment, he quickly kissed her lips. Releasing a nervous laugh, he took a step back.

Elise touched her lips with a fingertip. The sensation of his unreturned kiss had been somewhat unsettling and rather nice. It had been a very long time since she had been kissed. The last time Vere kissed her had been after the birth of their first daughter.

"There," Pol said. "Even if it means my head, I'm glad it's done. My Queen, I have loved you since I saw your first procession. I worked for three years just to reach your side."

"But you are barely a boy," Elise protested, lowering her hand from her lips.

"Only seven years separate us. There is a greater span between you and the king." He desperately grasped her hands. "Please, Milady, tell me there is hope. I've spent countless nights tossing restlessly for thoughts of you. I ache for the touch of your hand. My lips burn for your kiss. Even a word of hope would be a balm for my heart. Come away with me, beloved. Come away with me and I'll show you more of the world than you could ever imagine while stuck here within these walls, glued to the ungrateful responsibilities of your station."

"I have a husband," Elise gently reminded. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. A softness she hadn't felt for several years touched her heart.

"He has a mistress," Pol said eagerly. "He doesn't love you nearly as much as I. You are still a young woman, beloved. You are filled with energy and life. You need a passionate man who will love you and protect you, not a fat man who wants you dead."

Elise shook her head slowly, sadly. Churning emotions filled her, embarrassment mixed with royal outrage and compassion along with a touch of desire. On the surface Pol was almost her ideal mate. He was strong, skilled, and knowledgeable about things she might never know. He was urbane, owned wit, and his body showed many signs of hard usage. In short, he was the type of man her father admired, and she was her father's daughter in more ways than one. Yes, she was lonely. Her pregnancy and circumstance had made her vulnerable to a husband and king who saw her only as an encumbrance. Yes, she did need someone with strength to stand beside her. She needed someone she could depend on no matter what the challenge, and she desperately wanted to know at least once what it was like to be loved. Unfortunately, Pol was not the man she needed.

Though he claimed to love her, Pol had left her alone with Belsac rather than risk the king's ire. Though he did not love her, Calto had dared Vere's wrath. He had cast his protections, had called on Anothosia, and because of his courage in casting those protections when he knew it didn't follow his king's wishes, five flying snakes lay dead while Elise remained alive.

"I'm sorry, Pol," she said. "I value you greatly, but I cannot love you. I wish it were different."

Sighing, Pol gave her a sad smile. Bending over, he picked up her discarded weapons. Elise reached out to accept them, but he shook his head.

"I'm sorry too. Politically, it would have been much easier if you had broken your vows like Belsac wanted. Instead, you will just have to be killed by a spurned lover. They'll hang me for it, of course, but Zorce promised to repair my body afterward. Apparently, easy deaths can be reversed without having to go through the whole installing a soul into a new body thing."

Cold chills swept through Elise when the full realization of Pol's betrayal and her stupidity struck her, leaving her focused and hard. She backed slowly toward the barred door. "You work for Belsac?"

"Of course, I obey my uncle," Pol admitted, sliding his feet forward. Tossing her useless practice sword aside, he drew the blade at his hip. It seemed, Elise noted, to be very sharp and to possess a usable point.

"Your uncle?" she asked, trying for time.

"He's one of Zorce's head devils while I'm nothing more than a minor chameleon. I'm afraid the nano curse didn't take especially well with me." Pol's left cheek shifted, flowed, and a rakish scar appeared. "I've been wanting to ask, do you think a scar like this makes me look more daring? I thought for a long time before deciding not to use it."

"It's stunning," Elise snapped, and she leaped to the side when his sword jabbed forward. A knife strike sliced into the folds of her dress and caught there. Elise spun, ripping the trapped knife from his hand, and she darted away. Pulling the knife free from her dress, she instantly set to cutting away the bottom portion. Relief washed through her when she finished. In battle, dresses were only a hindrance. She could move much more quickly with a good portion of the drapery removed.

Smiling sardonically, Pol leaned his weight on his sword and watched. "I hate to be rude, but your legs are unsightly. Far too long and they have no womanly shape because of the excess muscle. It's no wonder Vere threw you aside."

"You can't harm me," Elise reminded him, sidling toward the armory door. "I'm protected by Anothosia as long as I carry the baby."

"You trusted me after the protection was cast," Pol said. "That makes me immune. Now, darling, it's no use looking at the door. You'll never get it unbarred in time, and you might as well forget trying to stab me with a sword. The enjoyable thing about my kind of chameleon is we aren't bothered by steal." Straightening, he lifted the sword. "I wish I could say I'm sorry, but I can't. I like you well enough, but I've a pleasant job to do and no conscience at all. I can't even promise this will be quick since I like playing with my toys."

"Me, too," Elise said when she felt the door's bar press into her back. Reaching up, she grasped Wynderfyte and pulled the war hammer down from its supports. She dropped the knife from her left hand and reached up to grasp a shield. Shifting her fingers, she adjusted her grip on the hammer's shaft and wished she had leisure to slide her arm through the shield's arm strap. As it was, she could only grasp the shield by its center handle, making her hold of it awkward.

"We never practiced with a hammer," Pol pointed out. His eyes laughed at her naivety, mocked her, and then he lunged in for an attack. He struck high, low, and then tried to slice the artery under her arm. Frightened, Elise ducked and dodged. She twisted free of one blow, caught one on the shield, and another struck Wynderfyte's metal shaft, sending up a rather unimpressive shower of sparks.

"I know," Elise replied, and she swung Wynderfyte with all the fear she possessed. The hammer struck Pol's sword, almost sweeping it from his hand. "You should have found yourself a shield," she added helpfully. "This hammer might be a tad bit slow, but your pointed stick is far too light to block me."

Nervous sweat ran into her eyes, blurring her vision and making her eyes sting. Risking a quick swipe with her shield arm's sleeve, she wished she had a rag to tie around her head.

"I'm still immune to steel," Pol pointed out. His hooded eyes appeared amused and contemptuous. Laughter bubbled lightly on his lips, "Still, you are right. Your hammer is very slow."

His arm flickered and fire ran along Elise's ribs. She gasped, stumbled, and prayed to Anothosia for her child's life. Pol struck again and yet once more. He moved with a speed and flexibility he had never shown her before. Elise caught two strikes on her shield, twisted to avoid another, and then the thin steel blade slashed into her left thigh before she could leap away. She cursed, glanced down, and saw she bled from a gash.

"Pity you won't live," Pol observed. "The cut would have made a wonderfully ugly scar."

"It won't be my first," Elise panted. She hurt in more places than she should, which meant she bore more wounds than she knew. It was only a matter of time before she became too weak to defend herself. Already, her leg trembled and threatened to give way.

"Oh?" Pol raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"My father," Elise said, "insists all his children have some taste of war."

Stepping forward, she swung Wynderfyte with all her might. Pol moved to block, but Elise slammed her wooden shield into him, and the hammer cracked into Pol's left shoulder. Pol cursed, stumbled, and fell back, his shoulder a ruin. Feeling grim satisfaction, Elise followed.

"There's a difference between iron and steel," she said with a grin. "Olnac made himself king with this weapon because he was too poor to afford a sword."

She swung again and cursed her weak arm. The hammer was heavy, and she had already lost too much blood. Pol's sword deflected her slow strike, but she slammed into him with her shield once more. The shield shivered in her hand when it hit his defending arm, almost falling from her weak grip, but Elise maintained control. She struck once and then twice with shorter and weaker war hammer blows. The heavy iron glanced off Pol's head to crack into his injured shoulder once more. Crying out, he staggered back, stopped, and lunged forward just in time to meet the hammer once again. Wynderfyte crushed flesh and bone beneath its unforgiving weight. Sweat streaming down his face and blood running from a tear in his scalp. Pol swayed before her, unsteady, broken, one eye fallen free from a crushed socket. Realization and despair bled from his remaining eye as Pol opened his fingers, the sword falling from his slack grip.

"I was right when I said you have a warrior's heart," Pol whispered, and then Elise swung Wynderfyte with all the remaining strength she possessed, using her legs and back to amplify its force. Wynderfyte crashed into his face, breaking his jaw, sending jagged shards of broken teeth flying through a mist of blood. He fell, but Elise did not stop swinging. The hammer cracked into Pol again and again, breaking his body beneath its weight until, exhausted, Elise fell to her knees and the hammer slipped from her hand. She stayed there, swaying while she searched within herself for some promise the king's unborn heir still lived.

Peace settled over her and warmth. Her mind wandered, opened, and Anothosia's grace momentarily filled her soul. Dripping blood slowed, stopped, and Elise's ripped flesh healed. New strength filled her.

A muted and insistent pounding sounded on the thick oak door. Rising, Elise felt no surprise at finding her shredded dress was clean and whole. Not a drop of blood stained it, not a wrinkle showed, but she still had blood on her hands.

"Why?" Elise asked the air.

"Calto," Anothosia answered within her mind.

The pounding stopped and the ring of axes on wood started. Elise listened while watching Pol's features shift. The remnants of his handsome mien became coarse and disjointed. Below the ruin of his inhuman face lay a misshapen body with almost no unbroken bones. Looking down on her work, Elise smiled. Not even the gods of Hell could reform this body. She had made sure of it. If Pol were to live once more, Zorce would have to form him a new body, a spawn's body, for Pol's spirit was not strong enough to claim anything more. Though he had played her for a fool, he had been a fool to believe the gods of Hell would grant him strong life and great strength for dying while failing to fulfill their will.

Finally, the crack of weapons and tools on the door ceased when the door broke open. Men bearing weapons poured in, but their weapons lowered among a united sound of startled gasps. King Vere stepped past the gathered guards, stared first with unbelieving eyes at Pol before he turned those eyes on her.

"How? How could you do this?" he demanded. "This is murder."

"This is justice," Elise lied. "He tried to rape me, and I became angry." She gave her husband a long, studying stare before allowing one corner of her lips to form a partial smile. "I've decided on a name for your heir. We'll call him Olnac, after your grandfather, because he knew iron sometimes has more worth than steel."

"Murder," her husband whispered, but his voice shook.

They both knew the charge could not stand. Pol Swordbreaker was obviously hellkind. No court in all of Yernden would convict any of its citizens for killing one of Zorce's followers. Not now. Not yet.

Knowing this, Queen Elise allowed her smile to become full, bright, and without concern. She leaned over to grasp Wynderfyte's handle, straightened, and lightly rested her other blood smeared hand on her husband's corpulent cheek.

"Try to divorce me," she whispered, gently patting him, "and watch me really get mad."

Fastening her eyes on Belsac's scowling face, she narrowed her eyes. Then she laughed.

Chapter 11— A Matter of Forgiveness

Anithia straightened her tunic and grasped Missa's hand tighter while quickstepping her way home from brood-mother Kali's, the only safe place she had found to leave her daughter while she worked. Looking around, she tried to wear her 'don't fuck with me' attitude, but with her feet thudding dully on the cracked boardwalk and her mouth twitching nervously, she knew she failed.

They passed a young pickpocket who made a laughing comment to two friends before he leered at her breasts and made an obscene gesture, indicating exactly what he would like to do to her. Mouth dry, Anithia touched her knife's comforting handle before narrowing her eyes and staring back, letting him know she was nobody's easy victim. Larson, gods bless the sorry bastard who had died and left her alone, had spent a good deal of time making sure she knew how to handle herself when threatened. She might not be able to beat most of the toughs in the Downs, but she was fierce and determined enough to hurt them badly, making the price they paid for her rape very high. Most of the ones in the area knew this. Some still did not.

"He has pretty eyes," Missa said once they were safely past. "Don't you think they were pretty, Momma?"

"They were beautiful." Anithia absently agreed, though all she had seen was emotionless calculation. She looked at Missa, wondering if strangeness looked out of her daughter's eyes again, but Missa's perfect orbs were still clear and blue and far too innocent.

Innocent. Ani didn't understand how Missa lived in the armpit of Yylse and was unable to see the horror around her. The only thing outweighing her astounding inability to see danger and evil was an incredible intelligence which made the child seem unnatural.

Sometimes, Ani despaired of what would happen to the girl when she got older. Missa was too smart not to escape the Downs, only she was so naive she might not live long enough to do so. Maybe Missa would get incredibly lucky and catch the eye of a rich man, or as quick as she was at learning things, Ani might be able to apprentice Missa to a baker or a seamstress. Almost anything would be better than what the girl claimed she wanted. Missa once told Ani she wanted to be a demon slayer for the goddess Anothosia just like her father. It would never happen. If Ani had her way, Missa would never go near that particular goddess's temple no matter what the cause. She had already lost a husband to the bitch's service. She would not lose another to a goddess who cared nothing for her faithful. As proof of Anothosia's indifference, none of Larson's fellow knights had bothered attending his funeral. Only she and Missa and a priest of Omitan had been there.

"I want to play with Scone." Missa said. "Today's Thursday, and you told me last week we'd go to the baker's for fresh bread on Thursday. You said I could play with Scone."

Barely hearing her daughter, Ani frowned at a dirty figure hunched near the opening of the alley ahead of them. The figure didn't look like a thief or a thug, but it was very unlikely it was a beggar either. Anyone looking for castoffs in the Downs would starve on what they found.

Ani's stomach churned with sudden fear, and she gripped her knife harder. The still fresh bruises on her arm, cheek, and throat from her last attempted rape and beating throbbed. She could not take a second beating this week. She just couldn't, especially not with Missa looking on. It wasn't right for a young girl to watch her momma cut someone while getting Athos's hell kicked out of her. A thought for later. At the moment she had other problems, one of which was the stranger ahead of them.

Feeling nervous, Ani paused to study the figure a little more closely. Man? Woman? She didn't know, but she did know the stranger made her uneasy. The— thing— might not look like trouble, but it would be easier if they crossed the road, just to be safe.

"Momma," Missa prompted, "you did promise."

Anithia eyed the street for a crossing place which was not littered with horse droppings or crushed rat carcasses. She held Missa's hand tighter to be sure the girl didn't take it into her head to wander away.

"We don't have the money to buy a fresh loaf, Missa. Maybe next week."

"But momma, you promised! You promised. You promised. You promised." Missa stamped her foot. Small tears trailed down her cheeks.

"Missa Markie!" Ani snapped. "Enough!" She didn't need this right now. She didn't. Despite her misgivings, expediency had forced her to accept a job she didn't want. Most days at the Hellhole were bad enough, but this day had been worse than usual, and now there were people on the street she didn't know. Her nerves were shot. The last thing she needed was for Missa to start crying. "I didn't promise you anything. We might go there tomorrow if my tips are good, but I'm not promising that, either."

Frowning unhappily, Ani glanced across the street again to see three unsavory men watching her. More strangers. Their dirty, unshaven faces were hard. Hungry. She looked back to her daughter and groaned. Missa's expression said her feelings had been hurt. Missa's wet wounded eyes, her quivering bottom lip, and the way she blinked and looked away made Ani feel like a heartless bitch.

"I'm sorry, sweetie." Releasing her grip on her daughter's hand, Ani leaned low to cup Missa's face, gently tilting it upwards while smiling an apology. Ani did not mean to be so gruff. This neighborhood and the new people in it made her irritable and uncivil to the one bright spot in her life. It wasn't Missa she was angry at, but the rest of the world, especially Larson.

"You hurt my feelings," Missa sulked.

"Mommy's just tired," Ani gently explained while keeping an eye on the three young toughs watching from across the street. Behind her was the pickpocket and his friends. Ahead was the strange figure. She would not cross the street. She couldn't take the risk, not when Missa was with her. Going back toward the pickpocket might risk another attempt at rape, so she had little choice in the matter. She would have to risk the unknown.

When she looked again the figure in the alley was gone. Fighting uneasiness, Ani grabbed Missa's hand and pulled her along.

"It stinks." Missa pinched her nose and waved a hand in front of her face as they passed the alley.

"I know," Anithia said. A quick glance showed the alley held piled filth and old crates. A couple of those crates stood taller than she was. Nothing else was there. Nobody. Drawing a deep breath, she hurried past.

Missa abruptly stopped. She tugged on Ani's hand with a force far too strong for a mere child's.

"What!" Ani snapped. She didn't have time for Missa's strangeness now. Not here. A quick glance showed that the three toughs still watched her.

"He's trapped." Missa's voice sounded hollow, as if she were speaking inside a tunnel. "He climbed inside one of the large crates to get at a scrap of rotting food. A beam fell against the lid, trapping him.

"What?" Ani began, but those strange eyes were back, looking at her from her daughter's face again, eyes that swirled like ice-hard, blue mist. Missa's orbs shimmered, turned blank, and then Missa's innocent blue eyes again gazed back at Ani.

"He's trapped, Mommy."

Ani stared at her a moment while a shiver traveled along her spine. She had first seen those eyes a month after Larson's death. Soon afterward Ani heard quiet whispering from her daughter's bedroom late at night, almost as if Missa spoke to an invisible friend. Sometimes, when Missa turned strange like this, Ani felt as if someone else, someone different, watched her through Missa's steady gaze, using her daughter as their portal. The thought of some other creature sometimes inhabiting her daughter frightened Ani, but she didn't know what to do.

Closing her eyes, Ani took a deep breath. She wanted to get home safely, but she could not stop herself. She had to go back and look. This once she had to know whether her daughter was right or not. If Larson were alive, he would have expected it of her.

Missa's stance was expectant, demanding. Trembling, Ani fought back the sensation of having no choice but to give in to her daughter's will.

Anithia gripped Missa's hand tighter and backtracked to the alley. "Wait here and watch for anybody approaching. If anyone does, you let momma know. Do you think you can do that?"

Missa nodded. "Like when the bad mans wanted your clothes but you wouldn't let him take them."

"Exactly like," Ani agreed.

With Missa left standing at the ally's mouth, Ani climbed over a small pile of debris so she could reach the largest crate. A heavy rotted construction beam from one of the torn down tenements leaned against the crate's lid just like Missa had said. When Ani examined the beam, she found it was caught in a tangle of half rotted rope. If not for those ropes the beam would have fallen harmlessly to the ground.

Missa's giggle sounded behind her. "Mommy's a garbage-digger."

Anithia released a thin smile. Despite her reservations about what she was doing, Ani could see the levity. She pushed and pulled at the timber, then gave up in frustration when it refused to move.

She knocked on the crate's lid. "Anybody in there?"

"He's in there," Missa called out. "I know it."

Ani heard scrambling, and then Missa stood by her side, proving she couldn't obey orders for longer than a few moments without wanting to get involved in whatever was going on.

Ani gave her a slight smile. "I know, honey. I'm just checking to see if he's awake." Or, she thought more darkly, whether he's even still alive.

Moving closer to the crate, Missa set her ear against its side.

"Missa! No! It's filthy." Ani grabbed Missa's arm, pulled her away, and shook her head. Why was she standing in this trash littered alley when she could have been almost home by now? Anithia sighed so deep she was sure the essence of it reached her soul. This was not safe. They were isolated in this alley, trapped, and those three toughs knew they were here. She acted the fool by ignoring all of Larson's lessons.

Silent, unwanted tears slipped free. She was so tired of being afraid. It often felt like her sanity, a thing so fragile and unsure, slipped a little further away from her each day, and Missa did not make things easier.

Ani squeezed her eyes shut and silently cursed. This was Larson's fucking fault. He'd cared more about being a hero than he had cared for his family. Opening her eyes, she silently swore she would never be so foolish again. She would do this because Larson would want more than for her to just climb down and walk away. He had demanded more from her, but this once was it. Never again.

"I just wanna see," Missa said, prying at the box. "Why is he in there?"

Ani shrugged. "I guess he was looking for food, like you said."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Missa. I don't know why some people starve. I just know we have to get him out of there before he dies."

She rubbed the back of her neck. Her head hurt— again, as if some unknown pressure rode her. Sometimes, she wished Larson's memory would go away. No matter how hard she tried she could never live up to his expectations.

After taking a moment to look around, making sure nobody was sneaking up on them, Ani reached into her tunic pocket and pulled out the short, dull knife, her only weapon. The knife wasn't much, but it would work on half-rotted rope.

She sawed at a worn section of rope where it wrapped around the roughhewn beam.

"How could he die?" Missa asked.

Pausing, Anithia squinted in pain. The throbbing in her head had increased again. She wished Missa would forget how to ask questions for just five minutes. Five short minutes would be enough time to settle her thoughts and find a bit of peace.

"Bad people might find him while he's trapped. They might even take him off to the glue-makers." Or he could die of thirst or starvation or because he slowly cooked to death inside the crate or for half a dozen other reasons. Whatever his fate turned out to be, Ani felt she could not let it be death. "Stand back a bit, honey. I don't want you to get hurt when everything starts tumbling down.

"Yes, Mamma."

The rope parted, and a section she had not cut broke away when the beam slid to the side. It rushed to the ground and struck with a crack. Ani yipped and made an involuntary jump backward. Moving back to the crate, she carefully lifted the lid and shoved it to the side until it overbalanced and slid away to the ground. An impossible stench rose out of the opening, nearly making her puke.

"Good Gods and Two," Ani cursed. Her head swam, and her body swayed. Anithia caught herself before she fell backwards. Approaching, Missa tried to look into the crate, but she retreated as soon as her nostrils encountered the newly released smell. "Momma, is he in there?"

"Yes, honey," Ani answered. "He is."

She peered into the crate and fought against her spasming stomach. The stench was horrid, but the thing she looked upon appeared even worse than the smell indicated. She tried to determine how old the being was but could not. His true age was hidden behind a mask of hideous scars and facial deformations. She supposed in dim light on a stormy day he could almost pass as human, but Ani knew instantly he was not. After all, she worked at the Hellhole Tavern. She had seen her first spawn just the week previous.

Anithia frowned at the spawn. The thing peered up at her, face blank, eyes empty. Why was it here? She'd been told spawn never made it past the Hellhole Tavern's front door. Carrid said when they escaped from the hole in his cellar, a demon, Krastos, almost always came up to reclaim them. The few spawn who managed to go unclaimed were stupid and cowardly. They were too weak to live long once they left the caress of Hell's miasma.

Maybe so but this one— this one was different.

Anithia turned slowly toward her daughter. The tight, nervous feeling in her chest had grown much worse. Missa had been impossibly correct about someone— something— being trapped inside the crate. What in the name of the two Hell's possessed her daughter?

Drawing in a slow breath, she leaned back over the opening. Anithia had to pull the spawn out. She couldn't afford angering the thing inside Missa. Although she no longer cared about the dealings of the heavens or hells she wanted no more problems from those realms, either. No, she would get the spawn out and then go about her business.

"Hey, you," Ani called. "Climb up out of there." Reaching in, she cautiously shook the spawn's boot. The boot looked like it might once have belonged to a highborn, but if so it had been long ago. The boot was scuffed, torn, and covered with filth. She searched his ripped and threadbare clothes for signs of injury. His body appeared thin, stick-like. His skin held a gray mottled color, but there were no bloodstains.

"Come on. You have to get out of there."

"Is he okay?"

Ani smiled at her daughter's worried tone. Missa cared for everyone and everything. Larson had been like that, too, when he wasn't hunting demons, devils, and other hellkind. "I don't know. He won't answer me."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought of having to reach into the crate. Its sides were covered in black dust, and someone had thrown rotted food into it.

"Damn," she muttered. She didn't want to crawl inside, but she could not leave him lying there looking like a stupid chicken waiting to get its head chopped off. Anithia thought about asking for help, but help was notoriously rare in this neighborhood, and most sensible people would prefer the spawn died. Besides, the only possible help she had seen frightened her more than did the spawn.

Cursing under her breath, she pulled up her sleeves, leaned over the edge of the crate, and grabbed hold of the spawn's clothing. She shook him.

"Hey, you!"

The spawn blinked and began to come out of its seeming trance.

"Is he okay?" Missa called.

"He's alive. That's a start." Ani shook him again. "Come on. You have to get out of there."

It opened its mouth once, made a croaking noise, and tried to move.

Sighing resignation, Ani reached further into the crate and started to remove bits of debris from him— then she stopped. Traveling slowly along his body, her eyes became transfixed on the end of his left arm. A strange, vile, green, hook met her gaze. It was his, this being's, attached to its wrist instead of a hand. The hook was ghastly, but somehow, it almost felt— alive.

Shivering, Ani leaned up out of the crate, and started to leave. She didn't care what creature she angered. There was no way in the two hells she would touch the spawn or its cursed hook.

"P-Please," the thing whispered.

Turning back, Ani saw the thing looking at her, his hook reaching out, reaching toward her.

She released a small shriek and stumbled back.

"Mommy!" Missa squealed.

Ani grabbed Missa's hand and tugged her away. "We're leaving."

"But you have to save the man." Missa insisted. "You said he might get killed if he stays there, and the lady in my head told you he had to be saved."

Breathing hard, Anithia stopped pulling on Missa's hand. She looked down into her daughter's heart-shaped face and wondered if Missa would ever understand how Ani could leave a being to die.

But could she abandon the spawn? Could Ani defy the being living inside her daughter and risk its retribution? Larson would have expected more of her, but Larson was dead, killed by his own ideals. Look at what they had gained for him.

Disgusted, Ani shook her head. Fuck Larson's ideals. She was no hero.

"Missa, you don't understand. He's not right. I can't help him."

With a slight tilt of her head, Missa gave Ani a look very much like one Larson used to give her when he thought Ani wasn't doing the right thing. It was a sad, disappointed look. Missa's eyes swirled again, becoming cobalt blue and granite hard.

Damn

"The spawn must live to seek his heart and soul. He must find what was lost."

