Heir to the Shadows

the thick white envelope. There was something in the question, although courteously asked, that warned her it had better be enough.
    She forced herself to pick up the envelope and look inside. Then she leaned against the Altar for support. Gold thousand marks. At least ten times what the stranger with the maimed hands had offered.
    But she already had an agreement with the stranger, and there would be time to pocket the marks before the guards arrived.
    The Priestess carefully placed the envelope on the far corner of the Altar. "Most generous," she said, hoping she sounded unimpressed.
    Taking a deep breath, she lifted the silver cup high over her head, then placed it carefully in front of her. She broke the seal on the red-stoppered vial, poured the contents into the cup, and held it out to him. "The journey through a Gate is a difficult undertaking. This will assist you."
    He didn't take the cup.
    She made an impatient sound and took a sip, trying not to gag on the bitter taste, then held out the cup.
    He held it in his left hand, his nostrils flaring at the smell, but didn't drink.
    A minute passed. Two.
    With an imperceptible shrug, he gulped the contents of the cup.
    The Priestess held her breath. How soon before it worked? How soon before the guards came?
    His eyes changed. He swayed. Then he leaned across the Altar and looked at her the way a lover looks at his lady. She couldn't take her eyes off his lips. Soft. Sensual. She leaned toward him. One kiss. One sweet kiss.
    Just before her lips touched his, his right hand closed around her wrist. "Bitch," he snarled softly.
    Startled, she tried to pull away.
    As his hand tightened, she stared at the Black-Jeweled ring.
    His long nails pierced her skin. Then she felt the sharp needle prick of the snake tooth beneath his ring-finger nail, felt the venom chill her blood.
    She flailed at him with her other hand, trying to reach his face, trying to scream for help as her vision blurred and her lungs refused to fill with needed air.
    He broke both her wrists, snapping the bones as he thrust her away from him.
    "The venom in my snake tooth doesn't work as quickly as you may think," he said too quietly, too gently. "In the end, you'll be able to scream. You'll tear yourself apart doing it, but you'll scream."
    Then he was gone, and there was nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows.
    By the time the guards arrived, she was screaming.

5 / Terreille
     
    The floor rolled beneath him, teasing legs that already shook from exhaustion and were cramped by the foul witch's brew.
    Behind that door was a safe place. As he reached for it, the floor rolled again, knocking his feet out from under him. His shoulder hit the door, cracking the old, rotting wood, and he fell into the room, landing heavily on his side.
    "Bitch," he snarled softly.
    Gray mist. A shattered crystal chalice. Black candles. Golden hair.
    Blood. So much blood.
    Words lie. Blood doesn't. • "Shut up, Prick," he rasped.
    The floor kept rolling under him. He dug his long nails into the wood, trying to keep his balance, trying to think.
    His fever was dangerously high, and he knew he needed food, water, and rest. Right now, he was prey to whoever might think to look for him in this abandoned house where he had spent his earliest years with Tersa, his real mother.
    Everything has a price.
    If he had given up outside that Sanctuary three days ago, if he had let the Hayllian guards find him, he might not have become so ill from the brew. But he had ruthlessly pushed his body to the point of collapse in order to reach the Gate near the ruins of SaDiablo Hall.
    And every time exhaustion crept in, every time his strength of will slipped a little, a gray mist began to cloud his mind, a mist he knew held something very, very terrible. Something he didn't want to see.
    You are my instrument.
    Words, like flickering black lightning, came out of that mist, threatening to sear his soul.
    Words lie. Blood doesn't.
    He was less than a mile from the Gate.
    "Lucivar," he whispered. But he didn't have the strength to feel angry at his brother's betrayal.
    You are my instrument.
    "No." He tried to stand up, but he couldn't do it. Still, something in him required defiance. "No. I am not your instrument. I ... am ... Daemon . . . Sadi."
    He closed his eyes, and the gray mist engulfed him.
    With a groan, Daemon rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. Even that was almost too much effort.