The house Darrion had chosen had been random. It could have been any house on the block in downtown Boston, but he had just walked up to this one and decided. Fading inside, he’d found a family just sitting down to eat dinner together.
One big happy family, as it were.
Seeing them sitting together—a father, a mother, an older son and a younger daughter—Darrion had to block out memories of his own family, of them sitting down together to break bread and talk about the happenings of the day. His hatred had taken over then. He hadn’t thought about his family in more than a thousand years, yet the scene he had invaded was suddenly bringing all those memories back …
And he hated them.
He hated what they represented.
He hated that he would never have that again.
Ignoring their demands that he tell them who he was, he pulled a blade out and threw it into the face of the mother, seconds before fading behind the father and slitting his throat with another. The children screamed, their high-pitched cries reminding him of a screaming horse being cut down. He felt no pity. To him, they were two loud, annoying things that needed to be silenced.
He turned towards the girl first. The sound of metal slicing the air silenced her, her small body slumping down in the chair, his blade buried to the hilt in her throat. The boy stopped screaming at that point, staring blankly at the red stain spreading across the tablecloth under his sister’s limp form.
He turned towards Darrion, his blue eyes blinking slowly. Darrion was sure there was more screaming to come, but the boy simply stared at him. Blood gurgled and foamed from his sister’s lips, creating an eerie soundtrack. With a sneer, Darrion pulled one more blade free and flicked his wrist towards the kid’s chest.
The boy winced when the knife sank home, dropping his eyes to look down at the handle. Darrion watched— fascinated—as the color drained from his cheeks and a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth.
His upper body drooped a second later, the hilt propping him up on the edge of the table. When his body grew still, Darrion pressed his index finger against the boy’s shoulder, pushing him back into his chair. Gripping the handle of the knife, he dragged it from the flesh of the boy as a trickle of blood escaped the large wound—the gash a grotesque grimace in his chest.
Some of his blood had dribbled down the handle of his knife, pooling on the table. Darrion ran his finger through the congealing pool on the dark wood table, soaking through the pristine white tablecloth. Moving to the boy’s sister, he slid his weapon from her throat, too, wiping the blade clean on her shirt.
At last, he came to the mother. The look of terror frozen on her still face brought a smile to Darrion’s lips. He pulled the final blade free and re-holstered it along with the others.
Darrion wandered around the lower levels of the house, inspecting every room. It would be perfect for what he required. He had needed to find a new place to stay, needed to be close to his guild. He’d been keeping his eyes on all his Walkers, tracking them but staying hidden. He knew where every single one of them was, with the exception of Nieven.
His longest serving Mare was off the grid, and had been for a little less than a week. To Darrion that could only mean one thing.
He was dead.
Darrion made one round of the house, eventually circling back to the dining room, taking in his handiwork. It was almost … poetic. The tables had turned. He was the one wielding the weapons while the defenseless family fell beneath his hand.
Satisfied the house was completely empty after a sweep of the upstairs bedrooms, Darrion went back down to the living room and dropped onto the sofa.
The night before, he had gotten into Taer’s dreams just like he had been doing for the past month—ever since he realized Korvain had taken his prize from him and saved her life. Darrion was sure he was driving her insane. Every night, she had to relive her brother’s death as if she had been conscious for the whole thing.
Her fear—her pure, unadulterated, raw fear—seemed to permeate the dream completely, saturating his skin, sinking into his pores and filling his nostrils. He fed off it, letting it nourish him.
It had been so easy too. Her mind was unguarded, simple to manipulate. All it took was a single thought and he was in there, taking her greatest fear and greatest regret—killing her brother—and using it, pushing against the door of her mind.
Smug, he remembered just how easily she had yielded to him. It had taken Darrion a long time to perfect the art of Dream Walking. Njord had told him he wasn’t a natural, but with effort, dedication and practice, he would be as good—if not better than—any other Mare.
Tonight, Darrion would invade her subconscious again. He’d been taking it easy on her. He’d been letting her ‘drive’ for the most part, letting her own horrific memories run unrestrained, but tonight he was going to ramp things up a little.
Stretching himself out on the sofa, Darrion closed his eyes and thought about the young female. Her hair was thick—a glossy, black lacquer pouring over her shoulders and back. Her pale green eyes held an intelligence unexpected in a female, with a quiet spark in them. He had to admit that when Adrian had first told him of her desire to go through the training and become a blooded Walker, he’d been shocked—a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Curious as to how Taer would go, Darrion had allowed the training to commence, but made Adrian solely responsible for her instruction. From what he had seen, she was shaping up into a fine Walker, but there was no way she could pass the Final Test, not when the others in her quinary were all male and physically much more able.
And now here she was. Her brother dead; her whole world shattered; and Darrion would destroy her mind along with it. He knew she must be intent on revenge, and with nothing left to lose, Taer was a dangerous enemy.
Oh, yes, he knew she would be gunning for him now. Korvain might have been Adrian’s best friend, but he would give Taer the honor of killing his murderer … that is, if they could catch him.
But he never stayed in one place for longer than necessary. He knew there were a lot of people searching for him.
With his whole body relaxed, Darrion was able to find the door to Taer’s mind. He looked it over, knowing every inch of it.
It was as black and as smooth and lustrous as her hair. There were new cracks in the wood, and he wondered whether his repeated invasions had been responsible for putting them there, and if her fragile mind was starting to fracture.
He hoped she was cracking. Her brother had had a weak mind too. He was easily manipulated and controlled—a near-perfect soldier.
Reaching out his hand, Darrion pushed against the ebony wood, feeling it ease open from the gentlest pressure. The space inside was black, a dream yet to form. With a satisfied smirk, Darrion conjured up his own memories of killing Adrian and made the scene materialize once more.
Without even needing to glance over his shoulder, Darrion already knew Taer was there. Stepping from the inky shadows of her own subconscious, her eyes would be running over the scene in front of her. He turned, enjoying the way her eyes widened and tears trembled on her lashes. Until now, her dreams had been from her own perspective—she had witnessed the scene through her own eyes, seeing it from down on the floor, where she had fallen—but tonight was going to be different.