Missa blinked slowly. The darkness in her eyes faded, and her child's face looked surprised. "His heart and soul, Momma."

Ani shivered before turning back toward the spawn. "I can't find his heart and soul, Missa, but I suppose we can pull him out of there and let him stay in the broken-down shed behind us."

Missa smiled up at her. The rays of the setting sun outlined her delicate frame in strange tendrils of pure white light. The picture terrified Ani. Missa was a divine child, too full of purity, kindness, and love to thrive in this world. Ani hoped experience would eventually drive most of Missa's fluffy-headed dreams away before she was too badly hurt. She prayed Missa would eventually be smart enough and tough enough to replace her unrealistic expectations with the hard-edged reality of constant suspicion and distrust necessary to survive the Downs.

But not today. Missa did not need to learn those lessons today.

Against all her better judgment, Ani reached into the crate, grabbed the spawn's filth encrusted clothes, and pulled. She shuddered when the hook brushed her skin. Its touch felt evil, horrid, but Ani pulled on the spawn anyway, helping it to stand, and then to climb out of the crate. It staggered, dragging Ani to the ground as it fell.

Screeching, Ani shoved the spawn away. She scrabbled to her feet, turned to look for Missa, and saw the three street toughs walking toward the alley. They fingered knives and laughed loudly.

Ani shivered and grabbed for the knife she had left lying on the crate. How could she defend against all three of them?

After entering the alley, a cut-faced man nudged the other two while rubbing his already stiff member through his torn leggings. "This is for you, whore. I'm gonna to pound you into the wall and then watch these two do the same."

He was almost upon her, only a few feet to go. He laughed, then paused, almost staggering. His face grew anxious. Sweat beaded his upper lip and dripped down his forehead.

Ani shook. Her hand gripped her knife tightly. If they wanted her at least one of them would pay with his life. She was done with being beaten and raped. Twice in the last month was more than enough. Both times her rapist had paid a heavy price, but now there were three.

"Missa, when I tell you to run— run fast. Run all the way to the end of the alley then go left. Just keep running. Ask one of the street kids how to find Mother Brood."

"Momma, I don't want to."

Frustrated, Ani nearly screamed at Missa. What little courage she owned was slipping closer and closer to outright panic. "Sweet goddess, don't argue with me. Just do it Missa."

Cut-face's expression shifted, changed into something Ani didn't understand. "Forget this bitch. I just saw a toff lead a whore into the old warehouse. Let's go wait for him. We'll teach him what happens to people who come into our territory without asking." Cut-face spat on the ground at Ani's feet before the three turned and strolled toward the warehouse.

Ani stood still, disbelieving her good luck. Shivering with released tension, she turned slowly around to see the spawn standing directly behind her, eyes blazing-white orbs, the putrid hook pulsing with a life of its own. Gasping, Ani took several steps back.

The spawn's eyes drifted to Ani, holding her in place with the force of his stare. The corners of his mouth slowly twitched into a macabre semblance of a smile. Without a trace of fear, Missa stepped up beside the creature and slipped her hand inside his. She turned and smiled at Ani, sweet, kind, and innocent.

"Shall we go home now, Mommy?"

Ani shivered. What she saw made her wonder if Cut-face would have been a kinder, quicker death, for she now watched not one set of swirling, god touched eyes— but two.

* * * *

Ani wearily brushed her hair. At twenty-six, she knew she looked tired and too old. Life since Larson's death had taken its toll. Still, she might be thought beautiful by some, she supposed, if she could ever lose the appearance of haggard weariness. Even then it would be a sad and wasted beauty, a mockery of what she truly was inside. She felt nothing of the youth she still possessed. Her blue eyes, once shiny and sparkling, were now deep and troubled. Laughter, what was that? The only thing she still possessed of her old self was her strength of will and an unwavering desire to survive. She had only managed to keep those because of Missa. If not for her daughter Ani would have ended her life when Larson was murdered because his death took away so much of her light. However, with the passing of time she had discovered that life sometimes had its lighter moments. During some of those moments she occasionally smiled. Mostly, those smiles occurred when Missa's bright and beautiful soul wrapped itself around her and chased away the darkness wanting to claim her thoughts and memories.

Sighing, Ani set down her brush. It was late, and she needed to get up early to go to a job she hated and had once tried to avoid. The work wasn't so bad, she supposed. As a rule, she made adequate tips passing ale and beer, and most of the daytime customers knew by now they would draw back a stub if they accosted her with wandering hands. No, the problem with her job was that one particular person made her dread the start of each new day. Unfortunately, Missa needed a secure home, and Carrid Brewer was the only man who would hire Ani. Some others had made offers, but those offers were always withdrawn before the next day. One potential employer was murdered within hours of Ani accepting his job. Desperation had given her no choice but to work in a tavern Larson had loathed.

Rising, she walked over to her window and looked toward the back strip of land she called her yard. The patch was only fifteen feet deep and completely dirt covered. Truthfully, she didn't own the land, but nobody else had bothered to claim it so she tried to keep it clean. On the very edge of the strip was a small building she called her shed. Only four and a half feet wide and seven feet long, it had been the home of more than one beggar since she and Missa moved here after the unpleasantness regarding Miss Simta's family. Most of those beggars had moved on. A couple died, forcing her to drag their bodies out of the shelter and into the street.

The building now housed a clumsy-footed spawn.

Responsible for the spawn for over four hours now, she still knew little about it. She knew it was mostly stumble-mouthed and incredibly stupid, but on one occasion something happened, some growing sense of comprehension occurred, and it'd seemed almost brilliant. She didn't know why it changed from one extreme to another, but the thing came from Hell. Who could explain anything about Hell?

Turning away from the window, she sat down on her bed and released a heavy breath. This was madness. Hell's creatures could not be trusted. If she didn't regain her senses and send the thing on its way, the spawn would likely try to murder her in bed.

She fidgeted, nervously pulling her wedding band up and down the too thin length of her finger. It was the one thing she had refused to sell, a constant reminder she had been married to one of the good men, married to a man with principles. Larson would have known the right answers. He always knew the right thing to do, but he wasn't here anymore. According to rumor, a demon named Bent had murdered him.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like when Larson held her, the touch of his lips and the sound of his voice, but she was tired. He had been dead for so long even those memories were fading. Anithia held her single blanket up to her nose and tried to breathe in his remaining scent, but it, too, was gone, lost long ago to the incursions of dust and household odors. All her reminders of him were disappearing, and this truth made her want to cry.

Ani stiffened her shoulders. "Larson's dead. There's no sense in wishing him alive."

Exhausted, she lay awake until well past midnight, and then she fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of demons, gods, and Missa. In them all she saw the floating face of a scarred spawn and the wicked curve of an evil green hook.

* * * *

"Momma?

"What, Missa." Red-eyed, Anithia stirred cold oats into hot water and wished she had managed to get more than a couple hours of undisturbed sleep. The morning sun made her eyes water and her head hurt. Tired and unfocused, it had taken her more than half an hour just to get the stove lit.

"The man is digging in Good-woman Durm's garbage. She's about to yell at him."

"Huh?" Anithia snapped her head around and looked out the back window. She saw something gray and dirty shuffling about her neighbor's garbage pile. "Oh no!"

Groaning, Anithia pulled the pot off the stove and rushed out the back door just in time to see the thing put something moldy and brown in its mouth.

"Anithia!" Good-woman Durm shouted from a suddenly flung open back door. Her high-pitched voice, shrill and demanding, rent the air. Thrusting her knobby chin forward, she shook her walking stick at the spawn. "Is this another one of your strays? You get it out of here. Do you hear me? Get it out of here!"

"He won't be here long." Ani promised the old shrew. She rushed up to the spawn and pulled a half-chewed rat's skin from his mouth, making her stomach churn at the sight. The last thing she needed was hag-woman Durm making more problems for her. The old harridan had caused enough trouble by spreading gossip that Ani had started whoring to support Missa.

"You get it out of here," Durm called, "or I'll have the guard on you!"

"Yeah, right." Ani muttered under her breath. To the best of her knowledge a city guard had not stepped into the Downs for over a year. Grabbing the spawn, she spun it to face her. After a moment, she grabbed its chin to capture its attention.

"Look— ah, whoever you are. Please don't eat out of the garbage pile, or at least not this one." Anithia tried to smile but knew the attempt ended in a grimace. "The bigger dump to the east of town would suit you better. It holds the garbage of hundreds and thousands of people."

The spawn looked at her with a confused, hungry expression on his face. For the life of her, Ani could not imagine why she had been worried about the thing murdering her in her sleep. It was pathetically helpless. "Or," Ani hesitated, sure she would regret what she was about to say, but what the hell. She had already given the damned thing shelter. "You can have some of the porridge I'm cooking right now. I'll bring it out to you. All right?"

The spawn blinked and nodded slowly. Parts of his eyes started to turn a cloudy white. A shiver ran down Ani's spine at the sight. The last thing she needed was to see more changing eyes. Missa's were already too much.

Turning, the spawn shambled back to the shack and disappeared inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ani went back into her home. Once inside, she looked out her open window to see Good-woman Durm still watching. Durm gave Ani a glare and stomped off.

"Old bitch," Ani muttered.

* * * *

"You're late," Farnon, the daytime cook, growled as Anithia rushed through the Tavern's door. In the evening, when the Tavern's real clientele arrived, Farnon was not of much account, but during her day shift, he was the person Carrid Brewer had put in charge. She didn't care much for the either Carrid or Farnon, but she needed the job.

"I'm only late by a quarter bell!" Ani snapped back.

"Don't give a whore's ass how much you're late by. Late is late. Move it or you won't have to worry about making it on time tomorrow." He glared at her with beady, dark brown eyes surrounded by a face-full of red blubber. His bald head glistened with sweat, and his dark shirt and apron were already grease stained.

Piss on you, Ani thought. She walked past him and went into the back.

He followed her. "Think you can do whatever the hell you want, don't you? Hmm? You think just because Carrid agreed to hire you that you're something special? Well, don't think too hard because I have the power to fire you. I could fire you right now and find somebody to take your place in half an hour."

Ani bit her lip to keep from screaming. Is there no god out there who has even a little pity for me? Haven't I been through enough? Her stomach twisted. Her nerves were strung taut, and she could feel his greasy eyes on her, touring her body like she was his next meal.

Abruptly grabbing her arm with a meaty fist, he pulled her to a stop. "You don't walk away from me." His breath smelled of bad booze and vomit. The rancid fragrance was almost more than her stomach could stand. She wrenched away, coughed, and knew she would be sick if he breathed on her again.

"Look!" she snapped. "I'm here, so let me get to work."

She loathed him. She hated his belittling ways and hungry eyes, but jobs were rare and Missa had to eat, leaving her no choice but to restrain from telling the louse to bugger off.

"Just you remember," Farnon said, "Carrid would fire you in a moment if I was to say the word. He trusts me, he does. We go way back together." His eyes fell to the swell of her breasts and lingered there for a moment. He licked his fat, worm lips, looking back into her face. "Go on. Get outta my face, you tramp."

Ani turned and hurried out into the Tavern's main room, knowing his eyes were fastened on her ass. She seethed. One of these days Farnon would pay for the way he treated people. It might not happen today or even tomorrow, but it would happen soon. Allowing anyone to talk to her or look at her with disrespect ate at her insides. Larson would have beaten the crap out of the piece of sweaty pig flesh, but Larson wasn't here. He was dead, and she was alone, and she had little choice but to put up with this shit as best she could so she could keep her job and Missa could eat.

An old man sitting at a side table raised his head when she burst into the bar room. "You shouldn't let him get to you. Everything balances out in the end."

"Thanks for the useless wisdom," Ani snapped, "but you can keep it. The sun is barely risen, and I'm already having a really crappy day." She looked around the tavern. Except for the old man, it was empty of people, and this surprised her. "Where's Cree," she wondered aloud. "He's always first through the door. Has to have his breakfast drink and won't go anywhere but here."

"He got into some trouble last night with a gnome," the old man replied indifferently. "You won't see him again."

Ani's stomach fell. "Just wonderful. One of the few bright spots in my life just disappeared."

The old man gave her a gentle smile. "You remind me of a seaside tree rooted in rocky ground. For most of its life it's a weak and pitiful thing. Usually the tree dies before gaining any height, but sometimes, twisted and gnarled by wind and waves, it survives and becomes stronger than its more privileged brethren."

Ani looked at him suspiciously, wondering if she were about to be proselytized. From the parable, he almost sounded like a priest. "Who are you?"

She didn't remember seeing him before, and there was something odd in the way he looked at her. His eyes were a deep, starling, almost inhumanly blue.

Tensing with sudden realization, Ani shot a quick glace toward the cellar door before focusing on her customer once more. "Did you come out of the hellhole?"

Throwing back his head, he laughed with a voice so strong it echoed off the tavern walls. "Think I climbed out of Hell, do you? No, young miss. I'm not what you would call normal, but there's nothing of Hell about me."

"Ani!" Farnon yelled. "Shut your gods damned trap and get to working. Carrid ain't paying you to talk."

Ani cast a glare over her shoulder at the kitchen door and then turned back to the old man.

"Sorry." she apologized, but he was no longer there.

Frowning, Ani looked around to see where he might have gone, but the tavern was empty. The man had disappeared almost as if he were a ghost, a foolish thought since only superstitious fools believed ghosts were real.

Shivering, Ani scowled and set about her duties until, moments later, the outer door opened to admit a new customer.

"Anithia Morlon?" a soft sultry voice asked.

Ani's scowl grew deeper when she saw a beautiful similian framed in the open doorway. The woman was stunning, as were both the other similians Ani had previously seen, but this one seemed somehow different. With her long black hair, soft pouty black lips, and skin the color of the sky after sunset, she was a unique blend of symmetry and color. Tall and sensuous, the similian stepped inside, carelessly closed the door, and strode across the floor to stand before Ani.

"I'm Sulya Ibarra. I worked with your husband." Sulya extended her hand.

Paling, Ani felt like someone had just thrown a pail of cold rainwater into her face. This woman had been with Larson on the night he was murdered.

"What do you want?" Ani asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Farnon waddled out of the back kitchen. When Ani shot him a look she caught his attention and angry glare. "Hey! Didn't I tell ya to shut up and work?" He caught sight of Sulya. "Well, what we got here?"

"You have me," the similian said. "A customer." A strange scent drifted through the room. The fragrance made Ani lightheaded, while Farnon's angry glare faded away to be replaced by insistent lust. Racing around the bar, he hurried over to offer Sulya a chair.

"Can I get you sumtin' to drink? Maybe some food? We make breakfast here if there's a need." A glazed expectant look settled on Farnon's face as he peered down Sulya's open blouse, almost drooling over her perfectly curved breasts.

In response, the similian smiled. The air stirred and Ani suddenly knew an intense desire to please the woman. She started to beg for some way to be of service but stopped before she made a fool out of herself like Farnon, not that making him look like an idiot was hard.

"Yes. I'd like some of the delicate wine I saw Carrid bringing in from the back last week. It's probably in the hidden cupboard." Sitting, Sulya crossed her legs, letting one slide seductively up and over the other. Her black satin pants made a quiet hiss, reminding Ani of a slithering snake.

Farnon stood slack jawed and unmoving. "Yes, yes, anything you want."

Ani's mouth dropped open. When Carrid realized the oaf had plundered his private supply, he'd kill Farnon. Ani watched Farnon stagger off, hoping she was nearby when Carrid made the discovery.

"So," Sulya turned her gaze back to Ani. "I'm sorry it has taken me so long to find you. I've been busy." A coy smile played upon her lips.

Anithia blinked several times and tried to clear her head. Despite the fact she seemed inexplicably attracted to the similian, she didn't like this woman. "Why are you looking for me? I don't want anything to do with people from Larson's other life."

She meant it. Anothosia's knights had brought her nothing but trouble. They had a habit of bringing demons and devils upon their heads as well as on the heads of those they were supposed to protect. The entire bunch of them was nothing but holy nutters running around with big swords and an attitude.

"Look," the similian said, setting a placating hand on Ani's shoulder. "I know his death was hard on you and your daughter but—"

Ani shook the hand from her shoulder and cut the similian off. "Hard? Our lives have been hard?" She seethed. "Oh yes, our lives have been a living hell."

Farnon chose that moment to stumble back into the room with a heavy silver goblet filled with fruity wine. The strong earthy smell filled the room, almost drowning out the odor emitting from Sulya. Ani's mouth watered.

Accepting the goblet, Sulya casually swirled it under her nose. "Hmm, a very good year indeed. You may go now." With a flutter of fingers, Sulya dismissed Farnon without so much as a thank you.

He stood a moment, looking awkward and embarrassed, and then shuffled back into the kitchen.

"As I was saying," Sulya continued as if Ani had said nothing. "My belated condolences on your husband's demise. Larson was a good friend and a brave warrior, but careless." She took a sip of wine, lowered the glass, and watched Ani from over its rim.

Ani wanted to beat the crap out of her.

Sulya set the glass down and then held up her hand. Long red nails peaked over slender fingers. One bore the ring of the Order of Warriors, the same order Larson had belonged to. Ani stared at the gold ring, with its sword and staff crossed over the sun, and all the frustration of the last two years boiled over.

Sulya smiled. "Before you hit me, give me but one moment to explain why I'm here."

Ani did not want to listen. She didn't care why the similian accosted her. She did not want to see another ring like that one ever again, and she sure as hell did not want anyone who wore one speaking to her.

Knocking the goblet from the table, she thrust her hand toward the door. "Get out! Get out and take your load of arvid shit with you!"

Sulya casually glanced at the spilt wine and slowly rose. Her skin changed to a bright fuchsia, and her cat eyes narrowed.

"I'll be back when you're in a more receptive mood, but let me leave you with a warning." She stepped closer to Ani until mere inches separated them. "Hell has its eye on you and your child. If I were you, I'd find a new place to live."

Turning, Sulya swaggered to the door, opened it, and left.

Ani felt like she had been stabbed in the gut. What did Sulya mean by saying Hell had its eye on them? Why?

"Is she gone?" Farnon peeked out from behind the kitchen door, a worried look on his face. He spotted the spilled wine and his expression became one of horror. "Aagghh."

Hurrying over, he tried to mop up the wine with an already soaked towel. "Just don't stand there, ya stupid cow. Pick up the goblet and help get this mess cleaned up. It'll be your job if Carrid comes in and finds Mathew Changer's best wine on the floor."

Ani glared at Farnon. She wanted to kick him. Instead, she swallowed her rage, picked up the cup, and went looking for another towel. When she found it, she just might use the towel to strangle the fat pig.

The rest of the day did not improve. Farnon kept at her like an unmerciful soulwright. Every acidic word he uttered bit deep into her heart like a metal tipped whip lashing her to the bone. This last year had not toughened her enough to face his abuse. Instead, it had worn and diminished her. She sometimes doubted she would ever recover enough to become who she had once been.

"If only I had a little of my old courage," she whispered. "I'd shove my knife into Farnon's fat gut and leave this wretched city." Unfortunately, she knew her courage didn't stretch so far. The only things she had left to her was a child who needed tending and two promises she had made to Larson only days before he died. She would never again sell her body, and she would never again allow Missa to sing while they still lived in Yylse.

Ani settled into her work, feeling old, brittle, and used.

* * * *

"Jolson," the spawn said. "My name is Jolson."

Anithia carefully watched the spawn sitting at her table. She didn't want him there, had not even asked him to enter her home, but Missa had invited the thing to dine with them while Ani had been preparing dinner. Fortunately, for now, the spawn seemed to be in its intelligent phase. In other words, it answered questions with complete sentences.

"Why are your eyes black?" Missa asked, throwing out one more of her ceaseless questions.

Ani's nerves felt frayed by this endless chatter when a thing from Hell sat at her table. Could the child never shut-up?

"I don't know," Jolson answered.

"They aren't always black," Missa said. "They change, just like mine do."

Jolson looked at his hook and back at Missa. "Maybe it's because I'm no longer entirely spawn."

Anithia almost choked on her soup. She studied Jolson closely, and his strangeness suddenly made sense. His pale, scarred skin, his muted features, and his bearing all shouted spawn, but there were inconsistencies. Spawn had no courage, little intelligence, and they certainly did not have an evil tainted hook attached to the end of their arm. Yes, Jolson was spawn, but he was also something different. Something scarier. Almost shivering with fear, she starred at his hook and wondered how he had gotten it. Even now, Ani felt its draw.

"I bother you," Jolson said to Ani. Looking down at his plate, he pulled the hook closer to his body.

"It's all right, Jolson." Missa piped in. "My daddy was a demon fighter, but he never killed your kind cause spawn never did anything really bad, and besides, you never had no say in how you ended up this way. Mommy won't make you leave. Will you, Mommy?" Missa turned large, pleading eyes on Ani and sucked in her bottom lip.

"Missa," Ani said. "We are not demon fighters, and daddy is no longer here. Jolson escaped from Hell, and he's wearing something he— he shouldn't have. A demon or devil or something else is likely to come after him, and when they do they'll probably kill us just for fun. We aren't strong enough to defend ourselves."

"I can help you." Jolson said, his voice soft, pleading. His eyes glittered and swirled, drawing on her emotions almost stronger than the hook. "I can give you something."

"What could you ever give me?" Narrowing her eyes, Ani shook off the effects of his gaze. What could a pathetic piece of refuse like him do for her?

"What do you want?" Jolson asked. He looked at her expectantly.

"What can you give me?" Ani repeated.

"I can give you courage." Jolson said. "I can give you conviction." He held up his hook, twisting it slightly before her so she could study all its deadly angles. Ani wanted to touch it. She needed to touch it.

"This has stolen attributes from thousands of souls. It holds everything it has taken. I can pass some of those attributes into you— for the right price." Jolson's voice thickened, became hesitant, and his bright eyes started to become dull, telling Ani he was about to enter his stupid phase. "Chose right and Farnon...Farnon will never bother you...again."

"Who told you about Farnon?" Ani demanded.

"Who's Farnon?" Missa asked.

"I...hid in the Hell hole...for weeks...before I dared leave." Jolson answered. "I–I saw— you b-but hid because your light frightened me." His face became slack, and his head drooped.

"Jolson?" Reaching out, Missa shook him. He looked at her with weary eyes.

"I...sometimes...can't think," he said and drooled.

Shaking her head slowly, Anithia rose to pull Jolson out of her house while her mind churned over thoughts. Something about the conversation didn't feel right. "Keep your gifts," she told the unresponsive thing. "You have nothing I want. Besides, I've nothing to give away."

Jolson didn't respond. Ani hoped her resolve would remain strong when Jolson once more became aware. Demons or devils or something else would come for Jolson. Part of her hoped they came soon.

* * * *

"Momma?"

Missa's soft voice floated through the darkness. Sleepily blinking her eyes open, Ani sat up and found Missa standing beside her bed. A thread of moonlight peeked past her rag curtains, illuminating Missa's hair in a thin halo.

"Honey? Why are you up? Is something wrong?"

"Please don't make Jolson go away." Missa begged. "He needs us."

With those words, Missa sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hair hung in a long braid down her back, and she wore an old, worn gray nightshirt which once belonged to her father. Worry lines crinkled the corners of her young mouth.

"Missa." Anithia sighed. Always a debate, always a challenge. "How do you propose we fight off Athos's demons when they come hunting? Do you want Mommy to get hurt? Do you want to get hurt?"

Missa shook her head. "The demons can't hurt us."

Ani snorted. "Do you think we're gods? Or maybe you just think we're immortal?" Despite her best effort, anger and bitterness rose within her. This was all Larson's fault. He had filled Missa's head with nonsense about her being special and blessed. Now Ani had a child who thought herself invincible.

Ani rubbed the back of her neck and gritted her teeth.

Missa folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked down. Tears streaked her face, leaving a glittering trail on her cheeks.

Oh great. Make her cry you big jerk, Ani chided herself. "Missa Markie, look at me."

Damp eyes glimmering in the moonlight, Missa looked up.

"I know you want to be like daddy, but you're not old enough yet. Daddy trained a long time to be a demon killer. He had to go to the Anothosia's Temple in Grace and be anointed by the goddess herself, back when he was still little more than a boy." Ani wiped at Missa's tears, pulled her close, and started to sing. Her voice rose, sweet and tender, into the still air. It wrapped itself around them like a warm blanket, soothing and loving.

Shine, shine, wherever we may be,

Shine your light on my baby and me.

Bless us with your truth and light,

And keep us safe all through the night.

We sing in the morning to her light.

We sing in the evening in candlelight.

We ask her guidance in all we do,

And she gives us wisdom to see us through.

Shine, shine, wherever we may be.

Shine your light on my baby and me.

Bless us with your truth and light,

And keep us safe all through the night.

Come those who seek justice true.

Come to the goddess of Seven and Two.

Praise her for she is wisdom and truth.

Anothosia, we worship you.

Shine, shine wherever we may be.

Shine your light on my baby and me.

Bless us with your truth and light,

And keep us safe all through the night.

Joy, peace, and the love of man,

She comes to all who call her friend.

Righteousness shall lead the way,

And a savior she'll send to us one day.

Shine, shine, wherever we may be.

Shine your light on my baby and me.

Bless us with your truth and light,

And keep us safe all through the night.

Missa was almost asleep when Ani finished singing. She rose, pulled Missa deeper into the bed. "Go to sleep, little one. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Smiling, Ani gently kissed her daughter's forehead.

"I love you, Momma." Missa whispered.

"I love you too, baby."

Ani waited until Missa fell into a deep slumber to slip from the bed. She went into their small sitting room, unable to go back to sleep. Mind weary and body tired, she sat down in a rickety chair and quietly rocked.

