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“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” the voice warned. “My weapons may not defeat your warding, but my magics can make you wish you were dead.”
Allowing himself to be drawn into the chamber, Daigh fought against the storm surge of clawing emotion. Cleared a space within himself free of the ferocious maelstrom. A point of sanity among the madness.
“I told Mr. Bloom you’d not surrender to the grave so easily.” The knife sliced deeper. Daigh’s flesh parting. His blood flowing faster. It scalded his neck. Seeped beneath his coat, his shirt. “Would you, Lazarus? Not now you’ve a second taste of life?”
The knife fell away, leaving him cold and shuddering against the well of poison infecting him like a disease.
“Sit, friend. Can I get you a brandy? A glass of wine perhaps?”
Daigh fell into the chair presented. Finally looked upon his assailant. Blond. Young. Features as cool and sweet-natured as his voice. A wiry body holding whipcord strength. Eyes pale and hard as stones. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing for myself how successful Máelodor was, and I have to say his claims held nothing of the braggart about them.”
“So you approve?”
“Oh, yes.” His gaze traveled over Daigh with a lingering yet professional eye. “Amazing,” he cooed. “Simply amazing.”
Daigh’s skin crawled. Every nerve jumping. “Who are you?”
“No need to be testy. I’m on your side. But you’re smart to ask. Informants could be anywhere.” He pushed back one sleeve to reveal a tattoo upon his forearm. A broken arrow and crescent.
Daigh felt his stomach roll up into his throat.
“You recognize the mark of the Nine, Lazarus?”
The name landed on him like a blow. “Aye. But not Lazarus. It’s”—we can only hope you don’t end as he did—“it’s Daigh now.”
His correction was met with a razor smile. “Naming yourself? How droll. But fitting under the circumstances. I too have taken on a new name to go with the role that will soon be mine. You may call me Lancelot.”
“Are you loyal friend? Or treacherous betrayer?”
A careless shrug. “Remains to be seen.”
The man circled him, a hand running casually across Daigh’s shoulders. A touch upon the back of his neck. A breath against the heat of his bloody skin. Professionalism vanished beneath a sultry invitation. “You’re soaked to the bone. Perhaps you should take off these wet clothes and dry yourself by the fire.”
Blood thickened to ice, Daigh’s body stiffening as he controlled the queasy turning of his stomach. Gritted his teeth, refusing to crane his neck to keep the man in view. “Where does Bloom go from here?”
Lancelot slid back into his vision. Crossed to pour a glass of wine. Swished it before sipping, his eyes meeting Daigh’s over the rim, coolly amused. “His ship leaves tomorrow morning. Máelodor should have the tapestry within a few days. And we shall be one step closer to final success.”
“Huzzah for our side.” Whoever’s side that was. The hell if he knew.
The man placed the glass carefully on the table. “You sound less than enthusiastic.”
“I don’t count success until it’s achieved.”
“Oh it will be. Make no mistake. It’s been years in the planning. Máelodor is devoted to completing the Nine’s unfinished work. Reclaiming the world for Other in a new golden age.”
A golden age? Other dominance? He forced his face into a mask of complete inscrutability. No hint of the wild spin of his thoughts.
“Bloom tells me you attacked him. That you actually tried to stop him from stealing the Rywlkoth Tapestry. Odd behavior from the one sent to procure it in the first place.”
Daigh shrugged. Play along. Gain time. Information. “I didn’t recognize him. Thought he was there to stop me from stealing it.”
Lancelot’s gaze narrowed. “He thinks you’ve gone rogue on us. That you’ve somehow slipped Máelodor’s leash.”
“He can think as he likes.”
Candlelight flickered like demon-flame in Lancelot’s eyes, his hair gleaming in the fire’s glow. “Perhaps you should accompany Bloom. Máelodor will be relieved to know his creature is safe.”
“Do you go?”
