79: BEGINNING DEMONOLOGY

Kihrin paused after he had finished telling his story to the mimic. He shook his head. “Juval had described my seller as someone who looked like Faris,” Kihrin said. “I never doubted it was him. His final revenge. He was always drugging people at the Standing Keg. But it was you, wasn’t it? You would never let me escape.”

“Never let you escape? Have you spent the last four years under Darzin’s thumb? I orchestrated your escape so perfectly even you were fooled.” Talon shook her head. “I suppose it is too much to expect a little gratitude from my own son.”

“I’m not your son!”

“You were Surdyeh’s and Ola’s son. And they are me. It’s close enough.”

Kihrin lunged at her, but the bars blocked his progress. “I was gaeshed because of you . . .”

“Shh,” Talon said. “Quiet. Let’s leave that as a surprise for the others, shall we?”

They both paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs above. Someone was whistling a jaunty tune. Kihrin’s gut tightened, recognizing who it had to be.

“Hello, Darzin,” he said.

The Lord Heir of House D’Mon grinned. “Hello little brother. Ready to die?”

Kihrin shook his head. “I don’t know. How long have I been here?”

“Three weeks, give or take.” Darzin smiled at Talon, grabbed her hand, and presented her knuckles with a kiss. “Did he give you any trouble?”

“He’s been a very good boy,” Talon said.

“No,” Kihrin said. “I’ve decided. This isn’t a good time for me. Why don’t you come back never?”

“Bring him,” Darzin said, and then wrinkled his nose. “Hm, he’s ripe, isn’t he?”

“Do you see a bathtub in this cell with me?” Kihrin snapped.

“I offered to clean him with my tongue but he said no,” Talon complained. She opened the prison doors and formed a large violet tentacle that reached out to wrap around one of Kihrin’s arms.

Darzin grinned. “Yes, well, I can’t imagine why.” Darzin grabbed Kihrin’s other arm and, while Talon still had him confined, bound his hands. “Let’s go. We have an appointment with an old friend.”

Kihrin gave him a bemused look and Darzin chuckled. “You remember Xaltorath, don’t you?” He laughed. “Oh gods, the look on your face, kid. I swear it makes everything worth it.”

Talon reached over and tore the necklace of star tears from Kihrin’s neck.

“I’m surprised you didn’t do that weeks ago,” Darzin told her.

“I was hoping you’d let me eat him,” she admitted, then shrugged. “But since that’s not going to happen now, I’ll settle for treasure.” She winked at Kihrin and tucked the necklace away before she followed behind Darzin. The three of them then walked down to where Thurvishar waited, next to the open gate.

“Thurvishar?” Talon asked.

The wizard looked toward the mimic, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Catch.” Talon tossed him a small stone, smooth and plain.

Kihrin’s eyes widened. He gave Talon a bitter, angry glare, but he didn’t explain why he found Talon’s “gift” to Thurvishar upsetting.

Thurvishar caught the stone and looked at it. “What’s this?”

“Just a keepsake to remember him by.” Talon winked at Thurvishar. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a good use for it.”

“Talon, you bitch,” Kihrin said.

“You were right,” she replied. “It was a sucker’s bet.”

She was still laughing when everyone walked through the gate, and Thurvishar collapsed the magical portal behind them.

Kihrin had never seen the other side of Galen’s hiding spot, the underground tombs built for a D’Mon High Lord. They’d been claimed by Pedron, his son Therin, and later, by Darzin. Still, he recognized the place. He knew it in his bones, prompted by the chill that settled there. The stench of ancient death and fresher poison gave it away. The tenyé of the room vibrated, ugly and evil. Every surface of the stone had been decorated with the tiniest of glyphs, forming whorls and eddies of bloodred paint.

Not paint. Of course, it was real blood.

Thurvishar followed behind, shutting off the gate from Shadrag Gor. Gadrith waited in front of a black stone altar lit by candles. Shackles sat at the corners of the altar. Gadrith himself held a wicked, evil knife, a multipronged, barbed contraption, which looked like its purpose was to drill through flesh and tear out chunks.

Darzin whistled as he dragged Kihrin into the final, prepared ritual area. “This is even more elaborate than last time.”

Gadrith seemed amused by Darzin’s flattery. “This is more important than last time.”

Thurvishar looked at Kihrin. “We painted the glyphs at Shadrag Gor, in a room the same size as this, then used magic to transfer them. Thus, we could take as long as we needed to.”

Darzin raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t ask.”

Thurvishar ignored him, walking to the back of the room to stand behind the altar. “Don’t forget your lines, Darzin. Remember, he’s your family, so you have to be the one to do the ritual.”

“Oh, so that’s why they haven’t killed you yet. I’ve been wondering.” Kihrin looked back at Darzin. “Good news, Darzin, you’re about to outlive your usefulness.”

“Shut up,” Darzin snapped. He dragged Kihrin over to the altar and pushed him onto it. “Help me,” he said to Thurvishar.