Movement at the window caught her eye. Ani jumped, squeaked, grabbed for her knife.

Jolson stared at her.

"What are you doing out there?" she demanded.

"Your song...drew me." Jolson said in a dull, stumbling voice. "It made me fe‒feel. Please. Sing it again."

Ani stared, dumbfounded. Her song made him feel? Did spawn have feelings? Did they have the ability to understand music or art? Larson had told her spawn emotions were limited to fear and pain. He told her they were incapable of joy, but then she had already determined Jolson was not exactly normal for a spawn.

"Please." Jolson said. He tried to pull himself through the window. Failing, his eyes fastened on her like she was a flame and he the moth.

Ani frowned. She sighed and then cursed. "Jolson, get out of my window."

She stopped speaking and looked at him. What would Larson expect of her? Should she tell him no? Larson said spawn were put through terrible pain and torture. Maybe she should sing for him if her voice brought him some ease. Then again, Larson had also cautioned her about singing for anyone but their family. Ani felt uncomfortable, torn by indecision. She wasn't supposed to sing, but it was such a little thing he asked for.

"All right. I'll sing for you." She gave him a small smile, gave him directions, and waited for him to come around to the back door. When he began scratching on the door's wooden planks she let him in and gestured for him to sit in front of her on the floor.

"This is a song my mother used to sing to me. It's called The Shepherd's Passionate Love for Fleas."

Ani sang to the spawn until well past midnight, watching his eyes swirl like glittering stars caught in a snowstorm. She marveled at the way he seemed different when he heard music, almost entranced. It was as if he were a different person inside, as if her songs brought the other person out. Was this the person he had been before becoming spawn? Did all spawn react this way to music, or was it just Jolson? What if her singing, her voice, affected him? Did her voice have special qualities which made another person or hellborn entranced? Was this why Larson had wanted Missa to stop singing? Did Missa's voice also contain these qualities?

Later in the evening, in bed, Ani mulled those thoughts over, unable to go back to sleep. Something nagged at her as she tried to make the pieces fit. Finally, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, Ani's mind gave up, and she drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

Another day passed and then a week. Each day brought fresh torments for her at work. Farnon became bolder and brasher. On one morning the pig came in, still intoxicated, and tried to rape her in the back storeroom. Ani thanked the gods the Hellhole's newest regular morning patron, the strange old man, intervened before she had to knife the sodden bastard. Of course, Farnon beat the old man to the ground for interfering, but, oddly, the man didn't complain. He just took the beating, and left after making sure Ani was okay.

That night Anithia fell into a chair and felt like she wanted to die. Jolson and his nightly enticements were bad enough. Adding Farnon into the mix made her life impossible.

"Momma?" Missa said. "What's wrong?"

Climbing into Ani's lap, she rested her head on Ani's shoulder.

"Nothing is wrong, Little Miss." Ani replied. "Why don't you go and play. Better yet, go tell Jolson his dinner will be a bit late."

When would she get that particular millstone off her neck?

Missa looked hurt, but Ani didn't care. More than anything else she just wanted to be left alone.

During dinner Missa chatted endlessly with Jolson since he was currently out of his stupid stage. Whenever it happened Missa took full advantage of the situation. On average, Ani had noticed Jolson was dim-witted eight or ten hours for every few minutes his brain actually worked. However, tonight seemed to be an exception. He and Missa had been chatting most of the evening.

Ani did not pay much attention to Missa's questions or Jolson's answers. Like always, she found herself drawn to Jolson's hook. She couldn't help herself. For some reason, its evil aura drew her to it, reaching into her soul.

"Won't you, Momma?"

Blinking, Anithia shook longings for the hook from her mind. Since she had not been following the conversation, she had no idea what Missa had asked. She tried to focus her eyes on her daughter, but they kept trailing back to the putrid, green hook. Jolson rested the hook on the table, putting it within inches of her. Ani grimaced and slid her hand over to caress it.

"Momma!" Missa reached across the narrow table and smacked Ani's hand away.

Anithia jumped. "What!" she shouted while Jolson cowered away from her daughter's touch.

Missa's eyes showed panic. "I was just saying to Jolson that you'd sing to us tonight. You know, the song about Flinstar's promised savior?" Missa swallowed hard and shifted in her seat.

Lost in confusion, Ani shook her head. "No, not tonight, Missa. I'm not up to it."

She rose from the table and walked out the back door where a cool breeze carried the day's stench away from her. Once there, Ani sat on the step, hung her head, and cried. Despair washed over her, sucking her down, drowning her with its darkness.

Ani cried quietly for a long time. She cried so long part of her wondered if she would ever stop. Hating her weakness, she wiped her eyes and then heard a light shuffling. Jolson stood in front of her, his face a luminescent white in the pale sliver of moonlight.

"I can help you, Anithia." Jolson said in a voice devoid of emotion and yet so seductive it almost didn't seem real. His eyes swirled and sparkled with unusual intelligence. Moving closer, he shifted his hook to draw her gaze. It waved gently before her, glowing jade green in the darkness, like a saving beacon calling home a lost ship.

"Go on." Jolson said, his voice a soft purr. "Touch it. I promise it won't hurt. My hook can give you what you want, Ani, what you need, and it will demand only a very little. Touch it and the pain will go away. You will never be lonely again."

Jolson moved the hook closer to her, so close it almost touched her skin.

Ani lifted her hand to the hook, ready to heed its sweet calling, needing to caress it, wanting to feel its comfort, but something else subtly tugged at her. It intruded— wiggled— wormed its way through her, working itself between her and the hook. She heard a noise. Sounds.

Ani blinked slowly, and when she looked upon the hook again, its pulsing light had taken on a muddy tinge. From the kitchen, Missa's clear voice rose in song. It ascended above the pounding in Ani's head and cleared away a fog she hadn't realized was there. The song rose, slow and careful, gaining in strength as it burst from the open window and was taken up by the night's wind.

In the dark, there is a light, the light of your soul

It keeps me from the endless night, this I know.

In my heart, there is a song, a song of love so true,

A song of endless love, my love for only you.

So come to me tonight, so we may never part.

Say you'll never leave me. I'll forever have your heart.

So come to me tonight, I know you love me too.

Say the words I long to hear, I love you.

Let us ride the endless heavens, side by side.

Let the stars and moon above, be our only guide.

Let us ride the wind and rain, just you and I.

Forever in each other's arms, every single night.

So come to me tonight, so that we may never part.

Say you'll never leave me. I'll forever have your heart.

So come to me tonight, I know you love me too.

Say the words I long to hear, I love you.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ani fought back a sob. It was their song, hers and Larson's. She had composed it and sung it to him on the night he proposed to her. She had sung the same song to him countless times over the years, especially when he was battle weary and soul embittered. Their song lifted her spirit out of the pit it had almost been sucked into.

She looked up at Jolson and realized how close she had come to being lost.

"It-it's so beautiful." Jolson's eyes swirled a misty white, and the hook no longer glowed. Feeling repulsed by the sight of the filthy thing, Ani stood. She ran into the house, cursing her stupidity. What had she been thinking? She had almost given a piece of her soul to the creature in exchange for the mix-matched pieces of other souls. What would have happened to Missa if she had given in?

"Momma, are you all right?" Missa stood in the doorway to Anithia's bedroom, her face a mixture of concern and fear. "I'm sorry, Momma. We promised daddy I wouldn't sing, but I was scared and couldn't think of what else to do." She glared toward the back door where Jolson still stood outside. "He was going to hurt you. I hate him!"

"Oh baby." Ani whispered, fighting back tears. "Come here." She held out her arms. Missa flung herself forward to bury her face in Ani's shoulder.

"I love you, and I need you, and I'm so sorry you're alone, but I don't want to lose you." Missa wept.

Holding her daughter tight, Ani rocked them both while her shoulder grew wet with Missa's tears. She had almost lost it all tonight, almost wasted their lives, just as she had been wasting them since Larson died. Even her short time with Lady Simta had been a waste. It was time for a change, time for her to change. Maybe it was time to leave Yylse. She could go to Grace. Larson had once said he had family there. She was sure one of them would welcome Larson's wife and daughter, and if not, she could find a job well away from Farnon and the god's cursed tavern.

Several hours later Ani put Missa to bed, went outside, and waited nearly another hour before Jolson approached. He stepped up the pathway, his gaze never leaving her. In the bright moonlight she could see his eyes judging her, calculating and intelligent.

He'll probably pretend to be stupid or coy, Ani thought, but she would believe neither.

"Out for a walk, are you?" Ani asked when he stopped before her. "Or are you trolling for fresh souls?"

"Why are you still awake?" he asked. "Do you want something from me?" He raised his hook in front of him, twisting it back and forth before her, almost as a warning.

Well, I guess he knows about the knife in my pocket.

"I brought you into my house because I pitied you," she said evenly. "I fed you, gave you a place to stay, and treated you as a guest in my home." She took two steps closer to him, remaining just out of arm's reach. "If it weren't for me you would be dead and your soul sucked back into Hell."

With those words Ani took another quick step forward. Her hand snaked out and grabbed his hook handed wrist hard. "How dare you play on my weakness? This vile thing would have damned me forever if not for Missa." Her calm slipped. The anger she held in check spilled into her chest like a beast slamming against her ribs.

He jerked his arm away from her grasp. "How dare I what?" His voice sounded cold and warning. "How dare I repay you for your kindness? Is that what you mean?" His eyes bore into her. "You wanted to leave me to die. You took one look at this," he shook the hook before her, "and judged me unfit to live. If not for Missa, you would have left me in the crate."

Ani stood still, unable to say anything. His words cut deep. If not for Missa and the strange presence she held, Ani would have walked away, but did that give him the right to corrupt her soul? Life was finite. Souls were forever. Besides, he couldn't deny he still owed Missa, and she would have suffered more than any other if Jolson's plans for Ani had carried through.

"You are a coward." Jolson said. "You will always allow others to push you around. I was a coward, too, but I got over it. I'm not like you. Not anymore."

"No." Ani agreed. "You're not like me. I was thoughtless and cruel, but I still own my soul. You are wicked and already damned. I was wrong for what I almost did. I was wrong. I pray the next time I'm more careful in my judgment. What you tried and almost succeeded doing was worse. Missa loved you, but you destroyed it. Her love is more beautiful, more precious than anything you could ever steal from another person."

She looked down at her feet and then back up at Jolson. Without realizing it, Ani had slid her hand inside her tunic to finger the knife. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away. She had no right.

Her anger slid away. "I prayed for you after I put Missa to bed," she confessed. "I prayed to Anothosia, something I haven't done in a long time. I prayed you would somehow relearn some semblance of humanity. You were human once, just like all spawn. Something tells me you can be human again. I prayed I could learn to forgive you, and you might somehow forgive me."

Jolson's thin smile held no meaning. His eyes were dead pools. "Forgive you?" he sneered. "You won't find such fiction from me, woman. I come from Hell where there is no forgiveness or mercy. Those are human weaknesses. I will never be human again."

Swallowing, Ani nodded. "Goodbye, Jolson. You've worn out your welcome. Maybe I'll see you again someday. If so, I pray the gods will have taught you something of forgiveness and mercy by then." She gave Jolson one long last look, turned, and walked up the path toward her home.

Tomorrow she would pack up a few belongings, a few memories, and take Missa away. She would not stop at the Hellhole Tavern. Mercy and forgiveness was a lesson she also needed to learn. Farnon was safe from her knife.

"The gods have already taught me!" Jolson shouted. "They have taught me pain and humiliation. They have taught me that strength means survival. I will survive, Anithia Morlon. I will be strong. I will live to challenge the gods themselves, and I will show them the same mercy and forgiveness they have shown me."

Pausing, Ani turned.

"You don't mean that, Jolson, and I don't think Missa truly hates you. She's just angry and frightened. I think she still loves you, has hope for you, but she doesn't know why. Hell, I don't know why, but you might think about having a reason ready for her if ever we meet again."

Jolson's death pale face twitched. He seemed to struggle with some inner demon, but he said nothing. Instead, he simply turned and left.

* * * *

Anithia dozed in her rickety rocker. In the morning it and the beds and the table would be sold when they left for Grace. She had wanted to get to sleep early, but sleep was not to be found. Curled and comfortable, about to drift off, she stiffened.

The night became quiet. Absolutely silent.

Ani sat up slowly in her chair, wide awake, the hairs on her arms standing on end.

With a crash, the front door burst open. A blurred shape rushed in. Ani leapt to her feet and reached in her pocket for the knife, intending to thrust it into the intruder's heart. She wasn't fast enough.

Before the knife came clear, a cold, taloned hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed, lifting her high into the air. She gasped for breath, tried to pry the fingers loose, but the grip was too tight. A burning sensation started deep in her throat and traveled further, burying itself into her soul.

Completely helpless, Ani dangled with her feet inches from the ground.

"Where isss it?" A venomous voice, full of death and visions of pain, hissed from near her left ear.

She tried to speak, tried to answer, but could not. The only sound issuing from her mouth was a gurgle.

"Oh yesss, you humans need your vocal chords to speak." The grip on her throat loosened as the arm lowered, and her toes touched the ground. Air flooded into her burning lungs.

"Now speak!" the creature demanded. It shook her thin frame. The bones in her body jarred together painfully. Inside her, the burning sensation grew as if it consumed her like poison.

"Where is what?" Her voice sounded like nothing more than a frog croaking. She gasped as the hand spasmed on her throat. Talons dug painfully into her neck's soft flesh.

"It. The spawn you had living in your shed."

Ani's heart beat loud and hard. It had finally happened. Something had come for Jolson. The only problem— Jolson was gone!

"Jolson is—" Ani coughed. Her vision began to cloud. She was losing consciousness.

The thing shook her again. "What? Speak up, damn you!"

"Mommy!" A scream echoed through the tiny shack. Missa. Missa was here. In this room!

Anithia panicked. Fear tore through her mind, lending her newfound strength. She kicked her feet out wildly and swung her fists as hard as she could. Each blow felt like she struck concrete, but she didn't stop. When Missa was in danger, Ani would fight until she no longer drew breath.

A bright light exploded, filling the room. Singing filled the air. The almost sentient pain traveling through her body hissed, recoiled, and then retreated. Ani's vision cleared.

Before her stood a demon wearing a look of shock and wonder on its deformed face. Gold eyes sparkled in the strange light. Row upon row of razor sharp teeth caught in mid-snarl. Staggering back half a step, the demon lost its grip.

Ani fell to the floor, bruised and weakened, only to have the sound of many boots thudding on her porch bring her struggling to her feet.

Oh gods, she prayed, let it be help.

The light disappeared. The singing stopped.

Ani staggered in the darkness, blinded by the sudden loss of vision. "Missa! Run baby run!" She lunged in the direction she last remembered seeing the demon, willing to sacrifice her life to save her daughter, but all she grabbed was air. Stumbling over something she could not see, she fell to the floor. Pain shot through her knees.

"Kill it! That's the demon who murdered Larson!"

An oddly familiar voice shouted commands while the room erupted into chaos.

Anithia blinked repeatedly, trying to clear her vision. Around her, swords clashed and men cursed.

Missa! She had to find her baby.

"Missa! Missa! Baby, where are you?" Ani got to her feet again and knocked her thigh into the rocker's arm.

Wood cracked from near her window. Breaking shutters. Unfamiliar voices shouted epithets, echoing off bare, dirty walls. A horrible screeching tore through Ani's brain. She clutched at her head and cursed the pain.

"Damn it all! You let him escape! What the hell do you think your weapons are for?"

The familiar voice came again, demanding, angry, and full of ice. The room quieted.

"Calto, please. They are new recruits, barely trained. Patience must be exercised."

Was that Sulya?

Her vision returning, Ani saw the dark outlines of five people. None were short enough to be Missa.

"Where's my daughter!" Ani scanned the room again and still didn't see Missa. Where was the girl?

Cold, icy fear traveled the length of her veins.

One of the shapes walked over to her, curvaceous, long and slender. Sulya.

"There was no one else in the room when we entered, Anithia. We can check her bed?" Sulya's voice was soft and cultured, as if she were talking to an addled old woman. Insulting.

Praying to the gods she had forsaken, Ani turned and ran into Missa's room, hoping her baby had slept through all the noise. An impossible dream. Nobody could have slept through the bedlam.

Bursting through the half-rotten door, she expected the bed to be empty. It wasn't. Missa lay curled in its center, lightly snoring. Ani stared in confusion. Only minutes before she would have sworn Missa had been in the sitting room, singing.

Anithia shook her head, not understanding. She had heard Missa call to her, had heard her scream, and then heard her sing. It had to be Missa she had listened to. There was nobody else, but there Missa lay, oblivious to the chaos around her.

"Is she well?" A man carried a lit candle into the room, his face draped by shadows. His voice sounded like the man they had called Calto.

He stepped closer. The shadows shifted, moved away, and Ani stared in shocked disbelief. Swept with weakness and faint, she swayed. She almost fell, but Calto caught her with his free hand. Ani stared into his impossible face while iron muscles held her. The face was hard-planed, unforgiving, and angry in a perfect cruel caricature of her husband.

Her heart stuttered. Her throat constricted. This man had to be a figment of her lonely mind, only the arm holding her was solid, real, his face mere inches from her own.

"Seven and Two," Ani choked, gasping for air. "Who–who are you?"

The room grew hot. Vertigo engulfed her. Too many people, too much strain, and not nearly enough air. She saw his mouth move, Larson's mouth, but she couldn't hear him. Ani struggled to remain conscious, but sight and sound left her world as did his answer.

Chapter 12— Voice Over

Maggie watched Jolson paw through the unwanted refuse of a city's leavings. He dug past discarded bowls and cracked cups. He tossed aside a broken knife, scooped away a stinking pile of moldy clothes, and finally found the treasure for which he had been searching. With a clumsy hand, he grabbed the chunk of discarded meat and fat. Even from ten feet away, Maggie could see at least a quarter pound of rancid flesh was still attached to the pig fat, maybe more when the weight of the clinging maggots was added in.

Without showing a single sign of distaste, Jolson sank his teeth into the rotting mass. Viln, a filthy young boy whose only clothing was a rag wrapped around his loins, stared at Jolson with disgust. Gagging, he turned away to join the other lost children who would spend a few years living on Yylse' garbage before they faded and died.

Arching her aged and aching back to loosen its knotted muscles, Maggie stared at Jolson with understanding eyes while he ate the meat, fat, and maggots. The food in Hell, she knew, was much worse than what Jolson held in his single hand.

"It's a difficult path you chose," she said once Jolson finished chewing and began sucking fat residue from his fingers. Her voice cracked and broke from the effort of speaking, and that was a hard thing for her. There had been a time when she had been fêted for her voice. Just five years earlier she had sung before crowds and kings. She had been showered with jewels and courted by suitors until Krastos, a minor demon, had broken into her home one evening, killed her lover, and delivered her to Hell to sing for Athos, the lesser god of Hell. For three years she had remained in Athos's halls before she was finally allowed to leave due to the god's whim. By that time, her thirty-year-old mind was housed in an old woman's arthritic body. Hell, she had learned, was not kind to mortals. Apparently, the seven heavenly gods had never intended for Hell to be inhabited by ephemeral beings when they designed Anothosia's pocket realm, her miniature universe, to house their wayward brethren thousands of years earlier. The unholy miasma required to feed the hellborn took a heavy toll on mortals.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back?" she asked.

After spending a few moments peering toward a sun riding high in the sky, Jolson shook himself, groaned, and looked back to Maggie. She watched his struggle while he fought to bring out the intellect buried deep within his damaged mind. Lights of knowledge, of understanding, flickered within his dark orbs, faded, and returned once more. His slack and pallid face firmed, and Maggie knew she saw a brief glimpse of the driven being who had escaped Hell.

He gestured to the sun. "Look. Yellow and white, it hides amid the gray wisps of those clouds. It reigns above the blue sky. The sight of the sun, of the sky and clouds, of grass and trees and buildings, and everything else existing in the upper world are a wonder. Everywhere I look I see patterns. I see lines and squares. I see circles and cylinders and delicate lacings radiating beauty because they follow the rules of law. There are no surging waves of changing chaos. There are no nebulous, formless beings capable of taking real shape only when they seep into the upper world. No demons, devils, wyverns, or any of the other hellkind I have always known."

Sighing, he ran a hand through his filthy hair. "Sometimes, when I first wake after a long hour of sleep, my mind looks upon this new reality and tries to pull it back into something more chaotically familiar. Distant grass warps into gray and black and muddy brown wavelets which swirl and seep to no particular pattern. This pure garbage heap we live on becomes a putrid, shifting mass which resembles a knuckle on Athos's hand. My mind twists and tries to bring me the comfort of familiarity, but I refuse to give in to comfort's allure. I've worked for too many years at unthreading the dull complacency Athos gave me for a mind. I've sweated and bled, been cursed and flogged too many times to willingly relinquish the little bit of sleepy intelligence I have won for myself."

With a slight shudder, his features slackened, and the lights in his eyes began to fade. "It's hard, Maggie. It's hard to hold together enough will to–to— but I won't go back. I won't–only will is the hardest of all."

Maggie reflected on how even his spawn body had suffered in Hell's chaos. His movements were crippled and slow. Any element of grace he might once have owned was missing, and the intellect which sometimes showed behind his eyes was an elusive wisp he could only occasionally capture. Fortunately, even at his most stupid he had enough brains to follow her suggestions and orders very well. For this she was grateful. His continued obedience was integral to her plans.

She waved a hand toward where Yylse lay several miles away. "Athos's hunters will come from there. They will take you back."

"Why?" Jolson asked. "I am no threat to him."

She gestured toward the jade green hook decorating the end of his left wrist. "Athos is a grasping god. You are his spawn, and you have stolen his hook."

After wiping his greasy hand on the thin hair covering his bare belly, Jolson clumsily moved closer until he stood only four feet away. He looked at her with confused eyes and a worried frown, but he showed no fear, and Maggie found this surprising. Spawn were created and trained to fear.

"I won't–s–s–stay," he said slowly. "I will escape again."

Sadly shaking her head, she set the first snare to her trap. "You told me a dead woman helped you escape the first time. I'd like to help you, too— I'd like to show you how to navigate these shoals and elude capture, but I'm just an old and stove-in singing whore, too useless to do much more than show you how to scavenge from this garbage pile. No, my friend, I'm too useless to be of much help to you, and I'm afraid it won't be long before you're taken. Within a few months our two shades will meet in Athos's Hall."

Leaning forward, she peered at a face that had lost part of its animation and nodded to herself. Jolson's mind was caught in a state halfway between brilliance and muddled confusion. Of late, his sessions of full cognizance seemed to be growing shorter and fewer. It wouldn't be long before there was so little left to him he would be unable to recall how to use the wonderful instrument hanging on the end of his arm. Days, maybe, or a couple of weeks.

Scuttling forward, she whispered in his ear.

"Listen to me, Jolson." She ran a gnarled hand lovingly over his hook's sweet curve. It felt smooth, blood warm, and not metal. Against her touch she felt a pulsing thrum which would have been a reflection of Jolson's heartbeat if the pulse had been quicker. Evil lived within the hook. It was a fell dark thing, and it was alive.

"Think of what it would be like to own grace," she whispered. "You would walk instead of stumble. You could run from your hunters or maybe even fight them to their deaths. I can give this to you, Jolson. I can make you more whole than you have ever been before. I'll take care of you. I'll see to it you remain free." She ran her bent hand up the length of the hook before resting it on his wrist. "All you have to do is listen to me."

Shaking his head, he studied her with not quite dull eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

Not too far away children scrabbled in the refuse looking for a scrap of decent food or for the small nothings many of the rich considered worthless. Because she scared the hell out of the younger children, many of those items found their way into her hands. Occasionally, a few small trinkets brought her one or two copper coins. Reaching her crab-fingered hand into a torn pocket, she brought out one of those coins.

"Viln," she called, holding out her hand for the boy to see what she offered.

Viln gaped stupidly for several moments before scrambling her way. Mocking his efforts, the other children looked on, but jealousy leaked out of their voices.

Pleased, Maggie watched Viln hurry toward her. She peered at Jolson and frowned. She could almost see his mind fading away. Hopefully, he would manage to hold the remaining parts of his intellect together for a while longer. Past experience had shown her it took a few hours for Jolson to drag himself back out of the dark morass after his will wavered and his intellect failed. She didn't want to wait those hours. She was determined to use him now, because, unlike Jolson's, her will was iron.

Panting from his run, Viln arrived wearing a lack-wit's excited expression. Smiling, Maggie dropped the quarter rugdle coin at his feet. When Viln bent to retrieve it, she clubbed him over his head with a piece of scrap iron.

A few moments of checking proved Viln still lived, fortunate but unsurprising. She was no longer strong enough to cause him serious harm, but she soon would be with Jolson's compliance.

Touching Jolson's hook with two fingers, Maggie pushed it toward Viln.

"Make me young," she ordered.

* * * *

My lover now lies 'neath the morning's sweet sun.

'cause he had his fun,

Then forgot to run.

I'm standing 'bove him jus's shovel'n dirt

Laughing 'cause he'll never lift another maid's skirt.

A half-hearted scattering of applause sounded from the few people standing before a small street-side stage. Maggie frowned unhappily at the muted sound of appreciation. While her youthful voice had returned with the rejuvenation, it didn't seem to be the exquisite instrument she remembered. From the small audience's reaction, they thoroughly agreed with her.

Remembering her role, she stretched her arms above her head to accentuate her shape while also changing her frown into a smile. In this game presentation was everything. She needed rugdles to buy a better wardrobe so she could frequent better areas. If she couldn't earn them by singing, she would earn them on her back. In the past she had utilized both paths during her climb to the top.

