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He was the fulfillment of their lives. He was the balance. He was death. He savored seeing that awareness in their eyes. He liked it best when he could bask in that look, that knowledge… that terror. It brought him fulfillment. It made him complete.
He stood, swaying in ecstasy at the cloying scent of blood. He regretted it hadn’t lasted longer. He regretted not being able to enjoy prolonged screams. Screams were rapture. He craved them, needed them, lusted after them. Screams fulfilled him, made him whole. He needed the screams, not the actual sound of them—he often gagged his partners—but the attempt at them, and what they represented: terror.
Being denied the chance to leisurely enjoy the screaming terror left him unfulfilled, his lust unsated.
He glided up the alley and found that his skill was as sharp as ever, as was his knife; it had found its target. The boy lay crumpled on his side. He looked delicious with the knife buried to the cross guard at the back of his head, and the point of the heavy blade jutting from his forehead, just slightly off center.
Immersed in a pool of sensation, he realized he felt a new one: pain.
Surprised, he inspected his arm, and discovered the source of the unexpected blood. He had a gash a good six inches long on the outside of his right forearm. It was deep. It would need to be stitched.
The pleasure of such an unexpected occurrence made him gasp.
Danger, death, and damage—all in one night, in one chance encounter. This was nearly too much.
The voices had been right about coming to Aydindril.
Still, he hadn’t had what he needed—the prolonged terror, the careful cutting, the slicing, the binge of blood, the giving of endless, exquisite pain, the orgy of frenzied stabbing at the end.
But the voices from the ethers promised him he would have those things, promised him he would have the ultimate conquest, the ultimate balance, the ultimate pairing.
They promised him he would have the ultimate consummation of debauchery.
They promised him he would have the Mother Confessor.
His time was coming.
Her time was coming.
Soon.
When Verna dabbed the wet cloth against Warren’s forehead, his eyes opened. She let out a long breath of relief.
“How are you feeling?”
He tried to sit up. With a firm hand on his chest, she gently pushed him back down into the hay.
“Just you lay there and rest.”
He winced in pain and then smacked his lips. “I need a drink.”
Verna twisted and lifted the dipper from the bucket. She held it to his lips. His hands cupped the dented bowl of the dipper as he greedily gulped down all the water.
He panted, catching his breath after the long drink. “More.”
Verna dragged the dipper through the bucket and let him drink his fill.
She smiled down at him. “Glad to see you awake.”
It looked to be an effort for him to return the smile. “Glad to be awake. How long have I been out, this time?”
She shrugged, discounting his concern. “A few hours.”
He glanced around the inside of the barn. Verna lifted the lamp so he could see his surroundings. Rain drummed against the roof, making it feel cozy inside.
Verna set down the lamp and rested on an elbow beside him. “Not fancy lodging, but at least it’s dry.”
He had been nearly unconscious when they found the farm. The family who owned the farm was sympathetic. Verna had refused the offer of their bed, not wanting to force them to sleep in their own barn.
On her journey of over twenty odd years, Verna had often slept in such places, and found the accommodations agreeable, if a little rough. She liked the smell of hay. When she was on her journey, she had thought she hated it, but once returned to the cloistered life at the Palace of the Prophets, she changed her opinion, and found herself longing for the smell of hay, dirt, grass, and rain-clean air.
Warren laid a gentle hand over hers. “Verna, I’m sorry I’m slowing us down so.”
Verna smiled. She recalled a time when her impatient nature would have had her pacing and fretting. Warren, and his love, brought out a little of her calmer nature. He was good for her. He was everything to her.
She pushed back his curly blond hair and kissed his forehead. “Nonsense. We had to stop for the night anyway. The rain would have made traveling slow and miserable. A good rest will result in more progress in the end. Take my word; I’ve had plenty of experience at such things.”
“But I feel so—useless.”
“You are a prophet. That provides us with information that is far from useless. That in itself has saved us from traveling days in a wrong direction.”
His troubled blue eyes turned to the rafters. “The headaches are coming more often with time. I fear to think that when I close my eyes, I may never come awake again.”
She scowled for the first time that night. “I’ll not hear that sort of talk, Warren. We will make it.”
He hesitated, not wanting to argue with her. “If you say so, Verna. But I’m slowing us down more all the time.”
“I’ve taken care of that.”
“You have? What have you done?”
“I hired us transportation. For a ways, at least.”
“Verna, you said you didn’t want to hire a coach, that it would draw attention to us. You said you didn’t want to risk being recognized, and you didn’t want nosy people inquiring as to who was riding a coach.”
“Not a coach. And I don’t want to hear a string of objections. I hired this farmer to take us south for a ways in his hay cart. He said we could lay in the back and you could rest. He’ll cover us with hay so we won’t have to worry about people bothering us.”
Warren frowned. “Why would he do this for us?”
“I paid him well. More than that, though, he and his family are loyal to the Light. He respects the Sisters of the Light.”
Warren relaxed back into the hay. “Well, I guess that sounds good. You’re sure he’s willing? You didn’t twist his nose, did you?”
“He was going anyway.”
“Really? Why?”
Verna sighed. “He has a sick daughter. She’s only twelve. He wants to go to get some tonic for her.”
Suspicion darkened Warren’s expression. “Why didn’t you cure the girl?”
Verna held his gaze. “I tried. I couldn’t cure her. She has a high fever, she’s cramping and vomiting. I tried my best. I would have given nearly anything to have been able to cure that poor child of her suffering, but I couldn’t.”
“Any idea why not?”
Verna shook her head sadly. “The gift doesn’t cure everything, Warren. You know that. If she had a broken bone, I could help her. If she had any number of ills, I could help her, but the gift is of limited use for fever.”
Warren looked away. “Seems unfair. They offer to help us, and we can do next to nothing for them.”
“I know,” Verna whispered.
She listened to the rain against the roof for a time.
“I was able to ease the pain in her gut, at least. She’ll rest a little more comfortably.”
“Good. That’s good, at least.” Warren fussed with a piece of straw. “Have you been able to get in contact with Prelate Annalina? Has she left you a message in the journey book yet?”
Verna tried not to betray how troubled she was. “No. She hasn’t answered my messages, nor has she sent one of her own. She’s probably busy. She doesn’t need to be bothered by our little problems. We’ll hear from her when she has time.”
Warren nodded. Verna blew out the lamp. She snuggled up to him, putting her forehead against his shoulder. She rested her arm across his chest.
“We best get some sleep. At sunrise we’ll be moving on.”
“I love you, Verna. If I die in my sleep, I want you to know that.”
Verna’s fingers stroked the side of his face in answer.
