Heir to the Shadows

toward the pack. The pack leader snatched it in midair and backed away with his prize, snarling. The rest of the pack re-formed the half circle and waited their turn. The Hound bitches watched their pups gnaw at fingers and toes.
    Demons weren't usually the Hell Hounds' meat. There was better prey for these large, black-furred, red-eyed hunters, prey as native to this cold, forever-twilight Realm as the Hounds themselves. But this demon's flesh was saturated with too much fresh blood—blood Titian knew hadn't come from voluntary offerings.
    It had taken a while to hunt him down. He hadn't strayed far from Hekatah since the High Lord had made his request. Until tonight.
    There were no Gates in Hekatah's territory, and the clos-
    est two were now fiercely guarded. One was beside the Hall, a place Hekatah no longer dared approach, and the other was in the Harpies' territory, Titian's territory. Not a place for the unwary, no matter how arrogant. That meant Hekatah and her minions had to travel a long distance on the Winds to reach another Gate, or they had to take risks.
    Tonight, Greer took a risk and paid for it.
    If he'd had time to use his Jewels, it might have turned out differently, but he'd been allowed to reach the Dark Altar and go through the Gate unchallenged, so he had no reason to expect they'd be waiting for his return. Once he'd left the Sanctuary, the Harpy attacks had come so fast and so fierce all he could do was shield himself and try to escape. Even so, a number of Harpies burned themselves out and vanished to become a whisper in the Darkness. Titian didn't grieve for them. Their twilight existence had dissolved in fierce joy.
    In the end it was one frightened mind against so many enraged ones probing for weakness, while Titian's trained Hounds constantly lunged at the body, forcing Greer to use more and more of the reserved strength in his Jewels to keep them away. The Harpies broke through his inner barriers at the same moment Titian's arrow drove through his body and pinned it to a tree.
    As the Harpies pulled the body away from the tree and began carving up the meat, Titian picked through Greer's mind as delicately as if she were picking the meat from a cracked nut. She saw the children he'd feasted on. She saw the narrow bed, the blood on the sheets, the familiar young face that had been bruised by his maimed hands. She saw Surreal's horn-handled dagger driving into his heart, slicing his throat. She saw him smiling at her when his own knife had slit her throat centuries ago. And she saw where he'd been tonight.
    Titian sheathed the knife and checked the blade of the small ax propped beside her.
    She regretted not bringing him down before he reached Little Terreille. If Greer's assessment of Lord Jorval was correct, the whispers would begin soon.
    A Guardian wasn't a natural being in a living Realm.
     
    There would always be whispering and wondering—especially when that Guardian was also the High Lord of Hell. And she could guess well enough how the Kaeleer Queens were going to react to the rumors.
    She would visit her kinswomen, tell them what she wanted from them if the opportunity presented itself. That would help.
    Titian picked up her ax. The Harpies moved aside for their Queen.
    The limbs were gone. The torso was empty. The eyes still held a glimmer of intelligence, a glimmer of Self. Not much, but enough.
    With three precise strokes, Titian split Greer's skull. Using the blade, she opened one of the splits until it was wide enough for her fingers. Then she tore the bone away.
    She looked into Greer's eyes. Still enough there.
    Whistling for the pack leader, she walked away, smiling, while the Hound began feasting on the brain.
    7 / Kaeleer
    Saetan brushed his hair for the third time because it gave him something to do. Like buffing his long, black-tinted nails twice. Like changing his jacket and then changing back to the first one.
    He stopped himself from reaching for the hairbrush again, straightened his already straight jacket, and sighed.
    Would the children come?
    He hadn't requested a reply to the invitation because he had wanted to give the children as much time as possible to gather their courage or wear down their elders' arguments—and because he was afraid of what rejection dribbling in day after day might do to Jaenelle.
    As he had promised, he or other members of the family had delivered all the invitations. Some had been left at the child's residence. Most had been left