Chapter 13
Thirteen
The vampire’s shivering intensified, her steps swerving.
She and Silt were both soaked and had been for days. They’d fought through that sludge without rest, even though younger immortals needed sleep every night. How was she still standing?
When they came upon another abandoned basilisk nest, words left his lips: “I can make a fire out of those logs. Do you want to stop here for a break?”
She eyed him warily. “Warmth sounds good.”
Silt collected wood, pondering his impulse to provide her heat. But he was exhausted and chilled too.
When he crouched to place kindling, she watched him work. “Your withdrawal symptoms seem to have subsided.”
“Largely.” But the hunger for opium remained. Would it always?
“You’re . . . different now. I noticed it when you showed up at that first wendigo fray.”
“Different how?”
“Well, your eyes aren’t crazed, and you haven’t mentioned cannibalism since the cave.” At his blank look, she said, “Do you not remember your behavior? You told me you’d dine on me.”
Cannibalism had always been a favored threat of his—seemed to unnerve enemies more than a threat to smother them in sand. It’d even been listed on his wanted poster. “I remember you cracking my knee in that cave. Without food or rest, I still haven’t regenerated all the way.”
She hiked one slim shoulder, all but telling him she’d do it again. Harder.
In minutes, he’d wrought flame from friction, and a fire roared. Hidden drafts carried the smoke from the area as he and the vampire sat on the stony ground.
Keeping her weapon close, she raised her delicate hands to the warmth. “For how long have you overly imbibed?”
“Centuries upon centuries.” He’d quit that one time to see if he could defeat his weakness and discovered he couldn’t. Why hadn’t he tried more?
Again the thought struck him: I have no idea who or what I am. He was so unfamiliar with Silt Harea that he felt like a stranger lived inside him. “I needed something to pass the nights.”
“Couldn’t you have mustered a hobby in all that time?” She reminded him of a mirror positioned in the sun, blinding him with glaring light.
“I’d rather be addicted to opium than to blood. When I quit, I’ll have no lingering effects in my immortal body. But your habit will muddle your mind.”
“If you’re the King of Sand, then why did you struggle to control a handful of it? You say you’ll have no lingering effect, but I think you’re paying for your excesses.”
Losing his sand control in front of this female embarrassed him more than losing his cock control in front of a harem had. “Sorcery renews. Nothing can stamp it out.” Probably not. Without his pipe, he could rebuild his store of power.
“How did you get started with opium anyway?” The growing firelight illuminated the red of her eyes, making him wonder how this princess had gotten her own start. Hunger? Or lust?
He frowned to find his hands clenched. Releasing his grip, he said, “I first tried it in Mesopotamia. They called it hulgil , the joy plant.” It hadn’t enthralled him though—not until he’d been condemned.
“If you escaped Nightside, would you return to it?”
The question of questions. Could he shake its grip for good? “I would prefer not to.”
Her gaze flicked over his face, assessing his truthfulness. “How does your family feel about your habit?”
“I have none.” Good riddance.
“No one you care for back in Poly?”
“Not a soul.” Sequara had been the closest thing he’d had to a confidante. “Sorceri are a solitary species.”
“Solitary? I detected various perfumes on your skin. No fewer than twelve.”
He relaxed back against the cool cavern wall. “I had females in my stronghold.” He hadn’t set out to have such a large harem, but he hadn’t been motivated enough to do something about it.
“You lived with others, but you told me you have no one you care about.”
“Both can be true.” He’d warned them at the outset, “If you develop feelings for me, they will go unanswered.”
Kosmina cast him a look of confusion. She didn’t seem surprised to learn that he’d lived with many women, just that he hadn’t given a damn about any of them.
Defensive, he said, “They fleeced me out of a hoard of gold.” A couple of years ago, he’d awakened from a stupor to find one of his vaults emptied and the lot of them working together to crack the others, which was probably why so many had wanted a position inside his home. He pictured them sending out the word: We’ve got a live one, ladies!
Their actions might have hurt if he’d felt anything for them at all—and if he hadn’t had more gold hidden away in other worlds.
“Could you be as happy with one woman as you were with a dozen?” the princess asked, her interest soothing his ego a touch.
“My experiences weren’t enhanced by the number.” If he were honest—that word again—he’d say the opposite.
“With so many females involved, you must have fathered countless children in all your years.”
“No. This cuff I wear”—he pulled up the sleeve of his stolen coat to display it—“is bespelled to prevent that.” All the females he’d bedded had insisted upon the cuff.
In a haze, hadn’t he once heard his concubines agreeing that he’d make an awful father?
“I suppose after you were sentenced to this place, bonding with another wouldn’t be fair,” the vampire said. “But do you not wish to share your life with someone?”
“Perhaps that’s easier said than done.” In a rare bout of sincerity, he admitted, “I haven’t always been what you’d call a catch.”
“Yes. I can see that.” Irritating woman! He parted his lips to deliver a setdown, but she said, “Your moods shift like the sands you favor. Are you always so changeable?”
I don’t know! “I’ve heard no complaints about my moods.”
