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Lancelot offered up a chilly smile, though his eyes continued to burn with a queer, wild light. “I’m flattered, but no. There are rumors Brendan Douglas has been in touch with his family. That he may be en route to Dublin. Máelodor would love to lay hands upon the traitor. Would pay dearly for the privilege of breaking him.”
Sabrina’s brother in the hands of these men. A long, cruel death would be his. A killing by degrees until the victim prayed for the mercy stroke. An end to the torture. Somehow he knew this. Just as he knew he’d once prayed for that mercy. And been denied.
His hands curled to fists, anger pushing past sound judgment.
The man crossed to Daigh. Stood over him, his gaze now leaping with a greedy hunger he did nothing to hide. “You know, I’m curious.”
“About what?” Daigh pushed from a mouth gone dry.
They met eye to eye. Sweat beaded the man’s upper lip, a single drop curling down his cheek. “As one of the Domnuathi, you’re bound body and soul to your creator. A slave to his every whim.”
Daigh’s skin grew hot. Bile choked him. Thick, horrible. But he answered in the only way that would keep this man’s trust. “Aye.”
Lancelot leaned forward. Close enough for Daigh to smell the heavy scent of musk and sweat. See the scrape of a dull razor. A tiny scar at the corner of his mouth.
“So if I did this and told you Máelodor ordered it so . . .” He pressed his lips against Daigh’s neck. “Or this . . .” He kissed his cheek.
Daigh threw himself to his feet, violently shaking. Grabbed him by the collar. “You would find yourself without a head.”
The man seemed amused rather than alarmed. “Would I?”
Immediately, Daigh’s lungs collapsed. His body caught in a snare of invisible magic. Binding him hand and foot. Trapping him like a rabbit in a snare.
The man circled him slowly, flush with success and something more. Something sinister and sexual. “It’s like chaining a man-eating tiger”—he slid the coat from Daigh’s shoulders—“that would sooner tear you apart”—tugged free his cravat—“than look at you.”
Daigh released the beast. Let it rush forth in a torrent of dark mage energy that crisped the very air. A fiery slash of pain seared his brain. Slid along his nerves with serpent speed.
He was free.
His hands went for Lancelot’s throat. Squeezed.
And like being cleaved from skull to groin, screamed at the agony instantly scything its way through him. Liquefying bone. Sawing through tendons. He dropped, writhing. The sounds of his weeping and screaming muffled by Lancelot’s hand over his mouth.
“Did you really think you could win against
an Amhas-draoi? Shhh, my beautiful monster. The more you struggle, the more you suffer.”
The spell eased. And then the man’s mouth was on his. A tongue diving between his lips. Taking from him. Sucking him dry. A twisted, power-mad assault.
Daigh wrenched his head away, but Lancelot gripped him by the chin and took his fill. Released him on a satisfied sigh.
Straightening, he adjusted his coat. Smoothed his hair. Finished his glass of wine in a long swallow. “A shame to end our interlude prematurely, but”—he gave a coy shrug—“tell Máelodor I will do whatever it takes to capture Douglas alive and unharmed. He’ll enjoy destroying Kilronan’s brother bit by bit. He has such a talent for inflicting pain.” A hand upon the latch, he turned on Daigh a final gleam of triumph. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lazarus?”
Sabrina took a deep breath. Immediately sneezed.
Dust tickled her nose. Clung to her fingers. Coated the book she read and the table where she sat. Even Sister Ursula, the keeper of the order’s texts, seemed as cobwebby and faded as the books, scrolls, and parchments she tended.
Or perhaps she was merely ice-blue from cold.
Teresa had been right. It was freezing in here. A double layer of petticoats and her thickest stockings, yet still Sabrina’s teeth chattered.
“Have you found what you were looking for?” Sister Ursula stuffed a wisp of fine, white-blond hair back under her kerchief. Regarded Sabrina with pale blue eyes.
Sniffling into her handkerchief, Sabrina returned the smile while trying to hide the pages with her elbow. “I have, thank you.”
The sister had not managed to hide her curiosity or her surprise at Sabrina’s venturing into her domain. And still observed her with a faint sense of confusion.
So perhaps scholarly pursuits weren’t Sabrina’s habit, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t read at all. She loved a good mystery. Or a thrilling romance where ghosts rattled chains and the poor heroine wandered about cavernous passages with one stubby candle.
