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Rastus’s eyes flickered as if he was gauging the best way to answer this. Finally, he offered a cool smile. “Not if my work for the colonel might benefit yourself. You want to put the hurt on Sinclair but don’t know where to find him. I do. I’ve been following him. I can tell you where he is and what he’s up to.”
“And you do this all out of concern for my well-being?”
Rastus cleared his throat. “Well, if you were to reward for service, I wouldn’t be amiss at accepting a kind…word, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Rastus. I know exactly what you mean. And for the time being I’m interested enough to keep you alive and…rewarded.” Doran sat back, drumming his fingers upon the tabletop.
“Good. Then, well, if we’ve come to an agreement, if I may be so bold, what are you goin’ to do about them?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Kill them, you mean?”
“Oh yes, death awaits anyone who stands between me and my goal. But a quick death is too good for them. They’ve plagued me for too long—Sinclair especially. No, I want them to suffer before the end.”
The need to hurt iced his heart over, a sadistic evil that enjoyed watching others’ pain froze out any differing voice. Every day spent in the company of Neuvarvaan strengthening the bonds and blurring the lines between the violence of the Morkoth and his own motivations. He’d even forgotten his stricture about use of the sword’s true name. What did it matter? He and the sword were one now.
Rastus slurped down his cider. Wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sin will be hard to kill. He’s as canny a customer as any that served.”
“And Morgan Bligh’s abilities, though hardly a match for my own, still hold the potential for trouble.”
“So then what?”
“We show them what happens to those who oppose me. Sinclair suf
fered a recent bereavement, I’m told. His dear wife taken from him last spring. It would truly be a tragedy if he suffered a second such loss. And one just as close to him. A sister or brother, perhaps? Thieves abound in London’s mean streets and if they don’t kill you…” He sent a mere thread of his power, winging across the table. Let Rastus feel the sudden weakness, the nausea, the chills, the shutting down of his body. The man went deathly pale, gripping his chest, his stomach. “…if they don’t kill you, a mysterious disease can threaten at any moment.”
Rastus’s eyes bulged as he fought for air. His hands scrabbled against the table, his nails scratching furiously at the wood, knocking silverware and plates to the floor with a crash. He reached for Doran, his lips blue, his face gray.
With a flick of his wrist, Doran released the vile turncoat. He might appreciate his information, but he detested the ease in which Rastus gave it up.
Rastus coughed and heaved, his face etched in lines of horror and renewed fear, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t lift his glass to his mouth without slopping it on his vest. “What did you do?”
“A taste only, but you’ll do exactly as I say, or suffer another such attack, and this time I shall not be so quick to ease your agony.”
Rastus wiped a shaky hand down his gray face. “What do you want to know?”
“I know about Bligh. Tell me about Sinclair.”
“Getting to him won’t be easy. Sin’s as good as they come.”
Doran smiled, let the full melding of Morkoth and Amhas-draoi show in his expression. Enjoyed the man’s shrinking reaction. “Meet someone better.”
The rain-slicked streets teemed with as much activity as yesterday. More if that were possible. An East Indiaman—the apparent reason for this new frantic rush of energy—lay at anchor, its web of masts and lines and sails dwarfing the huddle of rooftops surrounding it.
Morgan felt like nothing so much as a hound on the scent. She stood, hands on hips, gazing up and down the street as if Doran might emerge from the crowds swirling around her. As if finding him might just be that simple.
Of course, it wasn’t. Her luck didn’t run that way.
She’d known what she wanted. Known who she was. Or had until Cam had walked back into her life. Until he’d shaken every sense, feeling, emotion, and memory like a child’s kaleidoscope. Twisted the pattern of her life into something new.
Since then, she’d been riding a runaway horse toward a cliff edge. Blindfolded.
“Are you sure Corporal Rastus wasn’t feeding you a story? I haven’t felt anything since yesterday.”
“I’m not sure of much anymore,” Cam confessed. “Rastus said Doran’s been moving up and down the river. But always staying within the city itself. He’s frustrated. And working on a very short fuse. Sergeant Lester was one of his own by Rastus’s telling.”
Morgan closed her eyes. Allowed the power to well from the most secret places within her. Channeled it. Sent it forth to discover what it might.