When a few copper coins fell into the tin at her feet, her smile became genuine. Those coins were not enough to suit her needs, but they would help. Besides, it felt good to move without the old, familiar aches. For the first time in three years her back felt straight and strong. Her shoulders were firm, and her elbows moved without the sharp pain of weak tendons. She was young and vibrant once more because she had directed Jolson to use Athos's Hook to take Viln's youth and grace and give them to her. To earn the spawn's gratitude, she then ordered Jolson to take her original grace in return because she no longer needed it once she had Viln's.

Viln, of course, had been given nothing for his sacrifice. He was now a short, crippled old man lying on the garbage heap, fated to die in a few short weeks. Maggie thought his fate a small matter since Viln was little more than refuse himself. In another handful of months he would have died of malnutrition or disease, and then all his wonderful youth would have been wasted.

Lowering her arms, she watched while Jolson lifted the tin and emptied it into a belt pouch hanging at his side. His eyes were dim because he was in his stupid stage, but the dimness wasn't quite as deep as it had been before. Over the last several days his will had not weakened like she had expected it would. In fact, his cognizant periods sometimes lasted for hours, and this worried her. She did not want him to grow independent until she finished using his hook to add new aspects to herself. On the other hand, when Athos's hunters came for Jolson, they would also become a threat to her. She'd have to discard Jolson before then. A week, she figured, or perhaps two. Maybe a month.

A middle-aged, grossly overweight woman laboriously pushed through the small crowd and stomped up the stage's three steps. "Get off," she ordered imperiously. "I'm god commanded to sing on this stage."

"I was here first," Maggie snapped, but she backed away, and this surprised her because there had been a time when she would have refused most orders. Maybe more than her voice had not fully recovered when she regained her youth.

"Take my advice and earn your living on your back." The woman's voice dripped vitriol. "You have almost no voice, and you move like a man. Leave." After glaring at Maggie, she shoved Jolson so hard he stepped back and fell off the stage. He landed on his feet only because the remnants of Maggie's feminine grace had been added to his own. Glaring, he stepped forward, but Maggie leaped down to restrain him. She wanted attention, but only of the right kind.

The woman laughed before she sang for the next two hours, sang until the falling sun became soft orange in the distant western sky. Pale stars appeared to the east and above shone the faint nimbus of one full and one half moon. During the entire performance the woman sang with perfect breath control, perfect pitch, and more than perfect timing. She sang, and while she sang, Maggie's heart turned black with envy.

"Glorious," Jolson whispered when the woman finished. "I have never heard anything so beautiful."

Perhaps music brings him more into himself, Maggie reflected. Was this a tool she could use?

When the woman stopped, people surged forward, shoving Maggie roughly to the side. Once near the stage, they threw money into the tin until it overflowed. Smiling contemptuously, the woman kicked the tin over.

"Who is she?" Maggie demanded from a poorly dressed man. "What is she doing singing on the street? She's good enough to perform before kings."

"That's Marietta," the man answered, "and she's better than good. She's sung for archbishops and kings. The story is she once sang for Trelsar, the white god. Athos's spirit was there, too, and he wanted to take her down to Hell just like he has a few others, only Trelsar put Marietta under his protection because he's Patron of the Arts. As payment for his protection Trelsar ordered her to perform here at least once each month."

"It isn't good," someone in the crowd said. "Athos and Trelsar are preparing for war. The priests say they've always hated one another."

"They have," Jolson agreed, "but Trelsar hates Zorce more because he helped feed the Fall."

Marietta frowned at a comment somebody made and looked down at Maggie. "You can have the stage now. I am finished with it." The toe of her right foot stirred among the spilled coins. "You can have this trash too."

"No, thank you," Maggie replied. Her present voice was a mockery when compared to Marietta's. She refused to embarrass herself by appearing to compete.

"I thought not," the woman said in a snide tone. Stepping off the stage, she offered her hand to a well-dressed man who looked more than two decades her junior. "Gorges, darling, why don't you take me to dinner? I am absolutely famished, and I do need to be in shape to sing for His Reverence Lord Calto tomorrow."

"Delighted," the man answered, not looking the least embarrassed to be seen with a woman twice his age and three times his weight. Crooking his elbow, he waited patiently for her to take his arm. The reverent crowd parted to offer them a clear path.

"I am so tired of these forced performances," Marietta said exactly loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. "I have far too many guttersnipe admirers. Gorges, would you think up a way for me to lose most of them while we dine? These people are so filthy, I'm sure their diseases will damage my voice."

Envy ate Maggie's heart while she watched them leave.

"Find out where she lives," she ordered Jolson, but he didn't obey. Instead, his steady eyes carefully watched a blue skinned succubus approach them. The woman stared back with a gaze that pulled at Maggie's soul. Her lips were a predatory smile set upon perfect features. Near her side walked a monster of a man with a scarred and battered face. The eyes he rested on the succubus wore the hopeful, eager expression of a puppy anxious to please. He was, Maggie knew, enthralled.

"Thingy," the woman said to Jolson when she arrived. "How delightful. I heard you managed to make it up here, but I never thought Athos would allow you to stay."

"Belthethsia," Jolson said.

New intelligence suffused his face. His eyes showed wary fearlessness. However, Maggie noticed he shifted so the hook was hidden behind her body.

"He's mine," Maggie said, and her small defiance surprised her because the succubus exuded fear and allure. Although the woman's perfect body had been designed to destroy men, Maggie still felt the power of its draw. Deep in her core she knew she could not defy the succubus again, and this knowledge worried her. She had once owned the strength of will to face down the demon Krastos in Athos's Hall.

"Yours. For now," the succubus agreed. She eyed Jolson critically. "I'm not sure I approve of what you've done to him. He hardly cringes at all. I'll have to work on his defect when I tire of Heriod."

"You will never have me," Jolson said dispiritedly.

"Maybe not," Belthethsia replied. "I've become so bored with the mortal realm I'll probably return home as soon as I find a suitable present for Athos. Until then— who knows? We had such fun together, you and I. Maybe we will again." She studied him critically. "You always wore my scars well." Gesturing to Heriod, she chucked a finger beneath Jolson's chin and glided away.

Maggie grabbed Jolson by his wrist. "The singer! That Marietta. We have to find her."

"Why?" Jolson asked, his attention still focused on the succubus.

"Because I want her voice," Maggie hissed. Tightening her grip, she raised his arm until the jade hook rested before his knowing eyes. "I want her voice, and you're going to give it to me. All we have to do is find out where she likes to eat."

* * * *

Around them, crickets chirped their nighttime song. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees lining the long lane leading to the restaurant's door. Mathew's, an exclusive restaurant which catered only to the rich, was surrounded by acres of trimmed grass and shaped shrubs. To Maggie, it seemed an isolated oasis trapped within Yylse's filth and corruption, a golden spot of peace created by one of Yylse' greatest crime lords. Even at her highest, Maggie could never have afforded to dine in its rarified air.

Halfway down the lane Maggie leaned deeper into Jolson's arms and moved her lips close to his ear. His lean body felt hard against her softer flesh, but the raised scars pressing through his clothing were harder. She ran her right hand over his side, traced out the whorls of one interesting scar, and wondered if Belthethsia had given it to him. The thought sent a warm surge through her, making her want to press into him harder. Instead, she tightened her grip on the broken tree limb she held behind Jolson's back and whispered in his ear.

"Where are they?"

"They have just now left," Jolson said, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Took them long enough. We've been waiting here for two hours. How much food can one woman eat? What are they doing?" A faint thrill of anticipatory fear ran through her.

"She is speaking disrespectfully about a past admirer named Ludwig." Jolson replied. "His left arm is wrapped around her waist. They are walking in our direction. The restaurant's lanterns are being extinguished. They are almost here."

"Whisper," Maggie ordered, wishing Jolson were not slipping back into his dull stage. "Don't let them hear you."

The order came too late.

"What have we here?" Gorges demanded from only feet away. His voice sounded wary. "Waiting for us, are you?"

Maggie's mouth went dry when a blade rasped free from its sheath and Gorges took a practiced knife fighter's stance. Marietta stood only a pace away. Further back, two other figures stepped through the restaurant's doorway.

"Belthethsia and Heriod are approaching," Jolson said needlessly.

"Why, it's the young snit who tried to sing on my stage," Marietta said. "Hello, snit. What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Maggie demanded, running one hand along the broken curve of Jolson's cheek. "I'm romancing my beau." Gripping the hidden branch tighter with her other hand, she wished Jolson's scarred face was not so slack it made her lies of passion patently false. "So what's your problem? Are you claiming all of Yylse as yours, or is there some small part of the city where you'll allow me to stand?"

She wanted to curse. Belthethsia and Heriod were almost upon them. The time to act was well past, and she doubted another opportunity would be easy to find. After this late night meeting, Marietta would keep a wary eye out for her.

Gorges's eyes narrowed. "Tell me why you're here?" he demanded of Jolson.

Jolson shrugged. "Maggie wants to hit you with the tree limb she's holding behind my back."

Maggie did curse. Shoving Jolson away, she twisted in a sudden jerk, the tree limb clenched tightly in her hands. She started her swing toward Marietta but changed her angle when Gorges glided in with a six-inch knife held firmly in his right hand. To her surprise, the limb connected with his forearm. The knife fell, and she screamed victory.

But Gorges had not fallen. He was quickly on her, a man, tall and strong. She remained a small woman who had not had much time to build up new strength. He easily ripped the limb from her hands, threw it to the side, and grasped her in the circle of his arms. She struggled and kicked and screamed until Marietta waddled forward and punched her in the nose. Amazed by the blow's force, Maggie's eyes instantly blurred with tears. She stilled, breathing hard, swearing under her breath, and glared at Jolson's unrepentant visage.

"How delightful," Belthethsia cooed. "Thingy, did you arrange this entertainment for me?"

Holding up his hook for the succubus to see, Jolson gestured toward Marietta. "Maggie wants this woman's voice."

Belthethsia looked at Maggie and back to Jolson's hook. "Is that why you aren't afraid of— why, yes it is. Thingy, you have been a naughty boy by not being afraid of me, but you were very clever to bring me Athos's Hook. I think you deserve a reward." She pointed at Marietta. "Heriod, capture her and kill the man. He's far too familiar with a knife for my comfort."

Heriod had Marietta by the hair before Maggie could draw another breath. Gorges let out a gasp, released Maggie, and took off at a run.

"Help!" he called. "Murder! Help!"

"How disappointing," Belthethsia sighed. "The man has no balls." She made a brief gesture in the air. In response, the air swirled, solidified, and a lesser imp shot arrow fast after the running man. Gorges managed only a few more steps before the imp surrounded his head and slithered though his open mouth. Gorges's body leaped, surged briefly through the air, and then fell to the walkway like a broken marionette. A moment passed, and then the imp rose out of George's mouth, pulling the wisp of his soul behind it. It towed the soul to Belthethsia and cuddled into her. After cradling the soul's wisp in her hands for a few moments, she smiled gently, swallowed it, and burped.

Belthethsia looked impatiently at Jolson. "Well?"

Walking up to Marietta, Jolson calmly shoved the hook's glowing point into her throat. She stiffened, tried to gasp, but no sound came from her. Maggie saw no blood, no wound, but she hadn't expected to see any. There had been no visible wound on Viln when Jolson finished with him, nor on her. Athos's Hook had not been designed to sever mortal flesh.

Finished with Marietta, Jolson shuffled over to her and peered into her eyes. His own eyes were dim, showing barely enough intelligence to get this job done.

"Her voice," Maggie begged, unable to take her hungry eyes off the hook's glowing point. Her future adulation was there. With what the hook held, she would have riches, comfort, and the company of kings, and that was only the beginning. Before she finished using him, Jolson would make her a woman beyond compare. King Vere himself would grovel at her feet. Hell, given time she might even have Emperor Dade eating out of her hand. "Give me Marietta's voice."

"Her voice," Jolson agreed, and then he buried the glowing hook's evil point deep into her throat. It pulsed in her, surged. Heat filled her neck until she thought her flesh might burst into flames. Tilting her head back, Maggie wanted to fall to her knees and scream. She had to scream— had to— and then she did scream. The scream erupted as a pure soprano that was her and Marietta and more than either of them had ever been. It was a far grander and purer scream than had ever before been heard up upon the world. Her scream turned into song, and the song's pitch soared into a terrified screech when Jolson's hook moved from her throat, past her chin, and deep, deep into her brain. Pain and light flashed through her when the hook burned along pathways created when she stole Viln's youth and grace, giving her original grace to Jolson in return.

Finished, face expressionless, Jolson stepped back. When the hook withdrew Maggie's knees sagged, and her senses reeled, but she gathered herself together, straightened, and wondered what she should do. Reaching no decision, she waited quietly for somebody to give her directions.

Heriod released his hold on Marietta. Tears streamed down the imperious woman's cheeks and dripped off her chin. Belthethsia went to her and gently grasped the woman's face between cupped palms. Leaning forward, she parted her blood red lips and licked Marietta beneath her left eye. "I love the taste of tears."

"What have you done to me?" Marietta whispered, her voice a tortured croak.

"He has given you what you always wanted," Belthethsia gently explained. "You are free from your admirers." Stepping a pace back, she abruptly slapped the woman's face. The blow looked almost gentle, but the force rocked Marietta's head to the side and split open her cheek. "Run along before I decide to play with you some more. Heriod, grab Thingy for me."

Marietta took off at a run. Unlike Gorges, she did not cry for help.

Swiftly moving in, Heriod grabbed at Jolson, abruptly stopping when Jolson raised his still glowing hook. The monster gasped, stiffened, and slowly backed away from the threat while shaking his head.

"I will destroy what's left of you," Jolson warned.

Belthethsia looked to Heriod, at Maggie, and turned her gaze back to Jolson. "You two are quite a prize. Heriod, bring the woman along. Thingy. Follow."

"I won't go back," Jolson said stubbornly.

His face appeared more animated than Maggie had ever seen it before. The forceful presence blazing from his eyes overwhelmed her. She felt Belthethsia focus her will on him. The focusing seemed almost tangible. Irresistible.

It affected Jolson not at all. Belthethsia's will split before him, washing to each side as if he were an immovable boulder in the center of a stream. In response, the hook's glow became brighter.

"I have a weapon," Jolson said.

Momentarily, Belthethsia appeared stunned, and then a small, amused smile quirked at the corners of her perfect lips. "So you do, and I see you used this woman instead of letting her use you. Very commendable, Thingy, but for your sake I hope you left her enough will to work with. I need to take Athos a special present if I'm to convince him to allow me back into Hell. I'm afraid a damaged Heriod just isn't enough to impress the dear fellow. I need our Maggie and her dual voice."

Sighing, she ran a pale blue hand through her light green hair. "I wonder, Thingy, what I should do with you, I can strip your soul with one of my pets, but it seems I can no longer order you to my bidding. Are you sure you don't want to return with me?"

Jolson's face was set, stern, unyielding. It was a strong face. Maggie wished she had seen his strength before. "I won't go back."

"You will after you die," Belthethsia said, "if not before, and Thingy, you'll probably die soon. Athos will send his hounds after you when I tell him you stole his hook. They'll gut you and laugh while they're doing it." She waved a negligent hand. "For the sake of sport, I suppose I'll let you run. Watching the chase will be most amusing, and I have always enjoyed seeing you bleed."

She gestured toward Maggie. "You will come with me."

"I don't want to," Maggie whispered. Images of Athos's Court tumbled through her. Memories of the ravishes inflicted upon her mind and body while in Hell made her shudder.

"Jolson now owns your will," Belthethsia said. "You cannot deny me."

Closing her eyes, Maggie cast a simple prayer to the Seven virtuous gods. Empty silence answered her, and she despaired. Reopening her eyes, she saw Jolson's shadowy moonlit form more than fifteen feet away. He stood tall and limber, and he walked away from her with firm purpose in his stride.

She reached out, beseeching, begging. "Jolson— please— I protected you. I helped you. Don't leave me. Please!"

Jolson paused. When he half-turned to look at her over his shoulder, Maggie's heart leaped with hope, and then her hope died when she saw his set expression.

"Go to Hell," Jolson said. Turning back to the path, he walked away.

Chapter 13— The Road from Hell

Phrandex stood in the doorway to the nursery, sulking in the gloom of Hell. His mother's admonishments rang fresh and clear inside his head, a constant reminder he would never live up to her expectations.

"For god's sake, Phrandex, grow some horns and be a devil." Or "If I weren't your mother, I'd kill you myself." And his least favorite. "I've seen spawn with more initiative than you."

Other, more recent complaints tumbled around his head, banging against his beleaguered brain. She had visited him three days ago to demand he accompany her into the middle world on a small chore. It was, she said, a chance for him to get his feet wet, whatever that meant. When he asked the reason for their journey she had only sneered. The putrid memory of her belittling attitude still clung to him like stink on a human.

A shrill, terrified, shriek brought the devil's attention back to the nursery. The noisemaker was his new— what did they call them again? Boob mother— ninny— Nursemaid! Yes, that was the term. His new nursemaid, was number three to be exact. Unfortunately, the other two hadn't faired very well. Imalda, his first assistant, had lasted only a few months before she was eaten. Her fault, really, for suicidal inattention. Phrandex had repeatedly told her not turn her back on the little rascals. However, being a rather stupid sort, she had fallen asleep during the children's nap time. When the children woke two hours early, they were hungry, and Imalda had prepared no food for them. She instantly became the little darlings's lunch.

The second boob mother, Lira, was harder to come by than the first. The agency he hired Imalda from didn't want to lose another prized worker. Consequently, the second boob mother came from a different agency, one possessing less stringent standards for their employees. This meant Lira wasn't as sturdy or well-equipped as Imelda. In fact, on the first day of the third week she ran off screaming after one of the babies gave her a friendly little nip. Honestly, it was only the tip of her pinky. The female displayed a complete over-reaction to the situation. Phrandex would have understood if she had lost an entire hand, but a fingertip?

He hadn't seen a glimpse of her since.

Now, a month later, he had Bejou. She was a strong, burly sort of woman with brown hair cropped short about the face and shoulders. Her eyes were dark, fierce, and unafraid. Not to mention she had put up a pretty good fight and cussed him profusely when he dragged her into the hellhole. She had shown spunk, especially when Berferd, his other assistant, raped her.

Phrandex liked the idea of spunk in his boob mothers. It was a good sign because it meant she might last more than a few weeks. Now if he could only keep her from trying to escape. For some inexplicable reason, the daft woman actually thought she could find her way through the tunnels and back to the surface without getting eaten.

"You little, filthy, no good demon child!" Bejou stood in a corner, club in hand, fending off one of the demons who had started teething recently.

Phrandex looked around for the little fellow's teething rock, and realized the child had dropped it. He smiled when he saw the black-scaled demon playfully eyeing Bejou's bleeding leg. A long section of cloth had been torn from her apron, and the flesh beneath bore several long scratches.

The demon child raked the air in front of him with long, sinewy arms, ripped free another section of cloth but missed flesh this time. Its stubby fingers had newly sprouted talons. During the last several years, Phrandex had noticed talons seemed to grow longer and sharper at the same time fangs first developed. He grinned when the boob mother screamed again. Demons were so cute when they discovered their new toys, but the noise was irritating.

Snarling, Bejou swung the club. It connected with the child's head with a disappointingly half-hearted thunk. Phrandex grimaced with disgust at her ineptitude. She had barely dented the club's wood.

Releasing an aggrieved sigh, he shook his head. "No, no, if you expect to get out of the corner, you have to swing faster and harder. He'll be on you as soon as you swing again because you left yourself open near your toes."

Phrandex left the doorway and walked toward her, taking the time to pick up another teething rock along the way. When he reached the cornered milkmaid, he plucked the demon up by its neck. It hissed and tried to latch onto his arm. As soon as its mouth opened Phrandex shoved the rock between its newly pointed teeth. With a clack and light crunch, the demon closed his mouth over the rock and drooled.

"Never forget the rocks," Phrandex admonished his assistant. "Rocks are important, especially when the darlings are teething. I remember one time when..."

He paused when excited shouts sounded from the tunnel. Curious, he walked to the nursery's entrance and looked out to see dozens of hellborn rushing by.

A spawn stumbled past, and Phrandex deftly plucked it from the throng.

"You are going where?"

The spawn, a woman, cowered and mewled. Her struggles were weak and pathetic, which wasn't surprising since she was a spawn. "To the great–to the great hall."

Phrandex shook her because she irritated him. Her speech was barely understandable. She was so frightened her words were garbled and nearly inaudible.

"Why?"

The spawn's eyes rolled around in her head, and her breaths came in great heaving gasps. Apparently, the longer he held her the more frantic she became.

Phrandex shook her again. "Answer and you can go."

The spawn stopped squirming. Sucking at her bottom lip, she scratched at a scabbed and scarred head which was missing patches of hair. Those patches might have been blond at one time, Phrandex supposed, but they were filthy gray now.

"I think–I think Zorce is coming." Spittle flew from her mouth as she lost all control of her speech.

Instantly dropping her, Phrandex wiped her slobber from his arm. Zorce was coming? Ignored, the spawn rose and stumbled off while the young devil turned back to his nursemaid.

"I'll be back shortly." He watched her awkwardly swing her club at another demon child. Half the club had already been chewed to splinters. As a precaution, he gave her another club and more rocks. He really didn't want to go chasing down another boob mother.

* * * *

When he reached the Great Hall, Phrandex pushed and shoved his way between spawn, soulwrights, gaunts, and lesser demons until he stood at the back of a large group of devils who were all older and larger than him. Since he preferred giving pain to receiving it, he didn't dare try to muscle his way past them. Frowning thoughtfully, he looked around until he saw a spawn standing three feet up on a pillar, its foot jammed into a deep crack. He smiled and headed that way. By the time he reached the pillar the spawn already lay dead at its base. Berferd, a devil who had been Phrandex's nursery charge ten years ago, and now his part-time assistant, had his foot shoved deep into the crack.

Grinning at his half-brother's vulnerable back, Phrandex shoved his claws in the young devil's behind and hoisted him down. "Find someplace else to perch."

Berferd spat poison on the ground. Rock bubbled. "You're not my nursemaid anymore."

"But I am your brother," Phrandex pointed out, "and I'm older than you." He climbed up the pillar, shoved his toes in the crack, and made himself comfortable before looking down at Berferd. "Go away."

Berferd growled, but he left. Dismissing the impertinent sprat, Phrandex turned his eyes toward the main show and cursed when he saw Zorce's favorite general standing beside the Hell god. The last being Phrandex ever wanted to see was his mother.

Zorce and Sulya stood inside a large chariot decorated by precious and semi-precious jewels. A polished ring of skulls, sitting atop the chariot's edge, acted as a macabre handrail for the occupants to hold onto as they rode. Hellhounds nearly as big as arvids, their eyes fiery as a pit in Hell, served as the dark god's grim beasts of burden.

Belthethsia, a blue skinned succubus of uncomely affections and great bounties, stood below where Athos watched from the dais. Softly whimpering, a ragged, skinny woman with dirty long hair sat crouched at her feet. Belthethsia held clumps of the woman's hair in her right hand, but the succubus's attentions were not on her prisoner. She looked cautious and more than a bit nervous as she stood before the two gods.

Zorce was thirty feet to her left. Ten feet in front of her Athos sat on his throne. The two gods seemed evilly pissed. Then again, Phrandex reflected, the gods of Hell seldom looked anything but pissed. Still and all, there were different degrees of pissed ranging from only wanting to rip a being apart to desiring the destruction of everything everywhere. Their present moods seemed to be at mid-level and dropping fast.

Not good. It might be wise to leave before the gore flew, but if he left now he might never learn who had been killed unless, hopefully, it was his mother.

Athos's eyes burned bright red. His skin, normally bone white with mottled patches of old scars, was flushed slightly ochre. God energy coursed wildly around the four horns jutting from his head. The energy danced and flared and flowed around him, caressing his naked body in a delightfully obscene dance which pushed his horrid member more than a yard high, pulsing red and black with his anger. Poisonous secretions glistened along its length and dripped off its barbed hooks. Eying the horrendous thing, Phrandex felt glad he wasn't born female. Athos's need for sex was legendary. So far, Belthethsia, Phrandex's half-sister, was the only surviving female capable of enduring Athos's attentions, though this fact did not win her any special favors since it sometimes took her weeks to re-grow certain parts of her anatomy when Athos became a bit enthusiastic.

"You saw the spawn," Athos said gently to Belthethsia. "You saw it wearing my hook. Why did you bring me this woman instead of the spawn?"

"She has a voice like the world has never heard," Belthethsia desperately answered. "Thingy used the hook to put another woman's voice in her. The result is—"

"Silence!" Energy shot from Athos's third horn. Crackling wickedly through the air, it sliced into Belthethsia's gut, cutting it open. Screaming, she fell to her knees and held loops of spilled intestines in her cupped hands. Moving with frantic haste, she barely had time to shove the intestines back into her belly before the wound healed.

Phrandex fought back a giggle. This was proving to be far more entertaining than he had hoped.

"I care nothing for this singer, this Maggie," Athos said once Belthethsia regained her feet. "I have owned her before and soon became bored. I want the spawn. I want my hook."

Zorce chose this moment to speak from the chariot. He did not raise his voice, but it was clearer than any other voice Phrandex had ever heard.

"The spawn and the hook will be mine. Whoever brings them to me will receive my son's entire domain when I rule the upper world." Zorce's dark face split into a feral grin as he looked again to Athos.

