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“You want the truth?”
“Talk about a teaser. Of course. Tell me everything.”
Cam gave a grim smile. He’d hit Brodie with the truth. See what he did with it. How quick he ran. “Very well. Morgan’s a sorceress. What’s known as an Other. A real blood-and-bone witch. We’re searching for a sword stolen from the Fey that can impart immortality to any poor bastard skewered with it. We’ve tracked the thief to London. To the area around the London Docks. I’m getting ready to head down there now. Scout around and see what I can discover.”
Brodie glanced over at the desk and the pistol there. The open cartridge box. The powder bag. Then back to the knife at Cam’s waist. His face dropped into stern lines. The responsibility-challenged scoundrel becoming the hard-bitten soldier. “When do we leave?”
He should have known. With Brodie it had always been that easy. The tension tightening his skull, twisting down his neck to clamp viselike on his shoulders relaxed. “You haven’t told me I’m crazy.”
“Ye haven’t told me anything I can’t get my head around yet.”
“You believe me?”
“Ye weren’t the only one raised on your gran-da’s stories. And I never said anything, but once…” He waved it away. “Well, never mind, it’s not important, but aye, I believe ye. It certainly makes more sense than ye marrying again. That was the tale that had me thinking you’d lost your mind.”
Cam gave a gallows laugh. “No worries of a marriage with Morgan. She only wants me for my body.”
Brodie’s brows shot up. “Some men have all the luck.”
Luck? Was that what it was? Knowing that no matter how he touched Morgan’s body, he’d never reach her soul?
It felt more like one enormous cosmic fist to the jaw.
The man struggled against his bonds. They all did in the end. Definitely an example of being careful what you asked for.
Lester had agreed to join Doran months ago, lured by the prospect of invincibility. Power. A chance to live forever. Now he fought, screaming and crying, snot running down his nose, blubbering tearful pleas for mercy.
This was a mercy.
Doran had seen the wrenching violence of war. Had known the blood-searing agony and pain of battle. Both as soldier and as one left behind to bury his dead. He wasn’t sure which was worse. But either way, Sergeant Lester would be spared that grief. He’d become a child of the sword. A creature of unnatural speed, unnatural strength. And unkillable.
A perfect soldier. A perfect weapon.
The man sank back upon himself, his face gone gray, mouthing inane prayers to some long-ignored childhood god.
Doran snorted his contempt. “You’ll secure no help from that quarter, friend. Any deity listening is more likely to kill us both and leave the sorting to the devils.”
Ignoring the animal moans from Lester, he turned his mind inward, forming a picture in his mind of the haze of magic that hung like fog over the city. Though instead of the putrid green funk that burned the lungs and stung the eyes, this fog remained pearly silver, sparkled like diamonds shot through with gold and green, crimson and deepest amethyst. So many Other living within London’s limits. So much concentrated power. None would notice should he draw on such a deep well.
Gathering the power to him as if he inhaled a deep breath before plunging beneath cold waters, the mage energy settled over him. Sank beneath his skin, his muscles, his tissues. It drifted into his bloodstream, burning its way through his body. He felt it as a white-hot wire pulled inch by inch through each individual vein. He cried out, his eyes widening at the pain, the excruciating slow stab of heat.
Unsheathing the goddess blade, he gripped the worn pommel. Focused on the ridges where others had pressed their own fingers before him. Used it to keep his grip on sanity. This had to be the way. Surely this time Neuvarvaan would reveal its darkest secret. The sword recognized its name. Came alive in his hand, a living article of Morkoth hatred and corruption.
Voices called to him. Instructed him in the ways of Undying, even as others contradicted. Jeered. Taunted. Then offered their own secrets. Which voice to heed? Which words were real and which were meant to confuse? With no way to know, Doran chose the loudest voice. And plunged the blade hilt deep through Lester’s heart.
The man let out a high, girlish scream that went on and on. Drowned away the voices. Echoed through Doran’s head, the room. Hell, the whole city heard the keening as Lester sank against his bonds, his body caving in on itself, dark hair going instantly gray. Fin
gers shriveling into arthritic knobs, muscle wasting from his body.
Doran swung the sword again, this time severing the ropes. Lester fell to the floor, death already bluing his lips, glazing his eyes.
Morkoth laughter filled Doran’s head, the black chorus of a million demons.
He’d listened to the wrong voice. And failed again.
Morgan slammed into the study, shock vivid in her pale face, her eyes flashing between Cam and Brodie.
Cam’s gut kicked into his throat. “What?”
