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Bare-handed, his knife still in his boot, Arsene grapples with the creature. It’s human-shaped, nowhere close to his size. But it’sstrong. Andfast. He rolls to evade the talons coming at him—andshit, teeth—and he fumbles at his boot.
Then it hits him. The scent.
Vergis.
It can’t be.
It’s smoky, spiced, sending his head spinning. Saliva gathers abruptly on his tongue. His primus roars to the surface. But the scent iswrong, sharp where it should be gentle, and hismuddled instincts rebel. He freezes in a half crouch, and his hesitation nearly costs him. The creature lunges for the knife, its wiry fingers closing around his hand.
The shock of being touched wrenches him out of his head, and he twists away. The creature lets out an inhuman snarl and comes at him again, no rhythm or finesse to its attacks. This time the rope snare that’s still caught around its legs pulls tight like a leash, and it stumbles.
Arsene staggers backward, gulping for air, clean air not tainted by that unsettling scent. He fumbles for the weighted canvas and lunges at the confused creature. Now is his chance.
For one strange moment they’re chest to chest. The spicy scent fills his lungs, thick and intense, and Arsene’s whole body jerks. His wings strain, close to bursting from the aether—unthinkable. His blood roils. Primus urges sizzle down his spine and into the arms that grip the squirming creature tight.Vergis. Protect. Possess.The clatter of their struggle echoes crazily off the stone, and pebbles slip under his boots.
The snarling thing fighting himcan’tbe a vergis.
In his confusion he fails to react as the creature twists in his arms. Arsene catches a glimpse of clear grey eyes, clouded with whatever madness grips the creature.
Then it bites him on his exposed neck.
It hasto be some kind of demon. Arsene watches it balefully from the top of the boulder as he bandages the wound. The spot on his neck is already hot to the touch—he can only hope there’s no venom involved. His physiology renders him immune to the venom of Earth-born creatures, but demons are a different breed. Who knows what poison comes out of Hell?
He’s given up calling the creature anit, since he’s clearly demonoid. Sticking out of the creature’s dark, matted hair are two short, bone-white horns. But he looks nothing like any demon Arsene has ever seen. He’s thin, dressed in rags, carrying nothing—no weapons, no pack. His face lacks the ridged snarl of a demon’s face; in fact, under the scars upon scars, his features are as fine as any angel’s. He’s?—
Beautiful, Arsene’s primus supplies.
He jerks his eyes away.
No.Definitely no. A demon who smells like a vergis and looks like an angel is nothing more than an abomination.
Unconscious, the not-quite-demon slumps in the crook of Arsene’s trap hole. Arsene didn’t hit him that hard, but demons are fragile. He could easily be a heartbeat away from expiring. Or he could be faking. Arsene doesn’t care either way. He’s done his job and neutralized the threat to the caravan.
Though the shame of letting the creature kill one of the humans still burns, his satisfaction burns brighter. His blood runs hot with victory, glorious after months of idleness.
His gaze returns to the creature as if magnetized, and the strange buzz that lingers from inhaling its scent dampens his glee.
I don’t care if he dies. I just need to know if there are others.
His primus has to have been confused. It’s only half-formed—he was removed from the sentinel program before his transformation from null to primus was ever finished. An unsuitable candidate, they told him. It must be defective, scenting a vergis where there isn’t one. When he completes his mission and returns to New Yden, they’ll take care of that.
Arsene keeps watch as the sun goes down. He tells himself it’s to make sure the creature won’t escape. When his prisoner stirs, his stomach squirms in anticipation for no reason at all.
The creature twists weakly against the canvas, showing no sign of opening his eyes. Arsene’s blood fizzes with impatience.
“Wake up,” he finally barks. “Who are you? Are there more of you?”
No response.
“What kind of foul creature are you?”
Nothing.
All movement stills. Arsene wants to shake those narrow shoulders into compliance, but he’s not fool enough to get within striking distance again.
He should leave the creature here and start down the mountain. The humans are vulnerable without him, woefully unprepared to protect themselves. Yet as he watches the thin chest rise and fall and the blood-stained lips twitch, his hands clench. He doesn’t enjoy being outsmarted.
He must have answers.