Phrandex clutched the pillar tighter. Had Zorce just put Athos's job up for grabs?

With his face purplish-black and splotchy, Athos surged out of his throne with a roar. "How dare you! Hell will be mine! All of it! No one will take your challenge! They don't have the horns to face me." Athos's head swiveled around as he roared out among the gathered hellborn. His eyes became fiery holes set deep in his horned head. "Try it," he warned the watchers, "and you're ash."

"I promised you my section of Hell," Zorce said. "I never said you would have everything."

Phrandex thought about Zorce's offer. If he stepped forward and accepted the challenge Zorce might finally notice him. This would be more attention than Athos had ever given him. On the other hand, Phrandex had no illusions he could rule this section of Hell for long. He was too young, too inexperienced. The greater devils would be fighting over his remains within hours. Then again, if he returned the spawn and was rewarded with this section of Hell, he could gift it to Athos. Athos would make him a favorite, allowing Phrandex to finally leave the nursery behind.

Would Zorce be offended? Athos might be the son of all evil, but Zorce was the source. He had, after all, been the co-creator of the blessed nano that infected all of mankind and destroyed the first planet. If not for the nano infection there would be no demons, devils, or gods.

Phrandex shrugged. He supposed the details of his offer could be worked out after he succeeded, but first he had to succeed. Accepting the challenge meant he would have to go above ground with all the humans. The thought made him shudder. He didn't like humans. They smelled bad, didn't operate by the correct rules, and many of them had pointy sticks, or so he had heard.

He started to climb down from the pillar when a thought popped into his head. If he succeeded he would become more important to Zorce than Sulya. She couldn't berate him if he outranked her.

Phrandex's head snapped upward. He looked at Zorce and imagined himself standing in Sulya's place.

Emboldened by the prospect of having his mother under his thumb, Phrandex decided he would take the quest as soon as he found a way to safely leave Hell.

He was about to leave his pillar and push his way to the front so he could volunteer when a commotion rippled through the crowd. Berferd pushed between two devils and stood before the gods.

"Atta' boy," Hellnost, Berferd's father called out. "That's my little devil."

"I accept your offer," Berferd said

Zorce's face twisted with amused surprise. "Who are you?"

"I'm Berferd and—"

"He's a baby sitter!" Athos laughed. "He watches after the baby demons."

Scowling, Berferd refused to look at Athos.

Others began to laugh as well. "Yeah, he's a boob mother!"

The laughter became louder.

Spinning around, Berferd glared at the crowd, searching for the speaker. "Bejou is the boob mother! I'm— I'm—"

Phrandex watched Berferd reach for the proper word, but his tongue didn't seem able to wrap around the damn thing. This wasn't surprising since Phrandex often had trouble remembering the proper term.

Berferd improvised. "I'm a ninny, thank you, and proud of it."

The crowd laughed louder. Damned beings held their sides and stumbled over one another. Phrandex heard a loud groan over the laughter. Turning his head, he saw Hellnost's furious glare land on Berferd. Hellnost shook his head slowly and shouted. "Nanny, you idiot! Nanny!"

Phrandex actually heard Berferd grit his teeth.

"I have successfully taken care of our young for over ten years," Berferd shouted over the bedlam. "In all that time I've never once lost or eaten one. My powers have grown to the point I'm being wasted down here. I should be in the upper world, causing havoc and fear instead of running about tending to the replacement boobs my brother finds for us."

"You might have killed some of them with laughter." Athos sneered. A grin cracked across his face.

Zorce raised a huge, taloned hand, twice the size as Phrandex's head. The laughter subsided. "Why are you still in the nursery? Devils are only required to watch our young for one or two years." He looked slowly toward Athos.

Athos glared at his father, barring serrated teeth. "He is a mixed breed, a cur child from a defective mother. I hear his brother, one of your castoff sons, is just as bad." Athos stared at Sulya, as if challenging her to say something.

At first Phrandex thought the insult would go unanswered, but in a red blur of motion, Sulya hurled her battle-ax at Athos's head.

Athos's eyes narrowed, and his upper lip curled with contempt while he watched the ax fly toward him. He gestured, and the ax dissolved into vapor three feet from his nose. Athos gave Sulya a contemptuous smile, but his eyes blazed fury.

"You would dare attack your god," he said, low voiced. A new ball of crackling energy formed between his horns.

"I have only one god," Sulya snapped. "He is far grander than you can ever hope to be."

"You have death," Athos said. He gestured. The ball of energy dancing between his horns crackled and shot toward Sulya. Sulya started to stumble back but was stopped by Zorce's grip on her arm. When the energy reached them it fizzled into harmless sparks.

Disappointed, Phrandex frowned. He would have been glad to be rid of his mother.

"Have a care, seedling," Zorce admonished his son. "Sulya is my most prized possession. In fact, she's currently doing better than you at furthering my plans. She practically delivered Anithia and her daughter to your door, but you bungled their capture without even an apology. Worse, even after we spoke on the matter, you took less than adequate care of the hook, one of our most potent tools, my gift to you as a sign of trust." Zorce's smile seemed almost friendly, but foam spilled from his lips. "Now I find you not only let the hook slip into the hands of a lousy fucking spawn, you allowed the spawn to escape. On top of that, you have kept two devils in the nursery during a time when they should have been preparing for the invasion, one of them my son and your brother, all because you feel petty? These games might have been acceptable in the past but not now. Tell me, how many more of my subjects aren't allowed to grow because you value your pride more than your position in Hell?"

The air around Zorce seemed to fill with a hot, prickly, suffocating power. Phrandex wanted to cringe but didn't wish to appear weak. Besides, Berferd still stood his ground, and he was much closer to the action. In fact, Berferd didn't look like he was having any trouble being near the center of attention, a strange thing considering Athos had a reputation for killing off siblings who pissed him off.

Throwing his head back, Zorce screamed his rage into the cavernous hall. Solid rock trembled, split, and crumbled, making Phrandex fall when he lost his hold on the pillar. Around him, hundreds of other hellborn dropped to their knees. Delicious fear tingled in Phrandex's veins when he pulled himself erect. Zorce's black skin boiled and rippled like lava. The dark god's muscles bulged, popping with the strength of his fury. Holding tight to his delicate courage, Phrandex climbed back on his now insecure pillar.

Athos didn't appear affected in the least by Zorce's display. Phrandex knew the lesser god dared not show fear to his father or to any of his subjects or slaves. Any weakness on his part would put his position in jeopardy from devils like Belsac or Mercktos, who were almost his equal.

Zorce quieted, smiled, and stepped down from his chariot. Looking toward his mother, Phrandex saw she also remained unaffected by Zorce's rage; irritating woman.

"You are out of time," Zorce told his offspring.

Zorce walked toward Athos. The underworld shuddered with each step. Castoff diamonds and solid rock exploded beneath his heavy tread. Stopping in front of his son, Zorce stood a head taller, exuding an aura twice as evil. Casually picking up the lesser god by his neck, Zorce shook Athos like he was a recalcitrant hellhound. Even so, Athos refused to yield. His face, petulant and angry, turned a unique shade of purple.

"You have tried my patience for the last time," Zorce growled, giving his son's neck a hard squeeze. Phrandex heard tendons pop.

Zorce contemptuously tossed Athos to the floor and strode forward to strike Belthethsia with the back of his hand. Bending beneath the blow, her body sailed six feet backward before she hit the ground in a loose heap. Left behind, the singer, still in a huddled mass on the ground, looked up into Zorce's horrible face and whimpered. He grabbed her.

The woman tried to pull away. She whimpered again when his grip visibly tightened. "Please— please let me go. I'll do anything you want. I'll sing any song. Please don't hurt me."

"Can you turn back time?" Zorce demanded. "Can you remove your gifts from the spawn?"

"I-I can't." The woman hung her head and silently cried. "Please don't hurt me."

Zorce tilted her chin up with an inexorable finger. He gave her a gentle smile. "Of course I'll hurt you." He struck her with a casual flick of his hand. She fell to the floor and lay unmoving, though Phrandex saw she still breathed. Better yet, he smelled her blood on the cavern floor.

Effortlessly lifting the singer, Zorce gestured toward his general. "Sulya."

As if by magic, Phrandex's mother stood by her god's side. Taking the woman from him, she threw the singer over her shoulder.

Zorce turned to Belthethsia. Panting, she knelt on one knee, having enough sense not to rise. Fresh blood dripped from a wound in her head, staining her dark green hair black. Her wound closed slowly, until it was gone.

"And you." Zorce did not look as unhappy with her as with his son, but he was obviously angry. "The singer has displeased me by aiding the spawn. She is now mine. You will go to the surface and join the search. If you value that blue skinned body of yours, I suggest you don't come back empty handed."

Sulya smiled wicked glee at the sight of her most hated foe's humiliation. Phrandex suspected the look on his mother's face didn't bode well for the succubus. Any time Sulya looked devious, she had something unpleasant planned.

"As you wish, my god and father," Belthethsia said.

When Athos growled low and deep, Zorce smiled. Phrandex shook his head at Belthethsia's stupidity. It was a mistake to try and serve more than one god, and she had just declared Zorce her second master. Her blue skinned ass was in deep trouble now.

Zorce walked back to his chariot. His hellhounds snapped and clacked their teeth together while eying the unconscious Maggie hungrily.

"Turd, you have my permission to leave Hell and search for the spawn," Zorce said to Berferd.

Berferd scowled. "My name's Berferd."

Stopping, Zorce turned his head to glare at Phrandex's brother.

"But turd is fine," Berferd hurriedly said.

Sulya's smile oozed wicked pride when she looked at Berferd. With the human still draped over her shoulder, she stepped onto Zorce's chariot.

Pulling his whip from his belt, Zorce snapped it in the air above his hound's heads. They leapt forward, snarling and snapping at the air. The god did not spare a glance to his shamed son as he rode away.

Disappointed, Phrandex sighed. Nobody had died. He almost climbed down from his vantage point, but stopped when he saw Berferd try to leave. Athos stood before Phrandex's half-brother like an angry dark cloud. His bone white skin pulsed with lines of grey.

"You will not claim my realm, turd. I'll find the escaped spawn and regain my father's blessings." He turned his head slowly to take in the crowd. "Do you hear! The spawn will be found! Every one of you will search. None will reenter Hell until the spawn is returned to me. I'll flay and spit any being who tries to give the spawn to my father."

"I'll find the spawn," Berferd insisted. "I'll give it to Zorce."

Athos nodded. "Goodbye, turd."

Energy shot from his horns. Berferd exploded.

Phrandex waited until the god turned and disappeared into a tunnel before wiping gore off his face.

"Disgusting," he heard an older demon say as it licked a bit of Berferd from its chin. "Why does Athos always have to explode them when he's pissed? Wastes good food."

Phrandex climbed down his pillar and started to leave when he found his way blocked by Belthethsia. She wore a curious smile on her face, one which made Phrandex acutely aware neither of them wore clothes. She stepped closer. He stepped back. She stepped closer. He tripped and landed on his butt.

"Your brother is dead."

"Half-brother," Phrandex corrected. "We have different fathers. I never liked him much."

The succubus's smile widened. "I have a proposition."

Phrandex thought about getting up, but staring into her big beautiful eyes and looking at her big beautiful dusky-blue breasts made him not want to lose his vantage point. Things definitely looked better from where he sat.

"I want to gain one of the gods's favor— I don't care which— and so do you." The succubus walked closer. Standing directly before him, she planted her feet on either side of his legs.

Phrandex had the terrible urge to lean forward and run his tongue along the inside of her thigh, but he resisted. The succubus was trying to seduce him, her own half-brother, and that would not do. The last thing he needed was another woman giving him orders.

"If you help me," the succubus said, wrapping her hand around one of his horns and gently stroking it. "I'll help you. All you have to do is tell me what your mother knows."

Phrandex shuddered. Belthethsia's voice caressed like sweet blood being rubbed all over his body. He tingled, and things down below started to react. In sheer panic he scrabbled backward and staggered to his feet, determined she wouldn't use him in her games. Besides, he was still a young devil, relatively powerless when compared to most of those around them. Nothing he could do would give her an advantage so she spun lies for something else— something harmful to his mother. Not a bad idea, in itself, but he doubted Belthethsia's plan included the possibility of Phrandex continuing to breathe.

"No, I'm leaving here of my own accord and of my own free will. Besides, the last thing I need or want is to be caught between you and my mother. That is a fate worse than Hell."

Brushing himself off, Phrandex turned to leave. He wouldn't venture out into the world on his own until he completed the unnamed chore his mother wanted to saddle him with. Afterward, before his leave-taking, he would make sure his nanny was still armed and capable of caring for the children. After all, an armless ninny wouldn't survive long now that the children were teething and Berferd was dead.

Chapter 14— Thief's Trap

Selnac crouched in the pristine alleyway and watched his partner's glowing jade green hook slice through the building's mortar like it was soft cheese. Jolson's lines were perfectly straight and exactly square. When the first cut was finished Jolson twisted his hand so the buried hook's point turned inward to catch upon the center of a block. He drew his arm back, and the block slid out of the wall. Moving forward, Selnac grasped the square section and moved it out of the way while Jolson's hook plunged through the wall once more. Inside the building, guard dogs growled.

"One more of those and we can crawl in," Selnac whispered.

"I won't crawl," Jolson replied, "not anymore." He pulled another block out.

Selnac continued accepting and moving blocks until the hole became large enough for them to walk through without crouching or twisting to the side.

After setting aside the last block, he straightened, coughed twice, and wiped a small spot of blood from the corner of his mouth while wondering how much longer he could live this life. Though he was not yet old, he was no longer young. Some of his limberness was gone, and his muscles were no longer resilient. Age and illness had crept up on him, and this meant he was no longer as good a thief as he had once been when he taught Harlo, Simta, and Glace the trade. Of late matters had become so bad he had actually considered asking Glace or Del to take on his duties for Mother Brood. He would eventually have to ask, but Jolson's advent meant the time was further off and besides, Glace still needed convincing along those lines.

Selnac coughed once more and grinned at his new partner's back. This job was easy money, and it was all because he had taken pity on the hellspawn's attempt to feed and clothe itself. He had originally thought Jolson would be dull-minded and easily biddable like all spawn, but this was not the case. Jolson's mind had frequently proven to be sharp, but he lacked the experience to go with it. The spawn had only the vaguest idea of how to make his way in the world, and this vagueness had slowly starved him until Selnac's pity bid him to take Jolson under his wing. It hadn't been an easy decision. The spawn was an uncomfortable being to be around. Its soul was dark, and so far as Selnac could tell, it possessed nothing resembling a conscience, but he was willing to chance Jolson's presence if the spawn made jobs this easy.

Once inside, Selnac followed Jolson into the jeweler's back room. He drew his knife when Jolson cracked open the connecting door, but the knife proved to be unneeded. Mouths agape and foaming, two growling hounds pushed the door further open. When they saw Jolson, they stopped. Their mouths closed. Their tails drooped, and they cringed upon the floor.

Contemptuously kicking them out of the way, Jolson led Selnac into the showroom. Their bodies low to the floor, the dogs followed, crowding as close to Selnac's legs as they could.

Selnac glanced down at the dogs, shrugged, put his knife away, and studied the room. He liked what he saw. Half a dozen filled jewelry cases sat on the floor, but those cases and the jewelry they held didn't fill his interest.

He looked to Jolson. "Diamonds are worth more, but take the rubies because they're easiest to fence."

Apparently uncomprehending, Jolson shook his head. "What are diamonds? What are rubies?"

Selnac gestured. "Diamonds are the clear stones over there. Sapphires are blue and emeralds are green. You won't find many of those last two here, and that's just as well. They're too rare and too expensive to suit our needs. Rubies are red. You'll see them set in rings and necklaces and other things. Take the finished pieces if you must, but I'd rather you looked for loose stones, and let's not take more than a couple dozen. Jalem has done us no harm. I see no reason to ruin her."

"Why not?" Jolson asked.

"I own an overdeveloped conscience for a thief," Selnac answered. "I steal because I've lives to care for. I don't steal to cause other people lasting harm."

Jolson peered into a case containing diamond bracelets and grunted. "These clear stones can be traded for the coins that purchase food? If I had known this I would have brought a sack of them with me. Hell's roads are paved with these— diamonds?"

"Diamonds," Selnac agreed. "Leave them alone."

Since the store was not large, its stock wasn't extensive. The nineteen loose rubies they found in a small drawer were all the store's owner possessed. Most of the stones were small, but three were a respectable size. Selnac poured half of them into his belt pouch. Jolson grabbed the pouch and spilled in the rest before handing it back. Frowning, Selnac led the way to the hole Jolson's hook had created. The dogs followed on his heels all the while, casting nervous looks at Jolson. Selnac pushed them back into the main showroom, but they crowded back in on him, refusing to leave his protection until Jolson walked up and kicked each dog in the side.

With the dogs contained, Selnac closed the connecting door and led the way outside. Once there, he bent and picked up a block.

"What are you doing?" Jolson demanded.

"This place will be stripped bare before morning if we leave it open," Selnac explained. "I want to put the blocks back in so the wall at least looks solid."

Jolson's hook glowed briefly. He idly cut a deep groove into the wall. "Why should I care?"

Selnac breathed a heavy sigh. "If the woman stays in business we can burgle her several more times before she packs up and leaves."

Shrugging, Jolson held out his hand. "Give me the block."

Selnac handed it to him. Using one hand, Jolson handled the heavy block with an ease belying his thin frame. After he set the block in place, Selnac handed him another. When the last section was in position, Jolson's hook glowed once more. He slid the hook into the small cracks separating the blocks, ran it the length of every seam, and pulled his hook free. The wall before Selnac appeared whole, complete and flawless.

"Handy," Selnac said, rubbing at the strained muscles in his arms. Jolson didn't reply.

In the distance, a faint howl sounded in the still night air. Jolson jerked, and his elbow connected with Selnac's chest. The blow wasn't hard, but it staggered Selnac, stealing away his breath. His chest grew tight— too tight— before it relaxed.

"Krastos hunts," Jolson said.

Pulling himself together, Selnac rubbed at his chest. "Lots of things hunt at night. We hunted rubies, and now we're hunting for a fence. It's best we do it quickly. A job like this will raise a stink in the morning so a fence will offer us only five to seven percent instead of the usual ten if we wait too long. Problem is my regular contact is a fat slug who goes to bed early and doesn't wake up before noon. Means I'll have to use Mathew Changer, and I don't like doing that."

Jolson nodded. "I've seen these transactions before. I'll take you to the tavern."

Selnac coughed and tasted blood. Maybe he should see a physic, but physics cost money, and he had people who needed rugdles more than he did.

* * * *

When they pushed past the doors of the Hellhole Tavern, Selnac and Jolson found it filled to capacity. Selnac knew four of the patrons by name and recognized a few others, but the rest appeared to be strangers. Three drunks, apparently stripped of their goods, lay piled in the center of the floor. Near the bar, Tessla, Trelsar's Assassin, calmly sucked cirweed smoke from her long stem pipe. Mathew, the half-were fence, drug lord, and sometime assassin, sat at the rough-hewn bar. Although his features were furred and wolfish, his hands and arms remained human. Nobody stood near him.

The crowd shifted, opening a momentary lane, and Selnac saw pooled blood near Mathew's feet.

At least half a dozen people served drinks from behind the bar, but no money changed hands. The dark miasma which constantly filled the tavern felt like a heavy blanket threatening to press him into the floor.

Selnac shook his head and pushed the feeling away. The Hellhole depressed him, but many of his acquaintances loved the place.

Oblivious, Jolson pushed through the crowd and worked his way to the bar. Once there, he moved to stand beside the half-were, not seeming to mind that he stood on the splattered edge of the spilled blood.

"Idiot," Selnac muttered, but he wormed through the crowd to reach the bar so he could stand beside his new partner. Mathew, the half-were, glanced at him before turning his attention back to Jolson.

A dull pain clenched Selnac's chest. Clutching at the bar's front rail, he tried to breathe. After a few uncomfortable moments, the pain dissipated and faded away. Worms, he thought, knowing the thought for a lie.

"The smell of sulfur and brimstone," the half-were mused to Jolson, "but more. You smell of dung, cedar, and dog. You smell of granite. You even smell a little human." Its mouth opened in a wolfish grin. "You are hunted, but the hunter searches for a scent purely from Hell. Only luck will lead Krastos to you this night." Its grin grew wider. "Don't leave before I've placed a few bets. Most odd makers believe you'll be dead before dawn."

Mathew chuckled a series of short barks before changing the direction of his yellow-eyed stare. "Hello, Selnac. Have you finally brought me something interesting?"

Two wooden cups plopped down on the bar before them.

"Drink up," said Glace. "Everything is free tonight."

"Carrid won't be happy," Selnac observed. As a rule, when Carrid became unhappy people tended to break.

The liquid in his cup was amber hued so it had to be one of Carrid's rare purchases instead of the piss ale he normally brewed. Selnac picked up his wooden cup, swirled the liquid within, tried a careful sip, and almost gasped with pleasure. This was the first time he could remember actually enjoying a drink in the tavern, but it was also the first time he'd tasted something Carrid hadn't brewed. The state of Carrid's mood suddenly seemed less important.

"He won't care," Glace said, pointing at the pool of dark blood. "Krastos came up from Hell to fetch your friend. When the demon discovered Carrid had allowed the spawn to walk out his door, he wasn't too happy, and since it was hungry..." He laughed. "For a little fellow, the thing could sure eat. We didn't have to toss but half of Carrid down the Hell hole. Drinks have been free ever since. Lots of people have been popping in and out for the last couple hours."

He pointed to the drunks lying on the floor. "We even had a few respectables stop by, but I doubt they'll return. Getting beat up and rolled tends to make respectables nervous."

"Cute though," a street whore piped in. "The little fellow was sure cute."

"Who's Krastos?" Selnac asked, remembering Jolson speaking the name.

"A minor demon," Mathew answered. "He's been up to collect escaped spawn several times before."

Frowning, Glace carefully studied Selnac. "You don't look so good, my friend. You need to stop giving most of your money to Mother Brood. Use a little of it to see a physic."

"Them kids she takes in have to eat," Selnac replied. "The money has to come from somewhere."

"Well, she ain't getting any more from me. From now on, what I steal belongs in my pockets and no place else." Glace looked to the half-were. "Mathew, do you want another?"

"Later," Mathew answered. "I believe I'm about to do business."

"I'll just drop a bottle down here. Fill up when you feel the need."

Appearing concerned, Jolson rubbed the toe of his shoe in the congealing blood. "I have to leave Yylse. I don't know of anyplace else to go."

"Try Grace," Mathew suggested. "Most anybody can get lost in the king's city. That place is huge, and nobody pays much attention to anything there except whether the king will ever produce an heir."

"I've rubies for you," Selnac broke in. "Mostly common baubles but a couple are interesting." Fishing the pouch out of his front pocket, he opened its draw and spilled its contents into Mathew's outstretched palm. After dumping the jewels on the bar, Mathew did a quick sort. When he finished, six rubies, including the three largest, sat in a separate pile. He gestured at the bigger group.

"Those are mostly junk. They'll retail for about seventy rugdles. I'll give you seven for the lot. The others," he pointed a finger at the smaller pile, "are worth more. The best one is the little fellow. Altogether, I'll give you three hundred, and I won't haggle."

"Done," Selnac said because he knew he would get less in the light of day. Besides, Mathew Changer had built a reputation upon his no haggle policy. It was one of the reasons Selnac so seldom used him. Mathew's first offer was always his last. Sometimes, if you turned him down, you stopped breathing.

Showing no concern, Mathew opened his belt pouch, poured a shower of coins on the bar top, and sorted through them until he had separated out the correct amount. He put the remaining money back into the pouch and put the rubies in another. Selnac split the take, putting his half away before shoving the rest toward Jolson.

Del, a short, clean-cut young man who possessed the bad taste to be Tessla's lover, separated out of the crowd and moved toward them. Though he stood small, Del's chest was deep. His shoulders were broad, and he walked with the cocky confidence of a heavily muscled man.

"Better hide your take," he warned Jolson. "Thief's convention has it your money is safe in here, but there's no need to tempt anybody."

Ignoring Del, Jolson's narrowed eyes focused on Selnac. Dark shadows swirled within them, and his hook held a faint sheen. "This is only half."

Selnac nodded and tried not to look nervous. "Half. We're partners so half goes to each of us."

"If not for me, you would have nothing. I let us into the building. I subdued the dogs. I brought us to this fence so we could take his coins. Your only contribution was to limit how much we took."

"Selnac always was a lousy thief," Mathew supplied. "He has too much conscience and not enough common sense."

"Leave Selnac alone," Del broke in. "A lot of kids would be dead if it weren't for him." He looked to Jolson. "Selnac never cheated a partner in his life. If you have a problem with him, you better take it up with me."

Shaking his head, Selnac set a hand on the young man's shoulder. "This is my difficulty." He coughed once more and wished the room were not so filled with Tessla's cirweed smoke. The narcotics in it made his head spin.

"Yeah," Del said. "Well, starving was once my problem, but you butted in anyway. Go ahead and do your talking. I'll stand here and watch."

"This," said Mathew, "is becoming very entertaining." He lifted his drink, swallowed half of it down, and parted his mouth in a wolfish grin. "Does anyone care to place a bet on the outcome?"

"Most of my money," Selnac explained to Jolson, "goes to a woman named Mother Brood. She has nine children to feed, all of them orphans she's taken off the streets. They'd be dead if it weren't for her."

