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“And you, sir? While I’m snagging the bait, what are you doing?”
“Laying the trail. Traceable, but not obvious. I want Bligh and Sinclair to find me. I have plans for those two.”
Neuvarvaan spoke through him in the black speech of the Morkoth. It was the sword that instructed him in what to do. How to proceed. How to rid himself of these two problems and increase his numbers in one dramatic move.
An army of Undying must begin with a single soldier. Or two. And who better to lay the foundation for all who would follow? A man with the ruthless savagery of a wild creature honed to lethal precision. An Other only one generation away from the true Fey whose battle skills, though roughly cast, were no less deadly.
He tasted success. All had come together as planned. The abduction of the sword. The deciphering of the Morkoth’s magics. The drawing of enough power together and in one person to start the chain reaction of mage energy that would spark the transformation. Create deathless perfection from the clay of mortality.
“And after you get what you want? I want the woman for my own,” North whined. “Want to wipe that cool disdain from her face.”
“The Sinclair woman?” In a generous mood, Doran shrugged. “As you wish.” Then thought better. “If there’s enough of her left, that is.”
“Cam?” Brodie’s voice—but different—sounded in the hall. The deep baritone threaded with pain. Or anguish. “Cam!” Definitely anguish.
He ducked his head out the door to the library.
And went dead-cold.
Gone was the starched and polished officer of a few hours ago. Brodie leaned heavily against the door, his eyes wild. Dangerous. Trained inward on some horror only he could see.
Cam’s heart galloped, a hard ball of fear lodged in his throat. “Brodie?”
Nothing.
Cam placed his hand on Brodie’s shoulder.
The reaction was instant and explosive. And if Brodie had been armed, Cam’s head would have been on the floor.
Even so, the force of Brodie’s blow threw a surprised Cam to his knees. A stinger in his neck that left his arm numb to the fingers. “What the hell—”
Brodie stood, shoulders squared. Legs spread. Chest heaving. Poised for battle.
“Euna’s been taken.”
A leather jerkin over his shirt to turn aside a knife blade. Slow a pistol shot.
Boots, supple as a second skin, allowing for silence as he selected his position. Waited for his best opportunity at a clean kill.
At his belt, a cartridge pouch, a pistol holster, and a scabbard for his dagger. Another dirk in his boot.
After wrapping the untested rifle in fabric to avoid a telltale glint of sun off the weapon, he sighted along the barrel. Noted its weight. The cool wood of the stock against his cheek. Squeezed the trigger, feeling the hammer-spring slam forward. The surge of vicious exhilaration that followed.
He’d understood long ago that someday he’d be called to account for his crimes. That a reckoning would be owed. But the depth and cruelty of that divine justice he’d not foreseen. The swift retribution of a lightning bolt. That he could have handled. But this…
Let him taste happiness. Glimpse heaven.
Then slam the doors. Douse the lights.
Bring on hell.
His glance fell on the all-too-familiar whiskey decanter. And the need for the relaxing heat of his family’s malt sank its claws into him. A few drinks might dull the howling storm of blood-hate singeing every vein. The overarching power of revenge.
He deliberately turned his back on the alcohol, wanting the fire of vengeance in his belly. It was the only way he’d save his sister.
If he was heading to hell, he’d bring Doran right along with him.
What he’d told Morgan had been the truth. The churning gut, the weak knees, the choking fear. He’d experienced them all. And buried them deep. It was the only way to survive the war. To survive the savagery.
