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He spun back to face her, fury licking his words. “Take a good look at him, Morgan, and you tell me. Do you think it’s enough?”
Chapter 5
Doran polished the long obsidian blade of the Aztec dagger. Until recently, the most prized possession among his rich and varied collection. Three other blades and an ornate Byzantine fighting axe taken from the storming of Seringapatam lay on the table in front of him already sharpened and oiled.
“So they’ve come, have they?” He carefully placed the Aztec dagger back among the rest. “I knew it would take the Fey this long to admit they’d lost control over…” He paused. “…over Andraste’s sword. I wish I could have seen Scathach explaining that little failure.”
He never referred to Neuvarvaan by name if he didn’t have to. He’d found out months ago that speaking it aloud seemed to strengthen its already considerable influence. His head would buzz for hours with the black speech of the Morkoth, the forgers of the blade and the ones who’d imbued it with the power of undying.
In their hands, it had been a weapon of destruction. In his, it would be a keeper of the peace. His peace. For who would dare challenge a ruler with an army of immortals?
“I’m surprised the Duinedon army colonel’s in league with Scathach, though,” he continued. “Can’t say I saw that one coming.” He gave a snort of astonishment.
Captain Burfoot shifted uncomfortably, threading his hat brim through his hands. As if he were on trial. As in a way, he was. There was always a need for—volunteers. Neuvarvaan demanded it. And who was Doran Buchanan to deny the sword anything it demanded if it gave him what he wanted in return?
“Do you want us to deal with the colonel and his woman like we did Hurley?” the captain asked.
Burfoot had described a fiery-haired beauty with the focused eyes of a hunter. Had to be Morgan Bligh. There weren’t two such among the ranks of Amhas-draoi. But did Scathach really think an untested mage chaser had a chance against him? It was almost insulting.
Doran raised an amused brow. “This woman’s no common soldier’s trull. Haven’t you learned anything I’ve taught you? Bligh’s Other like us. And more than that, she’s Amhas-draoi. You may be able to take Sinclair. But she’d fry you before you got within fifty yards of her.” At Burfoot’s look of skepticism, Doran laughed. “Don’t let her sex fool you. She may look like a good ride, but she’d strip the meat from your bones in less time than it took you to mount her.”
Even as his mind turned over the implications of this odd pairing of mortal and Fey, he felt the tug of Neuvarvaan. It called to him. A thread of ancient words beckoning him to unsheathe it. Admire it.
He needed to hold the inlaid hilt. Marvel at the mastery of silverwork. Feel the rush of power burst through him when he gripped it. Andraste’s sword whispered to him. Tempted him with unimaginable rewards. And he knew he was close. So close. The gift of immortality was in his grasp. The dark magics that ruled the goddess blade almost clear to him now.
And once all had been revealed, he’d begin the recruiting. He’d be swamped with enlistees, for certain. And why not? No more death by cannon or bayonet. No more maiming from shrapnel. His army would be the best of the best. Respected. Feared. And completely unstoppable.
All Neuvarvaan asked in return was blood.
A bargain at any price.
Burfoot fidgeted as if he too felt the sword’s influence. Heard its whispered words. He cleared his throat. “So what are my orders?”
“I don’t want to leave town,” Doran answered. “I need the deeper Fey magics that surface at the Giant’s Fist.” He stared hard at the shadows of death gleaming in the black heart of the Aztec dagger as if the answer were writ within. “Watch them. Don’t let them out of your sight. But don’t get too close, and for damn sake don’t use magic. Bligh will sense the mage energy and be on to you in a flash.”
“And if they start to get too close?”
Doran couldn’t help himself. He glanced at the locked cupboard. His body hummed with an almost sexual need to curl his fingers around the hilt. Caress the sharpened steel.
The sword responded to his attention. A crackle of black speech leapt into his mind. Buried its hate. Made it his own.
He offered the captain a thin, cruel smile. “The sword hungers again. Mayhap we should invite Colonel Sinclair to dinner?”
Cam slid into the seat across from Morgan, his face gray with fatigue, a slightly wild look in the blue chill of his eyes. He immediately searched out the barmaid, waving her over.
Morgan’s temperature rose, her hands tightening around her glass. She was already in a foul temper after being left behind. Cam had convinced her Traverse’s commanding officer would never speak freely in the presence of a woman. And though she wanted to argue, she knew he was right.
Instead, she’d spent her day exploring the town. Starting at the heart of Bedford Square, she’d ranged outward, investigated every alley, dead end, and blind corner. She’d scouted the water’s edge, up-and downriver before falling back to note where the soldiers gathered. Taverns, inns, and a rickety, dingy set of barracks still inhabited, though most of the militias had been disbanded.
Where could Doran be hiding? He’d cloaked his magic, a task requiring discipline and great strength. Both qualities the man held in abundance. But it made her hunt that much harder. She’d not felt a trace of mage energy. Not caught even a hint of a trail to follow. Worse, if he were disguising himself beneath a glamorie, he could be anywhere. Anyone.
“You’re late,” she complained. “You said six. It’s almost eight.”
A corner of his lip twitched. “Miss me?” He downed the whiskey—the barmaid ogling him like a piece of raw meat—and ordered another. When the woman pranced off to fill his empty glass, Cam gave Morgan an apologetic smile. “You can’t snarl at me forever, can you?” When she glowered even harder, he grimaced. “Apparently, you can.”
This time, she fought a smile. Pursed her lips together, fully immune now to the Sinclair charm. “I was worried.” His brows rose in amused surprise. “Yes, worried,” she repeated. “Obviously we’ve been followed.”
Cam grew serious. “Obviously. The man Traverse said he caught—I checked with the major. His name was Hurley. A private from the Eleventh Foot.”