"Children die," Jolson said. "Their fate is not my concern. Living is my concern. I have learned I need money if I am to live. Most of the work was mine. So are most of the coins." The swirling shadows in his eyes became darker. The evil aura constantly surrounding him grew thicker.

"I chose the mark," Selnac reminded Jolson, "and I knew Mathew could be found here, so you can't take credit for that, but you're right about the rest of it. I couldn't have made the hit without you so most of this is rightfully yours. I'll give it to you, but if I do our partnership is broken. We'll part ways, and you'll have to make it on your own. It's up to you to decide what's in your best interest."

Jolson held out his hand. "I no longer need—" His voice broke, and his hand fell when stillness overcame the tavern's din. He stiffened. Turning his face slowly toward the outside door, Jolson shifted slightly.

A naked creature looking like a miniature sexless human stood in the doorway. The creature was so handsome it made Selnac's senses reel. Looking innocent and winsome, he wanted to rush over and cuddle it in his arms. The waves of evil emanating off it, however, were so overwhelming they made Jolson's aura pale in comparison.

With its golden eyes sparkling as it studied the tableau, the thing set one hand on its hip and cocked its head to the side. "Don't stop the party for me. I only came to collect a package."

"I'm glad I never had time to place those bets," Mathew muttered.

Walking to the bar, the demon stood before them. It looked at Mathew's wolf face and human body, and smiled a bright and innocent lie. "Interesting juxtaposition. Would you like to come home with me? I've a wall your pelt would look very good on."

Mathew studied it with nervous eyes, but his face never lost its wolf grin. "No, but I know of a few people you might be interested in, only I'll have to charge you certain procurement fees."

"Enterprising and bold," the demon noted. "Perhaps another time. I've a small task to attend to right now." It looked at Selnac, and its golden eyes laughed. "You are a very sick man. Lungs, heart, the sickness is all through you. The inside of your body is rot. In a month you won't be able to walk. In two you will be dead, and the dying will be very painful."

"I won't go back, Krastos," Jolson told it. At his side, the hook glowed faintly.

"I'm not asking you to go back. All I want is Athos's Hook. You can stay here so long as you are polite enough to die."

Its hands blurred and became knives. Screeching, it leaped toward Jolson, and then it screeched again when Jolson's swinging hook banged against its side. A stench unlike anything Selnac had ever smelled filled the room. Krastos cried like a broken child, but its crying didn't stop it in its task. It landed against Jolson's chest, knocked the hook away with one casual sweep of its arm, and poised its other knife hand over Jolson's throat. Tears of pain ran down the demon's face. Its left side was charred where Jolson's hook had touched it. The charring bubbled, firmed, and the demon's side became whole once more.

"Goodbye, spawn," it gasped, only to scream again when Selnac plunged his temple blessed knife into the demon's back. Heart thudding heavily with fear, Selnac pulled his blade free to stab it once more, but he was too slow.

Krastos released its hold on Jolson and fell to the floor. Quicksilver fast, it spun to face Selnac and leapt. Its knife hands jabbed out, struck, and the striking sent a fire through Selnac's body he couldn't believe. He gasped, gasped again when Krastos knifed him once more. Del held the little demon in the loop of his massive arms, black blood from the demon's wound oozing over his sleeves. Swearing, Glace leaped over the bar and grasped one of the demon's arms while Tessla blew out a cloud of cirweed smoke and casually looked on while her lover fought to contain the demon.

"Damn me for a fool," Mathew growled when he grabbed the demon's other arm, looking surprised at what he had done. Selnac stumbled back against the bar, weak, hurting, and watched while the three men struggled to control the single being.

Laughing, the demon threw back its head and howled gleefully. Its once innocent face twisted into lines which brought its evil into full view. Mathew and Glace were flung from side to side by the demon's struggles to free itself. Del's massive frame shook with the effort of holding Krastos. Del's face, strained, turned red, and then Selnac heard the crackle of the demon's breaking ribs, only the breaking seemed to give the demon more strength. Gasping for breath, Selnac tried to bring his knife up so he could stab Krastos once more, only his arm hung heavy at his side. His hand was empty, and his knees sagged. He looked on the floor for his knife but couldn't see it. The world around him swayed. Dropping to his knees, he grasped desperately at a table's edge to keep himself from falling to the floor.

"Kill it!" Del shouted to the motionless Jolson.

"I cannot," Jolson replied. He raised his hook. "Athos's will wards the demon. I can only give Krastos pain, and pain makes it stronger."

"You can't kill me!" Krastos howled. Twisting its head around, it tried to latch its teeth into Del's arm. Del dodged, and it missed its hold. "Hurt me! Make me strong!"

At those words, Tessla moved into Selnac's view. Sucking thoughtfully on her pipe, she blew a cloud of smoke into the air. Stilling its struggles, Krastos appeared alarmed when Tessla pulled the pipe from her mouth to grasp it by the hot bowl.

"They can't kill you," she said, "but I can."

She thrust the pipe's stem through the center of the demon's forehead. She studied her handiwork for a moment while Del continued to hold the suddenly still demon upright. Satisfied, Tessla pulled the pipe free and cleaned black blood from its stem. Finished, she carefully refilled the bowl with cirweed before looking at the stunned faces surrounding her.

"Trelsar gave me more weapons than just a sword." She looked at Jolson. "My god doesn't want you to die."

"Why not?" Jolson asked.

Releasing a narcotic smile, Tessla shrugged. Selnac easily recognized the emptiness in her eyes. The same emptiness resided Jolson. "Ask him sometime because I don't know. All I know is you're not the first spawn he's wanted to save." She placed the pipe's stem between her lips and drew. "I've always appreciated the smoky flavor of a demon's soul."

Swaying, Selnac's weakened knees finally gave way, sending him to the floor. Vision blurred, senses reeling, he looked up in time to see Del release the demon's remains. Del's face seemed stricken, his eyes haunted. Glace appeared frightened and tired, and Mathew shook his head.

"I guess I should have made the bet after all," Mathew said to Jolson. He nodded at Selnac. "You're dying. You've got blood all over your front."

"This is your fault," Del accused Jolson. "If he hadn't tried to save you—"

Chest heaving, he took a threatening step forward. Face impassive, Jolson raised his hook. "What part of your soul do you want to lose?"

"Don't," Selnac ordered, though his voice barely came out a whisper. He held up a shaking hand. The reaching took almost more strength than he owned. In some way, Tessla's cirweed smoke had become so heavy, so thick, he could barely see. His thoughts seemed dense and slow. "My choice. My decision."

Jolson knelt by his side. "Why?"

Selnac tried to smile, but a series of sudden coughs stopped him. He fought for breath and reason because he had a lesson to give. "Partners," he finally managed. "We're partners." He gestured feebly toward the hook.

"I can't help you." Jolson's eyes no longer swirled. Instead, they were flat, uncaring. "I have no healing in this." Studying his hook, he frowned. "Peace. I suppose I can give you peace. This hook has drunk more than its share of it. Athos saw no need to gift his creatures with that beverage in Hell."

"Give it to me," Selnac begged. "Give me...your peace..."

Jolson's frown grew deeper. "You have nothing I want in exchange."

"You owe me," Selnac insisted.

"Yes," Jolson finally admitted. "I suppose I do."

Flaring brighter, the hook's wicked tip pressed into the center of Selnac's forehead. Heat and pain ripped straight into Selnac's soul, but the pain didn't matter. Peace flowed over the pain, swamping it until the pain was too insignificant to pay much mind. Peace flowed into him, and the sensation was glorious beyond measure. It was more than the peace stolen from one man or woman. He was suffused with the peace of hundreds, of thousands. It surged and overwhelmed and became so distracting Selnac barely remembered to force parts of himself back into the hook, and through it, into Jolson.

Too soon, Jolson managed to pull his hook away. His eyes were troubled. "A trap," he accused. "What have you done to me?"

Looking over Jolson's shoulder, Selnac smiled. His vision's drifting waves gave him a clarity he had never experienced before. He was dying, but never before had he felt so good. Leaning on the bar, Glace frowned sadly as he handed Tessla a fresh drink. Selnac could smell her smoky clothes. One ear cocked back, a puzzled expression in his wolf's eyes, Mathew propped an elbow against the bar. Seeing tears on Del's face, Selnac wished his friend wouldn't cry. He turned his gaze back to Jolson. The spawn no longer appeared gaunt and pale. Instead, death's pallor had been overcome by mortal hue, and for this Selnac was glad.

"I'll carry on." Del's voice was a distant whisper. "Selnac, I'll carry on. Your legacy won't die."

"What have you done to me?" Jolson demanded again. "What did you force into me?"

Above them all loomed the tavern's smoke stained ceiling. Past that, far beyond the night's wispy clouds, Trelsar's hand reached down.

* * * *

Mother Brood woke to find the shadow of a hook-handed man standing in her open doorway. Gasping, she grabbed the club she kept by her side and looked to make sure none of her wards sleeping in this room had been harmed. Oblivious, they slept on.

She scrambled out of the broken couch, raised her club, and wished she was forty years younger. "One scream will have half the street on you," she warned.

"You lie," the man replied. When he reached out, she saw a leather bag dangling from his single hand. He released his hold. The bag fell, making a musical jangle as it struck the floor. His voice was filled with self-loathing and disgust. "These are for you. I kept only two rugdles."

Lowering her club, Mother Brood looked upon the bag with stunned disbelief. Its noise had sounded like gold, and the bag was almost half full. If this was true, she would be able to feed the children for most of a year.

"Why are you doing this?" She kept her voice a whisper, too low to wake her wards. "I don't know you."

"Blame Selnac," the man said bitterly. "His conscience demands it."

He turned and was gone.

Chapter 15— The God's Thief

In the distant land of Illian, South, across the Sea of Phantoms, Fox walked down the empty stone corridors of Oria, hidden beneath the mountains of Sorrow. Deep in its bowels in an intricate cave system, dwelled the thieves's guild of Illian. Hundreds of thieves called the magically altered nooks and crannies home, making the atmosphere comfortable. It was one of the few places Fox could relax enough to get a good night's sleep. The only trouble was she wasn't presently getting a good night's sleep. She hadn't gotten a good hour's sleep since arriving four days earlier.

"Damn, Dakar," she muttered. "I can't believe he actually wants me to repay him for the favor." Of course, the favor in question had been saving her life. "No matter. I still have the right to ask for a boon from the bastard, even if I do owe him."

Her mind twisted and whirled like a giant desert storm, blowing thoughts of great wealth and power through her greedy soul. The possibility of gaining a boon from a god was thrilling. Gaining this particular boon was more than thrilling.

"Money. Jewels. Fame. I want it all. I'll demand it all. That way I'll be sure to get something of value out of this. I'll never have to steal again. I can be the noble I was supposed to be."

Fox nodded sagely. A jolt of excitement ran through her veins at the boldness of her intended request. Her inner wise woman chose this moment to speak up. Just remember he's a god, young fox. Watch your step or you might get stepped on. 'Tis better to be a sly, silent little fox, always out-smarting the hound, than to be caught in the whirlwind of a god and torn apart like paper.

Fox scowled. Yes, the thought she might be overstepping her bounds had occurred to her, but she had reasoned her god would appreciate her initiative. Okay, her greed. Still, Dakar's purported philosophy claimed wealth shouldn't stay in the hands of the wealthy. Instead, it should be taken and redistributed among the populace. Since Dakar asked his followers to live life to its fullest, how could she be asking too much when it was the creed of Illian's every thief to carry out Dakar's belief in redistribution? He'd understand her demands. She knew what she was doing. Was she not the most clever, sneakiest thief in all of Illian? Why, she could charm the winds from Almitira and have the goddess none the wiser til it was too late. "I'll ask for it all. The most he'll do is tell me no, then I can tell him to go screw himself and head back to bed."

Silently groaning, her inner wise woman thought about finding someone else to counsel.

Fox hesitated upon arriving at the temple doors. Ten feet high and ten across, curving upward into a graceful arch, the thick, massive doors were made of an expensive hardwood covered with hundreds of designs flowing like water over their burnished surfaces. It fascinated her how the designs always looked a little different each time she came here. Reaching out, Fox traced one of the delicate silver vines with its tiny elliptical leaves. As it ran upward, partially hidden faces of beautiful women and animals, both known and strange to her, seemed to flee beneath her touch. The wood felt warm. It vibrated under her fingers. As always, Fox sensed it was somehow alive. Sometimes, she wondered if the images were real people and animals trapped inside the wood. Then again, at other times she thought maybe she was letting her imagination get the best of her. She once told Taymor of the images. Curious, he came with her one time. His only response upon touching the door was to question if her hands were warmer than his before giving her a condescending smile and a pat on the shoulder.

Fuming, Fox had nearly kicked him right then and there for his insolence.

"So, where are you today, my sly little fellow?" she murmured while running her fingers lightly over the designs, looking for the small red creature she took as her namesake. Finding the fox was a game she always played before entering the temple to give Dakar her offering. She often thought the small icon knew what she was about and tried its best to hide from her.

"I know you're here somewhere." A feeling touched her, stroked invisible fingers across her belly. She looked up slowly for fear a quick movement would make the creature run into hiding. She need not have bothered. There, sitting in plain sight, the little red trickster stared down at her, not even bothering to hide. Fox scrunched her face, feeling perplexed. It usually took her ten to fifteen minutes to find the sneaky little beast.

Then— much to her surprise— it blinked.

Dropping her hand to her side, Fox stepped back from the door.

A squeaky voice, no more than a whisper, came from the creature's mouth "No games today, Fox."

Fox took another step back, feeling amused by this change in the routine. Never before had the creature spoken to her.

"He's been waiting just a bit too long for you so he's not in a particularly patient mood. Maybe we can play another time." Winking, it stood up on carved legs and disappeared in the crack between the doors.

Amused, Fox stared at the crack. After a few moments, the little fox peeked back through the thin opening and cocked its head. "What are you waiting for? I wasn't kidding about him being in a bad mood. You don't keep a god waiting."

Fox scowled at the carving which might or might not be a figment of her imagination. "I don't have to do this. In fact, maybe I don't want to." She shook her head. Was she really talking to a fox engraved on a door?

Clenching her hands in frustration, her body stiffened. Nobody, not even a god, could order or push her around. If Dakar didn't treat her with respect, she might just turn around, march back the way she came and return in a day or two or three or maybe not at all.

Flattening its ears, the fox's tear shaped eyes grew very large. "Oh, you shouldn't play games with a god, my little namesake. Not this one anyway. He's been waiting a long time for someone like you. I mean a long time." Its ears perked up, and its head disappeared back between the cracks.

The doors slid silently open, causing Fox to step backwards. Her heart fluttered, and her stomach tied itself in knots at the thought of what she was about to do. She considered running back the way she had come, but her dream's voice now spoke from within the temple.

Welcome, Kaima Marwin.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin. "It's Fox," she corrected curtly. No one, not even a god could call her by a name she detested. The sound of it filled her with loathing. Anger made her curse the day she'd been conceived by her whore of a mother.

She stood stiff-legged and stared into the empty temple, doubt tumbling about inside her head. Was this such a wise idea, to deal with a god? When was the last time she heard of anyone coming out on the good end of one of these bargains?

These questions and more swirled around within her mind. Questions, in hindsight, she should have asked herself before allowing her greed to get the better of her. The desire to be the god's thief diminished within her, something her inner wise woman applauded. She took another step backwards.

Where are you going, Fox? Does not your ambition want you to be known as my personal thief, my shadow?

Fox hesitated when the invisible voice whispered through her mind. His shadow? Was Dakar offering something so wondrous as a reward? With that boon, she would be unstoppable. No door, no lock, no chain, would keep her from slipping into the shadows and claiming her prize, because she would literally be a shadow. But—

"I think I need more time to make my decision." She swallowed and fidgeted. She wasn't used to second guessing herself. Once she made a decision, she stuck by it, but there was something subtly wrong about the whole thing. Leaving to rethink the matter seemed like a good idea.

I see. Aren't you going to come in and give me my offering? The god's voice was louder now, with an edge to it. His voice slithered into the corridor, cold and angry. Was it not I to whom you prayed when you were nearly caught filching the Hildale emerald? Did you not beg me to save you? Do these words bring familiar memories? 'Please, god of the night, hear my prayer, and I shall give this emerald to you in offering as long as I can live to thieve another day?'

This was not good. Tensing, Fox gave serious thought to the idea of running, but could she outdistance a god? Yes, she had said those words while standing in the magician's garden on a deathly quiet moonless night. At the time, a mage was about to turn her to stone. Making promises to an absent god had not seemed untoward, and really, it wasn't as if she had expected Dakar to answer her plea.

"Well," Fox said, "I take it from your tone coming inside would be a good idea if not the only one." Shivering, she waited for a reply, but none came.

No help for it. She took a deep breath, gathered up her courage, and walked into the temple. She would give Dakar the emerald, tell him what he wanted to hear, then run as fast and as far as she could.

Her inner wise woman laughed. Fat chance, sister.

Fox scowled. Stupid voice.

The dimly lit temple was empty but for statuary, decorations, and a few offerings. Around her all sound seemed muted, surrealistic, like someone had stuffed cotton in her ears. In the middle of the cavernous room resided an altar, a dim massive shape that sent shivers to her bones. Shadows danced and slid along the floors and walls, living, breathing creatures of the dark. Fox's stomach spasmed when her sense of unease deepened.

Firming her shoulders, she strode to the altar, stopped in front of it, and withdrew the leather pouch with the emerald in it. Dumping the emerald into her hand, she placed it carefully on the altar's black, shiny surface, and looked cautiously about her.

The air above the altar shimmered like heat waves in the desert. Shadows flowed across the room, swirling into its epicenter, blown by a wind which spoke of the coldness of death. The darkness churned, hung suspended for a moment, and then began to take form.

Fox wrapped her arms about her slight frame. She took a step backward toward the door.

"Thank you, my little fox. I am glad to see you kept your promise." A tall, dark, smoky image of a man formed above the altar. With slow, deliberate motions, his head bowed until his eyes gazed deep into hers. Dakar's voice was a rich, smooth baritone. At first, she thought he was dark-skinned and naked but then realized his clothing fit him like a second skin, showing off every intimate detail of his impressive anatomy.

Cocking her head to the side, Fox studied the god with appreciative eyes. The form fitting trousers hugging his muscular calves and thighs almost guaranteed the god had a great ass to match the rest of the package. His sleeveless shirt lay open to his waist, exposing a broad expanse of ridged muscle. Fox's senses reeled for a moment. Until now, she had only seen Dakar in century's old tiled reliefs. Nothing in those reliefs had led her to believe he looked this exciting. Lust stirred, making her want to drop to her knees, bow her head, and beg him to use her as he willed. An odor exuded from him. Tendrils of sensuous insistence reached out and caressed her body.

Fox grit her teeth and firmed her resolve. Among other things, Dakar was the god of lust, but she was the Fox, a creature unwilling to be controlled. Feeling bold, she allowed her eyes to drift back up to his face. Strong and angular, he wore a close-cropped beard and mustache. She wasn't sure about his hair in the dim light. It looked like it was tied back away from his face. Once again, Fox met his eyes and the fear driven away by her earlier lust returned. Twin red furnaces burned within the shadows of Dakar's face, intense and probing.

"Like what you see, child?"

Taking a deep, steadying breathe, Fox decided to ignore his attempt to make her uncomfortable. Besides, damn-it, she was a young healthy woman with a very active libido. She wasn't ashamed for admiring his maleness or his beauty. She just refused to be controlled by it.

"Thanks for helping me back at the old mage's house. If you hadn't intervened, he would have caught me."

The gods only knew what the mage would have done to her. She remembered seeing several statues wearing terrified expressions in his courtyard, all either cowering in fear or seeming to flee in terror. If not for Dakar, her own image would have been among those.

"But as I said then, I'm not sure about doing this chore for you, whatever it may be." She glanced nervously at the temple doors and tried to calculate how fast she could get to them.

The temple doors started to close.

Fox panicked. Jerking around, she sprinted to the doors and dove for the narrowing opening, but in mid-dive a giant hand wrapped itself around both her feet and yanked her up into the air. The doors shut quietly, and warnings screamed in her head.

Trapped.

"Damn you! Let me go!" She wriggled and flung her arms in a wild attempt to break free of the invisible grip, but failed. Instead, she floated through the air to within a foot of where her god's image stood above the altar. He held her there, his head cocked to one side, studying her.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

From her position of utter helplessness, she watched him give her a tight-lipped smile and arch a shadowy eyebrow.

Fury and fear lent her boldness. She cursed at Dakar, tried to strike him. Failing in the attempt, she yelled at him some more. "Put me down!"

Thunk.

Fox crashed to the floor in a disorganized heap, mostly landing on her head. Cursing, she rolled over and put a hand to her skull. Already, she felt a knot rising. She groaned, came slowly to her feet, rubbing her head and cursing her god. God or not, he couldn't treat her like this. She wouldn't allow it. If this relationship had any future other than god to slave, boundaries had to be set.

"By the gods! You son of a whore! Who do you think you are?" Glaring, Fox bared her teeth.

Dakar's form darkened. A cold wind rose up around her, shoving her to her knees with a sharp crack. Fox whimpered.

"Little thief, who are you to call me a son of a whore? My ancestry comes from nobility so ancient your finite mind cannot even imagine the passage of years."

His voice was cold and furious, his eyes blinding beacons of fire red. Fox didn't care. No matter what, this meeting would be on her terms, not his.

Without warning, the cold wind ceased. Not being entirely stupid, Fox remained kneeling. "Would you prefer to be a son of a goat instead?"

The wind returned in force, knocking her to the ground. Fox landed on her side, bit down on a moan, and struggled to her knees again. She tried to rise to her feet. The wind shoved her back down. The smacking of her knees on the flagstones produced a yelp.

"Hurt does it?" Dakar asked. "How about I bounce you off my temple walls a bit and see if I can break something?" His visage grew darker, his smile more devious.

"Go ahead. Do what you want," Fox replied. "For someone in desperate need of the best thief in all of Illian, you aren't winning any friends here." Still on her knees, Fox's eyes narrowed. She spoke through gritted teeth. Let him threaten her all he wanted. She wouldn't back down.

Dakar's smile disappeared. His eyes became thin red slits. After a moment, Fox was allowed to rise.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she said, rubbing a particularly sore spot on her elbow while finally managing to make it back to her feet. "You're in desperate need of a thief. Why? And don't play any games with me. You'll get more out of me with the truth than some load of horse shit about divine destiny."

"Clever. That's what I like most about you."

Fox snorted.

Dakar scowled. "And disrespectful."

"I give it when I get it," she retorted back, refusing to make this easy by playing the sheep.

Stepping down from the altar, Dakar walked over to a shadow shrouded wall before turning to look at her, a serious expression on his face. With a brief flicker of his fingers, he cast the shadows away. "Do you see this relief?" He gestured with his hand to a large tiled picture taking up nearly the entire wall.

The relief pictured Dakar locked in battle with a beautiful woman in white. Although she was not an expert, Fox thought the craftsmanship amazing. It looked like the woman's gown rippled upon the wall as if blown by an unseen wind. Above, looking down from the heavens, other beings watched the battle, their faces stern, unforgiving. Dakar's likeness looked pissed, the woman triumphant. She held something aloft in her hand which Dakar reached for, a rock maybe?

"Yes," she replied. "What of it?" Fox folded her arms in front of her and sighed. Already she was tired of this game.

"You don't know what it depicts?" He tilted his head to the side again and looked at her curiously.

"No, should I? Is this some sort of pre-test or pre-qualification for the job?" she snapped. The knot on her head throbbed. Her belly rumbled. Couldn't he just get to the point?

An icy wind skimmed across her body as if she were naked. Her breath came out in white puffs. Fox's teeth chattered. "H-hey— okay, s‒s‒sorry. T‒t‒turn the h‒heat back up."

"I am a god, Fox. Time means very little to me. I have waited long for one such as you, but I can always make another who is your equal. I have been patient for thousands of years. What's another twenty?"

Fox rubbed her arms and stamped her feet. "You n‒need to lighten up, oh d‒dark and d‒d‒devious one, and turn the damn heat back up. If you have waited a long time for me then you d‒d‒on't want me walking right back out the door once I b‒break through it." Her body ached. Her head throbbed. This was not what she imagined the meeting with Dakar would be. She had expected him to be more conciliatory. After all, she was doing him a favor. She could have left the guild and went about her business, ignoring him altogether.

Yeah, and that would have got you killed you half-wit, the wise woman quipped. As usual, the bitch seemed to be having a field day with Fox's misery.

The darkness walked/drifted over to her. "Let's try this again, Fox." His voice was a dark whisper echoing both in her head and around the room.

Clutching a hand at her aching skull, Fox scowled at the smoky image and took a deep breath. Yes, she thought, let's try this again.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, lifting her chin defiantly.

He stood there a moment looking at her with an intense, still angry, gaze.

"I want my eye put back."

"Your what?" Fox said incredulously. Did he just tell her he wanted his eye back? From where she stood, he appeared to have two. Was he supposed to have some secret third one hidden somewhere on his body? She stared hard at his head. Maybe he had one stuck in the center of his forehead at some earlier time.

"My eye, the one which once resided in my temple at Lost Falls in Yernden, the one stolen from me thousands of years ago by one of my followers when I was otherwise unavailable. The one recently returned to me by a credulous believer who thought I would reward his sacrilege of touching my eye without permission."

Dakar faced her. His image blurred for a moment. His eyes flashed brilliant red. The temple's temperature dropped several more degrees. Fox hoped he realized if it became any colder she would become a human icicle, and then what good would she be to him. She gave a violent shiver. "There is no such t-t-temple called Lost F-falls. There is no such p-p-place. Could you turn the heat back on? Pleeeseeee."

