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Tavish convulses beneath me. Abstractedly, I wonder why he is not fighting me. Whether this too is another trap.
I push the thought away and I drink and dive. If I am already doomed, this makes little difference.
There are forms of mind-entry I consider wasteful, boundaries one observes with enemies whose usefulness extends beyond pain. Tavish Drennan does not earn restraint. I taste Tezra in the rotten echo of his blood; taste Navarro’s line, broken allegiance, fear turned into fanaticism.
I tear into his mind without ceremony.
Finally, he screams as images fracture open. I temporarily block Eira from seeing the alley slick with rain. Tezra’s hand lifted, transpositional light gathering around his fingers.
But I permit her to see three vampires watching from shadow.
Tavish. Elian Sorell. Another presence in the distance, silent and commanding.
A blade of witch-ash.
I am not fast enough to prevent her from seeing Tezra fall. And her pain hits the bond like a blade, and my own fury answers so violently the chapel walls groan.
I am sorry, little hunter.
Her response is low, solemn. It’s fine. I hate to say this but… keep going.
Who ordered it? I demand inside Tavish’s mind.
He laughs through blood and the sound is wet and defiant. Higher purpose.
I rip deeper.
His memories resist, locked behind a blood and mind gag similar to Kessler’s but older, stronger, built for a vampire’s endurance rather than a mortal’s fragile skull. I can see the seal now. Black-red sigils threaded through thought and vein. Origin unknown. Witch-work, yes, but reinforced with vampire blood.
Marek, perhaps. Or Elian? Or… fuck… Morrighan’s echo. It’s clear that a faction has formed in the dark beyond my brothers’ reach, one that wants my bond unmade, my Tower vulnerable, and New York bleeding long enough for something older than territory to wake.
Tavish’s body buckles under me as the gag tightens. His nose begins to bleed, then his ears.
I do not stop.
Who ordered Tezra killed?
His mind shudders, then the name tears free in a flash of pain.
Marek Volkov.
Images follow.
Volkov standing in a chamber of wet stone and green flame, larger than I remember from Rafe’s descriptions. Older looking. Eyes gone nearly white from power or madness. Beside him stands a woman with dark hair pinned back, her face younger than it should be, skin smooth, mouth curved with cold intelligence.
Do you recognise her, Eira?
Surprise lances through the bond. I… No. That’s impossible.
Why?
‘Selphine Rousseau looks old now because she is old, but the woman in this memory is decades younger. It can’t be her.’
She is a powerful witch. And she’s proven that she’s capable of a lot more.
The image sharpens to Volkov’s hand at her back, the woman’s fingers touching a vial. She mutters something blurred by the gag’s protection. I replay it, lightning fast until her words become clear.
The hunter will carry what we need.
