Page 9 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Yes.”

“I abhor mess.”

“It won’t last much longer,” said Cíele. “It’s a temporary arrangement.”

He was right. Aurienne’s deal with Mordaunt was temporary. The problem was that the end point—healing Mordaunt’s seith deterioration—was, as far as Aurienne knew, scientifically impossible. The arrangement could go on for months or, Fria forbid, years. They’d know a bit more after the healing session at the Færwundor.

A sly, inky seith prickled at Aurienne’s tacn.

“Speaking of devils,” she said to Cíele, “Mordaunt’s deofol is asking to come through.”

“Brilliant. Spares me the journey. Let it through; I’ve never met the foul creature.”

Cíele, his tail twitching with splenetic anticipation, perched himself upon Aurienne’s shoulder as she pointed her tacn towards the floor.

Mordaunt’s deofol took her usual form: black miasma in the shape of a wolf. Few had the control over seith required to render a deofol in the kind of detail Aurienne did with Cíele. Aurienne wasn’t a snob about it, but Cíele was, and he scoffed at the developing haze.

Only the wolf’s maw revealed itself with any sort of precision. A set of very large, very sharp teeth grinned at Aurienne and Cíele.

“Greetings, Haelan Fairhrim,” said the teeth, suspended at Aurienne’s eye level.

Cíele sniffed the air and said, “Smells like wet dog.”

The teeth disappeared and reappeared, closer than before. “Ah. The Hellrat.”

Cíele moved to Aurienne’s other shoulder, farther from the wolf. “I’m a genet.”

“You’re dinner,” said the wolf.

“Am I meant to feel threatened by a few floating incisors?” asked Cíele.

Aurienne interrupted further deofol grandstanding by asking the wolf, “What news from your master?”

“You’re to meet him at nine o’clock, at Rosefell Hall.” An amused ripple passed through the wolf. “I look forward to hearing how it goes.”

Aurienne bristled, as did Cíele, who asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” said the wolf. “Oh—and he asks you to wear black.”

“Why?” asked Aurienne.

“How should I know?” asked the wolf. “I’m only a few floating incisors.”

The wolf vanished. Her teeth faded last, grinning in Cíele’s direction for a long time after the rest of her had gone.

“Hardly even a deofol,” sniffed Cíele, though the fur along his back stood on end. “A lump of seith debris.”

“Why must I wear black?” asked Aurienne. “Have I even got black things?”

“Perhaps he wants you to be camouflaged. When is the break-in happening?”

“At the full moon, three days hence.”

“Summon me if things go wrong during. I can call the Wardens if you’re in need of muscle.”

“I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Aurienne. “The Druids are our allies. They don’t deserve to be drawn and quartered.”

“If the Druids confine their Threefold Death attempts to Mordaunt, they’ll be fine,” said Cíele. He pressed his cheek to Aurienne’s in farewell—it felt like the kiss of a breeze—and faded in a shimmer of white.