Dakar appeared to struggle with his power and his own anger. The god's appearance slowly became distinct again. The room warmed. "There is such a place as Lost Falls, though it has long ago fallen into rubble. It was once my gateway into this world. It allowed me to be more than a mere shadow here. Unlike the nano-created finite gods who arrived from the human birth world, I once roamed the entire universe, traveling between the voids, the shadows, knowing and seeing all."

Fox stared at him, confused. "I don't get it," she admitted. The room started to sway a bit, reminding her sleep was something she didn't do well without. "If you— wait! You're here now, in front of me. I can see you just fine. You don't look like a shadow. Besides, I've never had a shadow beat the crap out of me before." Scare the living shit out of her, too.

"It was your own fault. We could have done this the easy way."

Fox bristled at the sneer in his voice. "And what is the easy way? Me rolling over and saying 'here, fuck me where it counts'?"

Dakar stilled. The fires in his eyes dimmed. Unexpectedly, he laughed gently. His laughter floated around the room, light, seductive. "Only if you would like me to."

Fox blushed. She wasn't sure why, but the thought of the two of them, human flesh and god shadow, engaged in—. She stopped her thoughts before they could get her in trouble. "Fine. Yes." Tired, sore, and starving, Fox gave up. She would find a way out of servitude later. By her lights, it was better to live to fight another day than have the life kicked and frozen out of her by an irate and unreasonable god.

Dakar's smoky image smiled. Reaching out, he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. Fox tingled to the touch. Her body warmed. Calm spread through her entire being, her mind slowed, and the need to escape disappeared. The desire to please him became paramount.

"Good, I have your word then that you will help me?"

Fox nodded. Of course she would help. He was her god, and he would reward her. "Yes, yes, my word." Her voice had suddenly turned husky.

Dakar gave her a deep throaty laugh, thick with the promise of things dark and delicious. "For your service you will be granted great riches," he whispered. "I will make of you my personal thief. I will show you treasures you never knew existed." Stepping closer, he tilted her head upward and kissed her.

Fox sighed.

Smiling, Dakar's hands slid down her arms. He gently gripped her elbows and pulled her to him. Fox rose up on her toes, placed her hands on his hard chest, and kissed her god again. His lips devoured hers. He felt so warm— so real. Only the slightest shifting of his lips indicated he was only a shadow.

Fox's body tingled, and her belly tightened. Dakar's shadowy arms wrapped about her body, slid down her back. Fox couldn't believe how solid he felt, how sensuous his hands were as they kneaded her butt. Breaking the kiss, he lowered his face to her neck. Fox groaned at the sensation. His lips were warm and getting warmer. Dakar tightened his hold upon her. A pinprick of heat, intense, painful, burned into her skin just below her earlobe. Gripping him tighter, Fox cried out, half in pain, half in pleasure. The two sensations exploded within her. Her body clenched in ecstasy. With a shuddering gasp, she climaxed, and then her body went limp in his arms.

Dakar held her close, breathing hard. Fox felt the hard length of him pressed against her body. "By the shadows, you sure as hell feel real." Fox closed her eyes, overcome by exhaustion. "I wonder what it would be like if you used more than your mouth."

"Wait until I am fully able to come into your world, Fox. I shall grant ecstasy you have never known, give you riches beyond your imaginings. I will make of you my queen, my sweet, little thief."

Fox wanted to object to being called sweet but his voice was so soft, so relaxing. Closing her eyes, she drifted to a land far away, in a forest deep and quiet, and a temple long forgotten. One last thought touched her before she drifted away. He had promised to make her his queen. It was good to hear because she now knew even the gods could lie.

* * * *

Two months later, Fox stood on the deck of the heaving cargo ship as it neared the Port of Yylse and thought of doing a bit of heaving herself. Waves slapped viciously at the worn wooden sides. The slapping made her think of the slaves in the bowels of the ship being tended by the caress of their master's whip. She so wanted to be home in Oria, the hidden city of the thieves's guild in Illian. At this moment, she would give anything to be in her soft bed beneath the mountain, tucked in tightly with her lover, Taymor. But no, her god demanded she make this wretched passage across the sea to some foreign city named Yylse.

Fox's stomach lurched when the ship crested another swell. She covered her mouth with the back of a hand. Bile rose strong and vicious up her throat, then unbidden, spewed out over the ship's side. Clutching the railing with white knuckles, she cursed the fate that had brought her here. What had she done to deserve this? Why did her god pick her for this stupid voyage? Fox hated water. She couldn't swim. The only time she ever wanted to be wet was while soaking in a hot, sudsy tub.

"Aye there, young master," a rough voice said beside her. "Come away from the side. We're heading into rough seas, and ye'll want to be in yer cabin strapped down. Another day and we'll be on Yernden's shores. Not a good thing if ye ask me. Too many ill-fated things happening there."

Shaking his head, the first mate patted Fox on the back. His deeply tanned, bare chest glistened with sea spray, and his long brown hair lay wet and curled against his head. In all, he was a tempting sight for a woman's lust or would have been if she hadn't been puking her guts out the entire voyage. Two weeks of unusually rough seas, tossing and thrashing her about in her cabin, had left her body abused and her brain fuzzy. If not for the rancid smell of her own vomit polluting her cabin air, she wouldn't be above deck now.

Glancing at the first mate through slit eyes, Fox tried to appreciate his fine looks. At any other time, in any other place, she would have been hard pressed to keep her hands to herself. As it was, she didn't want to ride on anything that might toss or rock, no matter how tempting. Besides, there was also the matter of Taymor to consider before doing anything so rash.

In all, about half the ship's crew were fairly young and attractive, dark skinned and well-muscled. The others were older men whose looks could scare sea monsters back to their quiet, dark holes. It was the second half who worried her. They had been at sea so long they found anyone attractive, even a woman disguised as a man.

The first mate watched her intently, dark eyes lit with part amusement and maybe just a touch of sympathy. Mostly amusement, Fox decided. She scowled.

"Man overboard!"

Almost too sick to care, Fox lifted her head and watched as some poor bastard thrashed about in the water while the ship quickly left him behind.

"Damn, there goes another slave," the first mate muttered. "Fool. Once the creatures get a whiff of him, he'll be food."

Fox felt sorry for the captives held below deck. She remembered what it was like to be a slave, to be used unmercifully. She understood the desperation for escape, but that time was in the past. Now, for this time, Fox served no one but herself. She was nobody's pawn. Even the god, Dakar, paid dearly for her service.

Absently reaching up, she touched the warm spot on her neck just beneath her right ear where Dakar had laid his kiss.

"Come now, boy, let's get ye battened down for the night. Plenty of time to become sick later. We wouldn't want the king's personal advisor accidentally getting tossed overboard." The mate's smile was open, inviting, and absolutely stunning, his chocolate brown eyes devastating. Gods, she wished she were not sick. But no, she wasn't here to bring joy to either herself or any of these depraved, lust filled, gorgeous sailors, especially not the ugly toothless ones. She was here to suffer, to throw up her insides, and to carry Dakar's stupid eye back to his stupid temple in the stupid mountains of Yernden.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, everything was stupid.

She eyed the mate again, wondering about future prospects. "What's your name again?"

"First Mate Heldar, Lord Marwin," he replied.

She smiled weakly. "I'll remember to tell his majesty how helpful you were to me." And if ever Taymor and she should part, she would hunt First Mate Heldar down with a vengeance— at least while they were on land.

He laughed. Such a joyful sound. Fox wondered how the hell anyone could be so happy on this sea while being tossed around like a sack of grain on market day.

"I thank ye, mam. Mayhap there be a little something extra for me in this before ye leave." His smile morphed to knowing, and his gaze heated. "I came to yer cabin the first night ye boarded. The door was cracked, and ye warn't quite...dressed." His voice constricted. "I fancied to see ye had quite a nice..." His voice fading off, he allowed his gaze to drift downward to stare pointedly at her chest.

Fox narrowed her eyes. Cute or not, Heldar was pushing the boundaries. No one got the jump on her. "What kind of extra are you looking for?"

He shrugged. His smile slipped a notch. His eyes grew hungry. "From what I seen, yer a might beautiful woman. When ye've been out on the sea for as long as I have, a man's needs get neglected. I know ye carry a great bounty with ye', but I have money a plenty. Right now, I'd rather have the touch of yer hands on my body than anything else."

Fox sighed, feeling resigned. Because her belly felt like it was splitting open, she didn't particularly want to have to resort to sordid means while on the ship. On the other hand, she also didn't want to give away her identity. Then again, she certainly didn't want to betray Taymor's trust either. Killing Heldar was out of the question as well. All things considered, the horny sailor left her no choice.

Fox smiled, slow and seductively, with a twinkle in her eye. "I see, First Mate Heldar. Since you seem to be an honest sort I suppose one night of obliging you won't hurt, but seriously, I'm far too ill to be interesting."

Heldar's eyes grew large, his features excited. The muscles in his chest tensed.

"Well now, as to that, I have something'll help with yer sickness. My shift ends in the wee morning hours. I'll come to ye then an' ye won't mind so much as ye'll be feeling better."

Fox nodded, but she wanted to smack him alongside the head so hard his ears fell off. How dare he have something for her stomach the whole time and not bother giving it to her until he was in the mood for a tumble? The fool would be lucky if she didn't leave him tied to the mast naked, covered in honey and bread crumbs.

Looking at the horizon, the darkening gray sky told her she didn't have much time to come up with a plan. Night approached. Fortunately she was Fox. A plan would soon form.

Lurching from side to side on the unsteady deck, Fox followed her sex-starved sailor back to his bunk where he fished out a bit of a pasty substance wrapped in waxed cloth. When she tried it, the paste tasted absolutely foul, but strangely, her stomach seemed to settle almost immediately.

"Later," the mate promised her.

"Later," Fox agreed and headed toward her cabin. If all went well, she would be in Yylses's port by early to mid-morning. From there she would travel across land toward Yernden's capital city, Grace, before slipping from the trail and disappearing into the mountains.

Fox's stomach spasmed at the thought of all that lay before her. "How in the dark realms did I ever get myself entangled in this farce?"

Greed my girl, greed, whispered her inner wise woman.

Yes, greed was definitely a reason, but her renowned skill as the best thief in Illian was a larger factor. When her god, Dakar, had taken great notice of this skill he had recruited her to his cause.

Fox snorted. Recruited? More like pounded and threatened til she gave in. But again, she had only herself to blame. Her and her big mouthed, hugely inflated, self-delusional, and overly proud ego.

Upon reaching her cabin, Fox stumbled inside and locked the door before throwing herself on her bed. The ship rocked, creaked, and rolled and shifted beneath her aching body, making her hammock sway in ever increasing arc, proving the paste was only partially effective.

"If only the nightmare would end. I'd do anything to make it stop," Fox whispered to herself, and then she tensed. Hadn't saying she would do anything to keep from being caught during a botched job gotten her into this mess?

"Just kidding my dark, greedy, deceptive god." She couldn't afford to owe her god anything else.

If only she had run when the little fox on the door had spoken to her.

* * * *

Fox smiled at the sight of the drugged first mate lying in her hammock. He would wake up in a few hours with a hell of a headache but mostly unharmed. Unable to fight the temptation, she bent down, kissed his slack lips, and ran a hand over his muscled chest. Straightening, Fox sighed. She would have liked to have bedded him. It would have been easier and much more entertaining than drugging the fellow, but Taymor waited for her back home. He believed in their love. Fox wished she was equally sure on the matter, but until she knew one way or another she wouldn't screw things up by foxing around— well, except with a god, of course. Taymor couldn't exactly fault her for being unfaithful with a god.

Chuckling, she closed the door quietly behind her and checked for the pouch hidden beneath her traveling coat to make sure Dakar's eye was still tucked neatly away. After all, as long as her god had sought the thing, she doubted Dakar would be understanding if she lost it now.

Fox slipped up the stairs, out onto the deck, then down the gangplank. The late afternoon sun sparkled across the deep blue of the bay like tiny diamonds. A scattering of merchants were already out shouting their wares, but otherwise the streets appeared empty. For some reason, there seemed to be an unusually nervous air about the people on and about the docks. They watched each other out of the corner of their eyes while their hands strayed near their weapons. Everyone seemed on edge, almost as if they expected an attack at any moment. Fox hesitated before continuing. Something in her gut told her to avoid this city with its rumors of demons and dark gods, but she had a task to perform, and the task required her to come this way.

"Here ye go, Lord Marwin."

Fox turned. A burly sailor threw her pack at her. Fox nearly dropped the bag as she caught it. "Wait a minute!" Fox scowled. Who in hell did this fool think he was?

The fool in question turned to go back on the ship.

"Hey there! You're supposed to take me to the Dancing Unicorn Inn. Where are you going?"

The sailor stopped and half-twisted to look at her over his shoulder. "Change of plans. Yylse has been officially put off limits to all members of this crew. We need all the hands we have and can't afford ta' lose any to no hell creatures, by order of the captain." Turning away, the sailor continued up the plank.

Fox growled. Her face warmed. "At least point me in the right damn direction you coward!" she shouted. Her Anterian accent slipped the angrier she got.

The sailor kept going, not even bothering to challenge her insult, and she found this alarming. Illian men hated to be insulted. What was it about this port they were they so afraid of? Were the rumors true, or did the captain just believe they were true?

Fox turned her gaze to the dismal faces all around her. There had to be someone who could tell her how to get to the Dancing Unicorn. She walked up to a young man dressed in dark robes and tried to address him, but he scurried away before she came within five feet.

Fox frowned. Why was she being avoided? The problem couldn't be her clothing, not when they were the finest to be had in Anterian nobility. In fact, there were no finer silks in all of Illian than what she presently wore. Fox did a quick visual check to make sure there were no stains on her trousers or overcoat. There weren't, and her black leather boots were polished to a high sheen. She was the perfect picture of an Anterian gentleman.

She tried several more times to speak to someone, but most either moved away or told her to bugger off, which rather pissed Fox.

"My my, what have we here?"

A voice sounding of long, steamy nights wrapped itself around Fox's body. It wove tendrils of hot desire, making her wet. Fox turned as if an invisible hand had hold of her shoulders.

Like a puppet on strings, Fox stumbled forward into the arms of a tall, blue-skinned woman, feeling her body explode in sensations only Dakar had ever raised in her. Without thinking, she stepped further into the woman's embrace and tilted her head upward in anticipation of a kiss.

Smiling, the woman touched Fox's chin with a finger. "What a treat. Such a beautiful little thing. I thought Illian men were bigger, though? Are you truly a man or did you forget to grow?"

A long, taloned finger plucked at an errant black curl from Fox's queue. The hand continued down the side of her face, across her throat, and slid seductively over Fox's breasts. The blue woman's hand stopped to fondle Fox, running her thumb in slow circles around Fox's raised nipple.

Groaning, Fox pushed her breast further into the woman's hand. In the haze of pleasure, she didn't notice a growing pain until it started to sear her flesh. She gasped when Dakar's mark burned fiercely on her neck, driving back the blue woman's magic.

Fox's eyes widened in panic at how easily she had been taken. With a jerk, she tore herself from the woman's embrace and stumbled backwards. Knees giving way, she sat heavily on the street and scrabbled away from the seductress.

Green hair, blue skin, lips the color of fresh blood, the woman screamed of a creature from Hell. Apparently the rumors were true.

"Hmm. Interesting," the woman mused. "Not many can resist me. Tell me girl, what exactly are you?"

Fox froze. Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she pulled herself to her feet. "I know not who you are, but I do know my business is not with you. Move on." Fox met the woman's stare head on. Dakar stirred in her mind as his power flowed through her body. Apparently, he was not happy with this turn of events.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "I am Belthethsia, and you should take care to address me with respect. Unfortunate things happen to those who do not." The blue-skinned woman took a step toward Fox.

Within her, Dakar's power flared hot and angry, freeing Fox from the bitch's influence. Pulling her rapier from its scabbard with a fluid jerk, she took a fighting stance.

Belthethsia took another step closer, inhaled deeply. "What are you? What god do you serve? The power riding you is strange, not of the Seven or Two. One of the mongrel godlings, perhaps? A foreign outcast? Maybe you would be worth something to Athos— enough to get me back into Hell. Or perhaps I should drain the power from your body and add it to my own?"

Fox ground her teeth. This blue seductress was sadly mistaken if she thought Fox would go anywhere with her. Fox's gutter slang returned with a vengeance. All pretenses of being Anterian nobility burned away in her fear and anger. "Back off bitch! I ain't nobody's prize."

Belthethsia took another half-step forward, closed the distance, and stopped so close Fox could almost feel her breath. She cocked her head to the side as if listening to some silent call, before turning her gaze to Fox once more. "For now, I have more important prey. I suggest you not stay in Yylse or ever come back when you leave."

She took off in a blur of blue speed.

Fox shook. What the hell was that thing? She'd never been attracted to women before. The sensuous feel of the woman's hand upon her breast lingered, making Fox angry. Her surroundings came back into focus. Around her, a crowd had gathered in hopes of being entertained. One pair of yellow eyes, dark and dangerous, watched her from a furred face. Fox started. The thing was half-man, half-wolf. Fox couldn't tear her eyes away from the repulsive beast. It moved closer, looking hungry, but for what Fox didn't know. She raised her still drawn rapier between them as the thing glided closer.

"I'll issue the same warning to you as I did her, thing," she ordered. "Stay back."

The beast's lip curled. "My, my, Lord Marwin, and what a pleasure it is to meet you. I heard an Anterian noble was on board, a messenger from Ilian's King. I didn't expect such a wonderful morsel. I believe we have some business to attend to."

Fox shook her head. "Not with you, I don't. Step off fur face or you'll be missing your snout. I have personal matters of my own."

It growled. Long sharp canine's revealed themselves in a snarl. "You would also do well to not offend me, Lordling. I own this city. If you plan to get any further than this wharf, I suggest you play nice."

Around them, the crowd thinned to ten men and the wolf beast. Each man wore the hungry, hard expression of a predator. Fox swallowed— hard. Even her god couldn't help with this. Not in this land outside his realm.

She prepared herself for battle as the beast came closer. "I don't associate with your kind. My king told me to be quick about his business, so move on."

"Let's be civilized about this," the wolf-man said, ignoring her sword's threat. "I have something you want, and you have something I want."

Fox's stomach twisted. "And that would be?"

Moving closer, the beast carefully pushed Fox's rapier point to the side, invading her personal space. The thing was huge, almost a foot taller than Fox's five-foot-two inch frame. From this close, its fetid breath heated Fox's neck and ear on the side with Dakar's mark. His tongue, wet and rough, licked slowly up her throat. Holding her breath, Fox fought down the urge to kill the beast-man.

"Mmm." Leaning back, the beast rolled its eyes while bits of drool dropped to the cobbled street from its muzzle. "Delicious." It blinked and focused its attention once more. "Lordling, you want your freedom, and I want your shadow."

Fox exhaled sharply, her breath harsh in her throat. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You can't possess someone's shadow."

The beast chuckled. Reaching up a furred hand, it lightly stroked Dakar's mark. "I thought this a legend— a story told to scare young children. But here it is— the mark of Dakar, just as certain sources told me it would be."

Helpless against these odds, Fox watched as the beast took her rapier from nerveless fingers. "Who the hell are you?" she whispered.

The thing barred its teeth in an attempt at a smile. Its tongue hung out one side of its mouth. "Matthew Changer, but you can call me partner."

Chapter 16— Huntress

Tessla sucked down a lungful of cirweed smoke and wondered what it would feel like when she died. Since she presently had nothing better to do, she stared at the dim light of an afternoon sun seeping through the prison's window, exhaled past the stem of her emptied pipe, and sat up to place her head in the swirl of smoke. The smoke seeped into her, filled her lungs, and crept into the deepest recesses of her flesh. It numbed pain and neutralized the poison of Athos's curse. The poison tried to curl past the smoke, failed, and retreated to lay quiescent within her cells.

With the help of the cirweed, her poison damaged body began to heal. Torn tissue became firm. Leaking vessels sealed, and rotting flesh became almost pure. The pain lessened, stopped. Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, Tessla stood and walked three steps to reach her prison door.

Trelsar called. It was time to leave.

"Please," she whispered to the solid oak door. "Let me through."

Placing her palm against wood, she repeated her plea. Oak shifted and stirred. Wood grain flowed until a crack formed. With a satisfied nod, Tessla turned her body sideways and slipped through. Behind her, wood groaned, and the door became whole.

Tessla grunted when she saw the blond guard, Lexos, standing halfway down the hall. Fate had dictated he was almost always on duty when she chose to leave her cell. She gave him an empty smile.

"You can't go," he protested. "It's my job if you do."

Tessla looked deep within his pores. There were things in there, tiny things that ate and grew and multiplied in ways she didn't understand. She sometimes saw their like within septic wounds. Further in, she saw the small size of Lexos's soul, light yellow and overcast with gray muddy hues.

Pulling the soul-sucking pipe from her mouth, she slid it into her pouch. "I'm sorry. I won't return."

"You have to," he insisted.

"Kiss me," Tessla offered and smiled when he stumbled back.

He didn't try to stop her. Neither did the other guards when she walked past the front desk and out the door. Not surprising. Nobody ever dared stop Trelsar's Assassin when she followed her god's will.

When her feet touched the walkway lining Yylse' main street, Tessla stopped. She stayed still for several moments, breathing in the stench of human waste and dust and animal sweat. From high overhead the sun peered, a small pinprick of light lost in the wasteland of empty dark. To her, the sun's light barely showed. She lived in perpetual twilight, seeing shadows where others saw faces. She recognized people by the texture of their souls.

Around her, humans walked along the boardwalk and in the street. Delivery wagons beat garbage and animal feces into the dirt. Deep within her body, Athos's corruption stirred and surged, but the remaining cirweed beat it down. Blocks away, a life she sought flickered.

* * * *

Mercktos pulled his cloak tight about himself and stepped deeper into the shadows. He hoped Tessla was too preoccupied to see him. He scowled. Tessla had changed since her time in Hell. He didn't know if the change had made her weak or strong. A great deal of his plans and the plans of others depended on the answer. Even when she had resided in Hell as a spawn, she had been formidable. Now that she was free of Hell, Mercktos doubted few hellborn were her equal. After pulling her spawn body from the deep pits, Trelsar had designed Tessla's new form specifically to battle hellborn in non-traditional ways. No hellborn knew exactly of what she was capable, and he found this scary. Of late, her abilities seemed to have morphed. Scarier yet. If her changes had gone further than most believed, Zorce and Athos could be in danger.

Mercktos cursed. He needed to get back to Grace and warn his god of Trelsar taking an active hand. If Tessla protected the escaped spawn, as he suspected, then Sulya would also need to know. Not that he cared whether the damned similian succeeded, but if she failed Zorce would punish him for not warning her.

Allowing his eyes to roam Tessla's spare body while she walked away, his scowl grew deeper at the sight of her confidence. He had once owned the bitch when she was fully spawn. Even then, she had been strange. For reasons not yet understood, her spawn body had refused to remain as it was created. Within weeks of its inhabitation by her soul, she became beautiful and smart and graceful, unlike any other spawn he had ever seen. Intrigued, he fought another for her ownership, winning it in a bout of blood and death. Triumphant, he stood before her, expecting her to kneel to his might.

She would not kneel.

Angered by her refusal to cringe, he tortured her almost nightly and attempted to rape her, but she refused to be raped. Instead, she joined herself to him willingly, giving herself with passion, accepting pain and blood, reveling in the joy of sadistic sex. Her giving jerked emotions out of him he hadn't felt since long before his fall. Soon, he found himself less willing to hurt her, less willing to hate. Before long, their sex became so gentle she hardly ever bled. He found himself thinking of love and realized Tessla had laid an insidious trap. Hellborn did not love.

Except he wasn't hellborn, not truly. He was a greater devil fallen from Anothosia's grace, one of the original colonists who had helped nano curse this world by unknowingly carrying Zorce's creation to it. At one time he had known gentler emotions. Since his fall those gentle emotions had been foreign to him until Zorce, on a whim, stole half his strength by sticking a damned stolen heart in his chest, something Mercktos still didn't understand.

In the distance, Tessla turned a corner and disappeared. Mercktos pulled his cloak tighter and stepped out of the shadows. Maybe, if he followed her long enough, she would lead him to the spawn.

* * * *

Turning to her right, Tessla walked past street venders and storefronts. She walked past alleys and ignored a side street leading to the Hellhole Tavern. From the information given her, her prey had escaped the tavern's environs. It now wandered the city searching for the escaped spawn.

She traveled down Wanderer's Lane and turned left when she reached the Warrens. Here the buildings grew closer together until the street became too narrow for a wagon. After walking three blocks, she passed two dead dogs lying against Mother Brood's front door, flies buzzing lazily around their heads, worms burrowing into their bodies. Tessla kicked the carcasses aside, opened the door, and stepped within.

Inside, her lover waited. His soul, pale blue and translucent orange, was the largest she had ever seen.

"I've been worried," Del said. He tossed her a small pouch. "This is all the cirweed I could chase down."

Nodding, Tessla tucked the cirweed behind her belt. Del appeared expectant, so she gave him a kiss which seemed to make his senses reel. It did nothing for her. She seldom felt anything since her escape from Hell, and when she did it was mostly discomfort and pain. Sometimes, when the cirweed faded, when the poison eating her almost broke free, sometimes she felt a faint stir when they fucked. Affection, maybe, but she wasn't sure.

She pulled away from Del's arms and shook her head at his expectant, sex hungry look. "Hunters seek the spawn. They need to die before they discover Jolson left Yylse."