They both wrestled Kihrin into position and clamped the manacles around his wrists and ankles. That was followed by a spell to silence him as Kihrin refused to stop cursing.

“I must remember that one about the morgage and the goat,” Darzin said. “Inventive.”

“Should I remind you time moves at the normal pace here?” Gadrith said. “This is not where I want Sandus to find me.”

“No, Master. I’m sorry.” Darzin bowed and looked rather uncomfortable. He took up position behind the altar and began to chant.^*

At first, nothing happened. However, one archway leading to the various tombs, cells, and antechambers became darker than the mage-lit halls should have allowed. That darkness was less a lack of light than a palpable abyss, an absence so profound it took on a distinct character of its own.

Out of that darkness stepped Xaltorath.

He was smaller than when Kihrin had seen him four years earlier. He also wore an ornate set of curling armor that didn’t seem very protective. In fact, it only stressed how little he wore, and how alien he was.

“Xaltorath, I have called you as the old ways require,” Darzin told him.

***SO I SEE. AND YOU ARE HERE READY TO SACRIFICE YOUR YOUNGER BROTHER, WHOSE DEATH WILL NOT BE MUCH SACRIFICE.***

Thurvishar and Gadrith gave each other uneasy looks.

“Nothing in your call says it has to be someone I’ll miss,” Darzin protested. “The same blood runs through our veins. Isn’t that enough?”

***PERHAPS. WE SHALL SEE.***

Xaltorath’s form shifted then, flowed like water, and when it stopped, he was a mocking parody of Tya, Goddess of Magic. He resembled a beautiful woman with red skin that looked hard as bronze and smooth as glass. Her eyes glowed red and her arms and legs no longer looked dipped in red gore but dyed by black ink. Her hair looked like flame. The gold armor covered even less on her, more bedroom jewelry than clothing.

Kihrin struggled. He would have said something, but the spell gagged him.

Xaltorath ripped the magical silence away with a wave of her hand as she slinked to the altar and rested a hip against its edge. ***HEY HANDSOME. MISS ME?***

Kihrin tugged at his restraints. “Get away from me!”

Xaltorath walked her fingers across his stomach. ***MM-HMM. POOR LITTLE BIRD. YOU’VE BEEN IN BETTER SITUATIONS.*** She winked at Kihrin, sharing the joke with him, but ignored the other men in the room. ***WANT TO HAVE SOME FUN?***

“I don’t think it’ll be much fun,” Kihrin snapped.

Xaltorath shook her head. ***OH, BUT IT WILL. YOU AND I COULD SPEND ETERNITY ENJOYING OUR IDYLLS. WE’D HAVE SUCH FUN TOGETHER. I WOULD GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE.***

Kihrin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Xaltorath changed again, although not by a wide margin. Her skin shifted from bloodred to a cinnamon brown and her body lost some of its ripe curve. Her features shifted so she might not have changed them at all, but her hair went from being flame to a darker hue—a red so deep it was almost black, running in a single stripe across her head from front to back.

***TRULY?*** she asked again, this time her voice a throaty purr.

Kihrin made a noise that might have been a whimper. “No,” he said. “Not even for her.”

***A HERO. SO FULL OF SELF-SACRIFICE.*** Xaltorath straightened and looked at Darzin. ***YOU’RE RIGHT: HE’S PERFECT. GIVE ME ALL OF HIM, HEART AND SOUL, AND I WILL DO ALL YOU ASK OF ME.***

Darzin smiled. “With pleasure.”

He grabbed the knife, and without prelude brought it down hard on Kihrin’s chest.

Kame hated New Year’s. The money was good enough—and Kame was never at a loss for customers willing to slink into an alley or return to her crib at the joy house. Yet the whole city felt strung into thin streamers of twisted energy, ready to snap. She made more metal, but she sported more injuries. Some years it seemed like the price she paid to the Blue Houses was more than what she earned.

She loitered at the corner of a warehouse by the docks, watching the sailors load their ships while the good weather prevailed, before they cast off for foreign ports. Kame looked for the stragglers, the lost, the men who had a few hours of free time. Or really, a few minutes would do. Most of the sailors were already ashore, drinking in taverns, or rutting in some other crib. She turned as she heard the sound of water splashing.

A giant parody of a human waded to shore, three times the height of a tall man and no natural color. His skin was white, except for where it was purple or green, and his hands looked like they had been dipped in blood. The monster had a large tail that slapped the ground behind it like a crocodile. The demon grinned as the few people on the docks noticed it. They cried out in terror.

Kame was paralyzed. It was huge, giant, and horrible. It was . . .

The demon saw her, smiled an impossible obscene rictus, and reached for her. She screamed and screamed.

Blood splattered the cobblestones and splashed against the warehouse wall, but Xaltorath didn’t pause to enjoy his kill.

He had a schedule to keep.