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“Answer me!” he growls, heaving the piece of armour at the boulder. It hits the stone and falls to the ground with a clatter.
The creature flinches. Arsene is abruptly ashamed, then angry that he’s ashamed. He spins on his heel and stalks away from the camp site. This is amonster. A demon. Something that doesn’t feel fear, doesn’t deserve pity. All it’s done is make his mission harder.
In sentinel training he was taught to be analytical and cool-headed, but he could never douse the fire of impatience. He always manages to do the wrong thing, the wrong way. If he had been more clever and watchful he wouldn’t have let the creature get past him into the camp. If he had stopped to think, he wouldn’t have spent days tracking it into the mountains only to realizehewas the one being stalked.
He heads up the mountain. His anger burns away as he scales the lower of the two peaks, climbing to a lookout point. The bite on his neck throbs as his blood pumps with exertion but the rest of him slowly cools.
The caravan is several days ahead now, leaving a faint trail across the salt plain for him to follow. He can no longer see their dust plume. If he cuts west down the mountains within the next day he’ll be able to catch them before they head into the pass, but if not he’s likely to lose them in the high plain.
Arsene breathes deeply. The air up here is cold and thin. A brisk wind whips his hair up. Without his armor the wind slices through his stiff, brocade coat, so different from the gentle breezes of New Yden. He’s spent almost as much time away fromhome as in it, and sometimes he can’t remember if the air in New Yden smells of sap and sweet meadowgrass, or blood and iron and bile.
Even a whole realm away, the Seraphim Council’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, making him fumble. He’s no fool. The mission isn’t the honor they claimed, but a warning.Do this one thing to prove yourself, or don’t come home.Yet still he makes one misstep after the other.
If he fails, he’ll never get the one thing he wants: another chance in the sentinel house. Another chance to become a primus, worthy of siring his own pups.
Another chance to find a mate.
Arsene descendsthe mountain with renewed determination. At the bottom of the trail the strange, spicy scent of his captive rises on the wind, but he shakes its alluring effect off. He’s been wrong-headed—if the creature won’t speak, he’ll simply tie it up and leave. This demon-thing is just a distraction. He must focus on the mission.
When he enters the sheltered spot, the creature is gone.
Arsene has a moment of panic, then he spots a shadow behind the boulder.Not gone, just moved.He unsheathes his knife and stalks toward the shadow, straining for any sign of movement. The creature has wedged himself between the lee face of the boulder and the mountainside. Arsene left him with his wrists bound behind his back, but the rope lies in pieces next to him. He clutches Arsene’s breastplate, his face buried in the varnished leather.
An odd shudder goes through Arsene at the sight. He must make a noise because the creature’s head jerks up. He leaps tohis feet, but his ankles are still tied, and as a result he trips. The breastplate flies out of his grip as he tumbles forward. Arsene watches in amazement.
Aclumsydemon. One who frees his hands, but can’t be bothered to slice the ropes around his ankles and escape.
“Speak,” he demands, brandishing the knife. The creature pushes onto his hands and knees. “Or I swear I’ll gut you, since I can’t leave you tied up. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you for murdering one of the humans and making a fool of me.”
When the creature finally answers, his voice is barely a rasp. “Vengeance I understand, but you’d be twice a fool to kill me for making you look stupid.”
The sound of his voice is like a blade scraping Arsene’s spine. Clawed hands trail in the dirt. Long, matted hair hides his expression from view.
“So you do have a voice.”
“I choose not to use it on fools.” The creature raises his head finally, baring his teeth in a mocking grin.
Arsene jerks his blade at the creature. “I’m not the one who was captured.”
“Neither am I, it seems.” The creature’s gaze flickers away, as if in disinterest. For a moment Arsene is incensed at the dismissal, until he realizes the creature is looking for his breastplate.
He grabs the breastplate away, unsettled. The demon’s fingers flex and his eyes follow it.
Arsene grimaces. “Is this some kind of trophy to you? You don’t care for food or water, but you need to parade around with your enemy’s things?”
He straps it on quickly, unsure why he’s disturbed. The creature chuckles, a deep, rattling noise that’s almost a cough. “The leather smells like you.”
Arsene’s chest clenches. “What?”
Pale eyes darken, and his slender fingers twist in his rags. “It’s the most delicious perfume I’ve ever smelled. Just like your blood is the sweetest thing that’s ever touched my tongue.”
“What do you mean?” Arsene demands.
“Your soul.” The demon wipes his mouth. His hand comes away glistening. “I crave more of it.”
Understanding turns Arsene’s stomach. This isn’t a demon at all. The creature is a hollow—one of Hell’s ghosts. Mindless, corrupted, and more than half dead, they’re trapped in Hell—at least, they’re supposed to be—where they drift across the landscape in search of unsuspecting souls to drink from.
And this one tastedhissoul.