Dell's expression grew wary. His features firmed. "I've never killed anyone. I don't want to start now."

"You won't kill," Tessla laughed, "but you don't hesitate to maim. I've seen your arena fights."

Del shifted uncomfortably. "I don't do that anymore."

"No," Tessla agreed. "You only take pieces of people's lives away when you steal." Smiling, she gently touched his shoulder with black talons. "I'm the one who kills."

She studied his hazel eyes after giving a quick glance to the side where two of Mother Brood's children stood. "I need help finding my prey."

"Harlo would be perfect for this," Del noted.

"Yes," Tessla agreed, "but he is not here right now. He is busy playing bandit while shepherding that worthless lordling of his." She looked toward the children. "No, this time I must use these."

"Broody will get mad," Andro, the boy, said. "She doesn't like it when we go back to the streets."

"Does she have to know?"

Andro scratched his head and shook a small shower of dandruff free. "Suppose not. She won't be back for a few hours. Who are we looking for?"

"Something from Hell," Tessla answered. "That's all I know. Look for something only a few weeks or months out of the hole."

The girl, Yarlen, released a quick laugh. "Take your pick. There's plenty of hellkind wandering around right now. I've heard the king ordered them left alone unless they start killing too many people."

"Most stay near the Hellhole," Del added. "I'll take that area. The kids can concentrate on the rest of the city?"

"Agreed," Tessla said.

While Andro gathered seven children to help with their cause, Tessla settled into a padded chair and waited until each was brought before her. When they came to her, she touched each child, attaching them to the invisible tendrils of her web. Finished, she bid them on their way, and then Del gave her a perfunctory kiss before following out the door. Tessla remained behind, palms flat upon the chair's arms, fingers spread, an invisible thread stretching from each finger to connect with a searcher.

Feeling like a relaxed spider, Tessla closed her eyes and felt each thread's vibration. An hour passed, and then two. Finally, she felt a faint stirring along two strands, Yarlen and Andro, only a block apart, and Del was nearby.

After marking the terminus of their threads, she sent a recall along the others. Rising, Tessla stretched and placed the stem of her freshly filled pipe between her lips. Cirweed smoke entered her, centered her, and numbed her pain. She stepped out of Mother Brood's home, closed the door, and put her pipe away. One of the dead dogs was gone. She smelled the bitter stench of gnome.

* * * *

Mercktos watched Tessla emerge from the human home and had to admit she looked lovely with her black talons and white hair. Her appearance was, he knew, another trap she had set to ensnare hellborn. He refused to be affected by her allure. The bitch had almost trapped him once with false promises of passionate love. It wouldn't happen again. He had avoided the first trap by gifting his recalcitrant spawn to Athos. For the next year he listened to her scream, and those screams had cost him dear. Never again would he put himself in such a position, especially with her.

During that long ago time, Athos had raped and broken her body every dimming, but each lightening found her complete, without blemish, proving yet again she wasn't a normal spawn. The only change Mercktos had seen was to her white hair. Washed nightly in blood, it became, at one time, dyed the same color, but even this change had not been permanent. During the first few years after her escape, her hair gradually morphed from blood red, to pink, and now back to its original white.

Tessla was unique. Not even her year in Athos's hands was enough to make her spirit waver or break. Not once did her resolve wander despite all the deliciously horrendous things Athos did to her body. Frustrated, Athos eventually concentrated so completely on her he ignored Hell's other spawn. He tortured Tessla until her screams became a regular sound in his halls, but she refused to cringe. She refused to crawl. Athos grew furious. He cast his curse, gave her his poison, and waited for her to die.

Instead of dying, she escaped.

Mercktos had never seen Athos so angry. Hundreds of demons and their lesser ilk were ripped apart in his attempt to discover which beings had helped her. Muses were called to track her essence. They cast out seeking webs only to discover she was invisible to them. Further questioning uncovered the fact she had served Flinstar, the neutral god, for a thousand years before being captured by Hell.

Once escaped, Tessla's loyalty had passed to Trelsar because Flinstar had disappeared during the time of her imprisonment. Some said Flinstar was dead, but Mercktos had his doubts. He knew Flinstar from long ago, from back when he was Eric Flynn before the landing. He knew somewhat how Eric thought, knew something of the twisty pathways of his mind. At one time they had been friends, almost brothers, and so Mercktos knew Eric would never have taken his own life. If he had been murdered, the murder would have been accompanied by explosions strong enough to shake the world.

Only Athos's discovery of Tessla's former allegiance to Flinstar allowed Mercktos to avoid the purge. Now, decades later, a spawn had murdered a handler and stolen Athos's Hook. No god claimed this spawn, no otherworldly being, but, like Tessla, it didn't exist to the Muse's seeking spells. Jolson didn't bear Athos's mark, missed when Athos had ignored marking thousands of his new spawn while concentrating on breaking Tessla.

The murder of a mage was of no account, but the theft of his hook shamed Athos before Zorce, his father. Because of this humiliation, Athos cracked Hell's vents wide long before the original plan called for, releasing his hunters into the middle world, ordering that none return until the spawn was dead and the hook returned.

So Mercktos watched Tessla in the hopes she would lead him to the spawn. He watched her look one way and another. Shaking her head, she ran.

Waiting until she was almost out of sight, Mercktos followed.

* * * *

Tessla ran.

She ran tirelessly up streets, down allies. She ran until a mile lay behind her, until she reached an intersection free of venders and traffic. Block buildings and discarded garbage lined the street. Two men serviced one unwilling woman against a wall while a dog urinated nearby. Half a block later Yarlen struggled and cried, captured in the arms of Heriod, the giant Belthethsia had enslaved. Yarlen's pockets bulged. Cocking her head to one side, Tessla watched curiously while Yarlen screamed. When Heriod violently shook the child, Yarlen stilled.

"I don't know where he is," Yarlen said, her voice unnaturally calm.

"He wears a green hook," Heriod insisted, "and he's tall."

Looking within, Tessla saw the giant's small and shriveled soul. It was caged, struggling, and almost gone. The blood flowing through his veins had become thick sludge. Hell had enslaved. He was doomed.

"I know where the spawn is," Tessla broke in. She took two steps closer and stopped when Heriod threw Yarlen from him. Striking the street with a roll, the girl scrambled away and disappeared around the corner, taking Heriod's money pouch with her.

Heriod strode up to Tessla, grabbed her by the neck, and shoved her up against a hard stone building. A protrusion jammed into her back. Another scratched her ear. Frowning, Tessla wondered why she found the sensations irritating while Heriod's grip tightened around her throat. Blood pounded in her head. Tessla grinned when her lungs stopped working. Almost, she allowed herself to die, but her god's bidding could not be denied. Disappointed by Trelsar's will, she grasped Heriod's wrists and pulled his hands away.

"Where is it?" Heriod demanded. "Where's the spawn?"

"Gone," Tessla answered. Releasing her hold on his wrists, she wrapped his huge bulk in her arms and waited patiently while he struggled, waited until he realized her strength. "Why does Belthethsia want to know?"

"Athos is angry." Heriod gasped. "He won't let any hellborn back into Hell until the spawn is dead and the hook returned. Where is it? Belthethsia has to know."

"I'll tell you after we kiss," Tessla replied. Drawing in a breath, she tilted her head, tangled her fingers in his hair, and jerked his mouth to hers. His lips were cold. They rasped like a dry wasp nest.

Tessla breathed into his mouth, gifting him with Athos's curse. The poison tore into Heriod like a starving wolf ripping entrails from its prey. His teeth clicked violently shut, almost closing on her tongue. Eyes rolling, a putrid odor oozed from his skin.

Moments later, Heriod's body became slack in her arms. Tessla waited, her lips to his, and the poisoned curse returned. She shuddered when it settled into its accustomed home, but she could not leave it within Heriod's dead body. Before long, the curse would grow bored and worm its way free only to later inhabit another human who had no defenses. After the human died, it would find another, and then another until none were left.

Refilled by the curse, Tessla opened her arms and allowed Heriod's body to fall. Within his corpse, his shriveled soul unwound and fell into spiritual dust.

"Jolson left Yylse two days ago." She had made Heriod a promise. "He travels toward Grace."

"Now that's convenient," a woman's voice commented. "I have business there myself."

Belthethsia's blue soul gleamed muddy dark to Tessla's twilight eyes. The succubus stood less than ten feet away, a waist high morpho by her side. She gripped Andro's neck with one hand, holding him aloft so his feet did not touch the ground. Tessla saw her soul become curling worms of puke gray.

When Belthethsia glanced at Heriod, she frowned. "I wasn't finished with him yet." She rested the palm of her hand on top of the morpho. At her touch, the morpho's flesh pulsed, shifted, and formed the semblance of a head.

"You shouldn't have killed Andro," Tessla replied. She reached for the poison within her, but, satiated, Athos's curse would not obey.

"Is this Andro?" Belthethsia asked. She shook the boy and laughed. "He isn't dead— yet." Her hand clenched tight. Her eyes danced laughter when Andro's neck snapped. "Now he's dead,"

Casually tossing the body aside, Belthethsia, pulled a wispy imp free from her skin. "Let's you and me have a girl chat. Why is Trelsar trying to protect one miserable spawn? Does he want the war to start early? You know as well as I that the virtuous gods might be strong enough to defeat Athos, but Zorce won't stand by and watch his son die. He'll take a hand, and no five gods are as strong as Zorce, especially with Flinstar missing." After waiting a moment, she smiled. "Well, sister, is it to be war?"

"Trelsar confides his plans to me no more than Athos does to you," Tessla said. "I only know Jolson must live."

"Thingy." Belthethsia held the imp up to her face and gently kissed it. "Its name is Thingy. I owned it long before Trelsar knew it was alive." Kissing the imp again, she whispered. "Go."

Tessla did not run. Instead, she opened her mouth to ease the imp's way. It slid into her, infused her, violated her, and grasped for the edges of her soul. She shuddered when it seeped through her flesh and invaded her spirit. She grinned when the imp touched poison and smoke. Releasing a frustrated hiss, it shot out of her mouth and hid between Belthethsia's cupped hands.

"Now that is surprising," Belthethsia said, frowning. Opening her mouth, she swallowed the imp and studied Tessla with hard eyes. "I suppose I'll have to do this myself."

And then she emitted her weapon.

Tessla braced herself for the assault, but it was not nearly as bad as she expected. Waves of the succubus's allure, of longing and desire washed over her, but only a whisper seeped within. The whisper tried to find something solid, lust, desire, any emotion or need which sought to overcome a rational mind, but the whisper failed. Tessla laughed emptily at the succubus. Since her time in Hell, she was nearly an empty shell. If not for duty she would have no reason to continue life.

Belthethsia's frown deepened. "Trelsar left you no soul— no desire— and I thought Athos a cruel master. You can't kill me, you know. Your poisons come from Athos, and I'm no small demon. I'm immune."

"I am strong," Tessla said, "and fast. I have killed many beings with my hands." She darted forward to grasp Belthethsia by the jaw and arm. Meat shredded beneath her talons. Jawbone cracked beneath her thumb. An unusual slithering hint of warm satisfaction wormed through Tessla when the succubus's eyes bulged. Belthethsia struggled, and her strength was great, but it was not nearly enough to free her from Tessla's grip. Tightening her hold, Tessla heard Belthethsia's arm snap.

"You killed Andro," Tessla said. "I find myself mildly displeased." She slowly increased her grip on Belthethsia's perfect face and watched dispassionately while the struggling succubus's jaw warped and popped. "Your death will not be quick."

And then her legs went numb.

Tessla looked down and cursed. The forgotten morpho had thinned and elongated and thinned again until it became an almost liquid sheet wrapping itself around her legs. Kicking out, she tried to win her way free, but the morpho's flesh was strong. It flowed to her waist, slithered higher. Twenty eyes, surrounded by flowing flesh, silently giggled.

Grunting, Belthethsia struck Tessla in the face with her free hand. The blow rocked Tessla, and then Belthethsia struck again while the morpho rose even higher. With a wrenching twist, Belthethsia broke free, and Tessla fell like a lightning struck tree. She hit the street and tried to lever herself up on one arm, but the morpho reached out to catch her fingers. It encased them, captured her wrist, and her arm. Releasing a grunting laugh, it flowed out to lock her other arm into place.

Tessla lay on the street, morpho encased, immobile. While she laid there, arms straining against the morpho's flesh, she calmly watched Belthethsia heal. The bent arm twisted and straightened. Belthethsia's eyes wept blood while her broken face shifted. Shattered bone crawled, flesh merged, until Belthethsia's shadowed face was complete, whole, but no longer perfect. Beneath her breath-catching features resided a dark patch of shadow indicating an indented jaw.

Belthethsia rubbed at blood tears and studied Tessla. "Shall we get back to our conversation? I know Thingy went to Grace." Her voice sounded awkward. Her mouth moved strangely. Resentment and hate radiated from the hellborn when she felt at her deformity. "Why did he go? How? Where? Grace is a large city."

"I'd tell you," Tessla answered, "but I'm busy right now." She tried to move her right arm and failed. Deep within her body the cirweed smoke had grown thin. Deeper still, Athos's poison stirred. She wondered once again what it would be like to die when she did not own a soul. Looking into the morpho's flesh with her god created eyes, she saw intertwined web-thin strings and whorls, interconnected and recombined. Two souls, intermingled and very old.

Eyes dripping anger, Belthethsia kicked Tessla in the face. Tessla jerked back. New pain shot through her when her nose broke and then bled. She found the sensation uncomfortable and strange. She had not been this low on smoke since her escape from Hell.

Around them, dozens of people had gathered to watch. None moved near. She saw a city guard join the crowd, and then two, but knew they would not help Trelsar's Assassin. One guard calmly lit the street's oil lamps. Another guard, Lexos, watched her and smiled.

"Guess I won't get fired now," his silent lips mouthed.

Within her, Athos's curse stirred and seeped out of the cracks where it hid. Pushing aside the faint remnants of the cirweed smoke, the poison chortled as it tasted her liver.

"Andro!" Mother Brood's voice cried out. "That's my Andro! He's dead!"

"We can play games, sister," Belthethsia promised, "but I'd rather not take the time. I can kick your face until it's pulp, but a ruined mouth will stop you from telling me what I need to know. You'll heal, and I'll have to do it all over again. On the other hand, my friend can rip your limbs away and splinter your ribs. It'll take you much longer to heal and won't affect your speech at all." She paused. "Except for the screams. You might have a difficult time talking past your screams."

"I don't have a sister," Tessla said. "Knowing you, I am glad I never did."

There was a stirring in the crowd. Mother Brood sidled forth, holding something in her hands. A form flashed past a street light, someone with a pulsing blue and overlarge soul. Del?

Obviously irritated by the delay, Belthethsia kicked Tessla's face again. "You once served Athos. He's my half-brother so that makes us kin. I like killing kin. Where did my Thingy go?"

Spitting out a jagged tooth, Tessla tasted metallic blood. The morpho constricted tighter while poison ate her insides. Sweat streamed down her face. She could barely breathe. Trelsar spoke in her mind, ordering her to speak.

"I told you. He went to Grace. I know nothing else."

"Then who does know?" Belthethsia insisted.

"Mathew Changer," Tessla gasped because Trelsar so ordered. "The half-were. He might know. Mathew told Jolson of Grace."

"Mathew and I will have a very short conversation," Belthethsia muttered while fingering her dented jaw. "If it's any consolation, I hate you for this." Her foot tapped against the morpho. "Kill her quickly. We've little time for play."

"Damn you!" Mother Brood shouted. Leaping forward, she hit Belthethsia across the head with a wooden club once, and then again. The blows barely staggered the succubus. "You killed my Andro! You killed him!"

Belthethsia struck the woman with a casual arm, knocking Mother Brood five feet back. Plucking another imp from her skin, she raised her hand, only Del was suddenly there, and he held fire in each hand.

"Close your eyes!" he shouted, as he flung a street lamp's fire pot. Flying inches below Tessla's head, it broke on the morpho, spilling fluid and flame across its flesh. With a quick twisting throw, Del side-armed the other pot toward Belthethsia. The pot opened and spilled. Belthethsia's green hair and dark robes blazed. Cursing, she twirled, pulled a knife, and sawed at her burning hair.

The morpho groaned and writhed and burned hellfire. Its silent screech shivered Tessla's bones. It shook and trembled and spastically danced on the street, griping Tessla in its iron hold, knocking her against brick buildings and hard cobbles, making her head ring like a tower bell as its flames seared her skin and burned her brows. Near her left ear, the morpho's mouth released a thin whine. Its grip loosened, relaxed, and flowed away. The morpho curled around itself, whimpering until its flames flickered and died. It whined, remained still for a moment, only to screech agony when new flames shot forth, emitting clouds of dark, oily smoke.

Freed, Tessla rolled to her knees and grabbed her cirweed pouch. Opening its draw, she tossed the pouch on Belthethsia's discarded burning hair. Cirweed spilled out, fell into the flame, and caught. Poison eaten, bleeding from her lips, eyes, and ears, Tessla weakly crawled over to the fire, thrust her face into the smoke, and gratefully sucked in the remnants of bitter weed and burnt hair. Inside her, Athos's curse curled and writhed and retreated from its meal.

Weary beyond belief, Tessla rose in time to see Belthethsia toss a soul stealing imp at Dell. The imp sailed through the air and darted up her lover's nose before Del had time to react. Almost instantly, Del's eyes bulged, and he moaned. A moment passed, another and the imp seeped past Del's mouth, dragging his beautifully large soul behind it. Legs folding, Del collapsed, leaving the imp hovering in midair. Nearby, Mother Brood crawled weakly across the ground.

Something stirred in Tessla. Something new or perhaps something she had given up long ago. Something burned. Emotion! Anger! Pain! The sensations fired her mind and destroyed her balance. She did not care. Del was dead. Her lover. Her source. Maybe even her friend. Del's shell lay on the ground while his wondrous soul was clenched in an imp's insubstantial jaws.

She narrowed her eyes. She growled, and, when the imp began sinking toward the street, she smiled grimly. Del's soul was too large for it to hold. The imp appeared ill.

"Sweet baby," Belthethsia cooed. Smoke drifted from her remaining hair, but her burnt scalp and hands were now whole. "Pretty boy." She held out a commanding hand. The imp floated toward her, but its movements were hesitant, heavy. Dell's pulsing soul was more than twice its size.

Decision made, Tessla ran three stumbling steps forward and grabbed the imp from the air. Belthethsia chuckled, but her laugh was weak, showing she, too, was on her last legs. Godless healing demanded a tremendous toll.

"What are you doing?" the succubus demanded. "My imp can't hurt you. You have no soul."

Face held ridged hard while unfamiliar emotion raged within, Tessla ripped Dell's soul from the imp's grasp and threw the imp onto the smoke churning hellfire mound of the morphos. Instantly, the imp burst into flames and was gone. With weak, trembling fingers, Tessla pulled out her pipe and set it between her lips. She put Del's soul on top of the pipe's bowl and sucked Del down.

Del's soul exploded within her. It seeped into the center of her cells. Expanding, it raced to fill a vacuum she had never known existed. His soul was warmth, cold, and pain, a delicious joy she had never experienced, a burst of emotions making her former anger pale into insignificance. Shuddering uncontrollably, Tessla wondered how humans could suffer such intense sensations. She waited for them to fade, but they lived on, a steady beat thundering with the rhythm of her heart.

"What's this," Dell's voice whispered within her mind.

Tessla looked inside herself, looked with an inner vision that was no longer clear. There, deep within her body, a small part of Del had gathered cirweed smoke to itself. This part of Del sent tendrils out, stalked a black area where Athos's curse crouched and quailed. Del pounced. Poison and cirweed and soul roiled. The curse trembled and fell apart.

Legs shaking beyond her ability to control, Tessla collapsed. The air around her hung thick, and the street felt cold. Overhead, the moon shone large and bright, brighter than she had ever seen anything since the time, long ago, when she left the heavens after Trelsar's rebuilding. She stared at Belthethsia, at the few people who had not yet run, and saw skin and hair and clothes. She saw faces in the torchlight, faces without shadows, but hard as she tried, she could not see anyone's soul.

Three city guards looked as if they had regained their courage. Lexos inched closer, hesitated, and pulled his sword. Belthethsia eyed him with a slight frown.

"I'm too weary to deal with this!" she snapped. Another imp oozed out of her skin. This imp, Tessla knew, would be her last. Only the gods of Hell could carry more than two.

Shoulders square, body straight, Belthethsia held the imp in plain view and spoke to the guards. "I'm leaving. If you don't get excited, I promise I won't kill you when I return." She turned her gaze to Tessla. "I know Mathew well. For the right price he'll tell me where Thingy went."

Hair burnt, jaw misshapen, Belthethsia walked off with the dignity and presence of a queen. She paused a moment to watch Mother Brood regain her feet, and then she was gone.

"Wonderful," Del whispered. "Is this your world? Is this how you see?"

"It was," Tessla answered, wondering how she could protect Jolson with her strength hampered by Dell's soul.

* * * *

Mercktos watched as a slight breeze tossed strands of white hair about Tessla's shoulders. Frustrated, he growled deep in his throat. He wanted her again. He wanted to break her. He wanted to hold her. Right now, at this moment, she was tired and weak. Better yet, she looked confused. He could take her. He could drag her back to Hell, but Hell was closed to all hellkind until the hook was returned, closed, even, to Zorce's right hand.

Tessla turned in his direction but didn't see him. Even disheveled she was exquisite, white hair, black nails, and pale. He remembered her touch, the smell of her skin, the taste of blood on her lips. For one moment, he felt her hands clutching his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers while dark talons sank into his throat.

He mentally shook those memories away as Tessla walked to the dead child and its caretaker. Crying piteously, the caretaker kneeled on the road, holding the child to her breast.

Mercktos scowled. It hadn't been necessary for the child to die.

Alarmed by the thought, he shook his head and fought back a disgusted growl. Living with a defective heart was difficult enough. Living among these disease-ridden vermin made it even worse. The damned heart had tainted his mind and sullied his soul. Had he actually been concerned about a dead child? What did one mortal child's death matter to a devil or even the deaths of a thousand children? Humans lived to be killed.

Mercktos ached to return to Zorce so he could rid himself of the heart, but his god had not forgiven him. He was cursed to live and serve on the middle world until the hook returned to Hell.

Well, if he followed Tessla, she might still lead him to the spawn.

Mercktos sighed and watched Tessla lift the dead child in her arms. When he saw tears on her cheeks, once again, he felt a twinge inside his breast.

He growled. By Athos! He hoped the world fell soon. Wearing the damned heart was a horrible ordeal. He couldn't survive these pains for long.

Tessla saw him, frowned, and then her lips turned in a slight smile. Parting, they formed one word. "Remember."
Epilogue

Ludwig woke to discover Harlo standing beside his bed. Around Ludwig's neck was the chain holding, Tirelle, his magical amulet. On each of his shoulders was cradled the head of a naked woman. Both had been satiated to the point of unconsciousness. By his lust, Ludwig would like to have bragged, but he suspected the previous night's orgy of drugs and booze had more to do with their unconscious state than his passion. Although Ludwig repeatedly used both women the night before, he wasn't sure either one noticed or cared.

He frowned. Superficially, part of his dream of returning to a life of ease had been realized. During the past few weeks he had eaten only the best food, drunk only the finest wines, and had bedded a dozen different women. Better yet, people bowed when he walked past because he wore clothes every bit as fine as those he had once known.

Unfortunately, the money was gone. Tomorrow he would be back on the trail, living hard. His food and wine would be of poor quality, and he wouldn't even be a fond memory to his dozen women as they each wrapped their legs around a different man. Worse, the clothes would be gone, sold later this day to help supply Harlo's bandit crew with trail supplies. Over the next few months Harlo would plan and execute a rash of thefts, all to make enough rugdles so his people could live in luxury for a few weeks more. Once again, Ludwig would have almost everything he craved. Still, even at the height of his most corrupt passion, no matter how much he ate, how much he drank, or how many women he bedded, he could not forget Meliandra's sweet thighs, Gertunda's glower, or the fact that every pleasure he experienced came through the misfortune of others.

"Time to get moving, lad," Harlo said. "Got my sights set on a couple prospects, and there are rumors the city guard is looking for us. The price has increased on both our heads." He grinned. "Kinda exciting, isn't it?"

"Like an infected boil," Ludwig grumbled. "Is it always going to be like this, stealing, killing, and running away, interspersed with a few weeks every now and then of drunken forgetfulness?"

Harlo's grin grew larger. "Nah. These are the good times. Caravaners are feeling the strain. They're putting on extra guards and setting traps. Too many bandits like us, too many hellkind running free, and too many rumors of dark times coming. Way I see it, things will be pretty black all over in a couple years, but we don't have to worry about it."

"Why not?"

"Because we'll be dead." Harlo laughed. "If we see next year, I'll be surprised."

"Great." Ludwig turned his head to look at the woman on his right shoulder. A thin thread of bile ran from her lips. Changing his stare to the other woman, he saw she was mostly presentable. A little drool, some smeared food spread across one cheek, but otherwise, not too disgusting.

Pushing the first woman away, he rolled on top of the other. Still drugged, she only grunted when his weight pressed down on her, proving she still breathed. "Give me half an hour. If I'm going to soon die, I want to take a good memory with me."

"Fine," Harlo said, "but don't get too depressed. I've been giving thought to a few, less dangerous endeavors. If things get too tough we might branch out a bit. Maybe we won't die."

"Living like this," Ludwig said as he thrust into slack flesh, "is as good as being dead."

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