“Weren’t your companions paid not to complain?” she pointed out, the mirror shining her light.
His jaw clenched. “And what about you? Any family besides Mirceo?” That prick.
“My parents died when I was young. Mirceo raised me, though he was just a boy.” She eyed Silt. “He is still incredibly young to be targeted for one folly.”
“One folly?” Silt gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m likely going to die here, sweet. And so are you.”
“Perhaps. Yet the only way you can get revenge is if you don’t die here. So your logic is flawed. But convincing you of that doesn’t matter when you’ve made your reckless vow.”
He started to explain what revenge meant to him—without it, he would have perished as a child—but she would never understand. She was only experiencing powerlessness for the first time.
Besides, he owed her nothing. He fell silent, staring into the flames, fielding the memories that surfaced. Without dragon’s breath to deaden the past, recollections sparked like this fire.
In time, her shivering eased. Gaze alight with curiosity, she said, “I once read about a sorceress who uses mountains as weapons. Portia, the Queen of Stone. Are her powers similar to yours?”
He welcomed the distraction of more conversation. “Yes, in theory.” He and Portia had joined forces a couple of times in the past. He’d taught her how to make tornadoes out of boulders. “We both control stone at different sizes. Sand describes a size—it’s just a grain of infinite types of stone. Silt is smaller, and pebbles are larger. Portia can’t control the finest sand, and I can’t control pebbles—or mountains.”
Despite his nickname, silt wasn’t his favorite medium. Pure quartz sand was a silken luxury for his sorcery. Or, rather, it used to be. He dug into his pocket, stunned by how disconnected from it he felt—as if his fingertips had disappeared.
“If you’ve always had this power, why are you so adept with a weapon?”
Incisive female. Because I haven’t always had this power. “I trained with all manner of weapons, sand among them.”
“How did you get these?” She gestured to the makeshift sword she kept nearby.
“From a rare growth of crystal near the fire field. I don’t know the name of it outside of my native tongue, but in old Sorselan, we call it justale-ko .”
“Sorselan? That’s also the name of the Sorceri origin realm. I wanted to read some of its history, but even Dacia’s great library contained no information on it.”
Then you wanted to read my history. He’d shaped that dimension like sand, and when he’d released his hold, it had collapsed just as easily. “I was born there. It’s a desert land with scarce resources, but the dunes carry gold, which made it sacred to my kind.”
“Describe a desert to me. I’ve only seen illustrations.”
How could he possibly? Yet just those three words— describe a desert —sent him back to a time long ago, when he’d been six years old on a grand adventure across a sea of sand.
As if he were there, Silt recounted some of the details of that day: “The sun glares down, burning like a white flame. The sand hisses at it, begging for mercy, but it’s indifferent. The dunes swell and break as they dance with the wind.” Awash in memories, he murmured, “The sand is never-ending; I witness everything in it. Every color. Every shape. I see infinity. Death. Life.”
But then his connection to it had been broken by those he’d loved best.
“The way you describe sand beneath the sun,” she said with a hint of humor, “is probably how I would react in a similar situation.”
Blinking back to the present, he said, “Hissing? Maybe. Begging for mercy? From what I’ve seen of you, princess, I highly doubt that.”
The tips of her pointed ears heated. The fey had sensitive ears. Would hers be? “Still, I hope I live long enough to behold a desert. Perhaps one day. Or rather, night.”
A doubtful prospect. You’re probably going to die here. Soon. A charitable impulse made him say, “The desert at night is a wondrous sight, especially under a full moon. You would like it.”
She tilted her head, seeming bemused by him. “I also read that the realm of Sorselan was lost. Is that true?”
“Yes. When its last ruler”— me —“left for distant lands, that dimension fell into chaos. Sorcery theft was so rife, everyone scattered to the winds. And they’ve remained solitary since.”
“Do you miss it?”
Desperately. “On occasion.”
“How do you steal sorcery?”
“Find one of our kind who’s inebriated, weakened from exhaustion, or mindless from sex, then pluck the unguarded ability like a thread. Sorceri are always probing to see if another’s magic is locked down—an aggression if caught. Also, murdering another Sorceri will net you some powers.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“I’ve never stolen another’s power.” Much. He knew brethren with scores of them, didn’t understand how they kept up with them all. He’d taken only one other ability, allowing little else to distract him from protecting his sand.
“Have you had yours stolen?”
He forced himself to appear casual, to keep his heartbeat steady. “That would be a humiliation without equal, one I have not suffered.” Not since he’d been a boy. “We consider a root power, the one we’re born with, our soul. When another takes it . . .” Hope is lost. Pride is lost.
“Then a Sorceri becomes an Inferi.”
That hated word. It harkened shame, made bile churn even now. “Yes.” He sometimes disbelieved that he’d once been an . . . Inferi, that he’d lived with that barren emptiness. “So we guard our root power with ruthless determination,” he said, fighting the urge to trace his tattoos.
Fortunately Revenge had been there to keep Silt warm when he’d huddled hungry and alone in the cold desert nights. Revenge had nursed him through the outrages of slavery. She’d made sure he could handle a sword to enact her plans, and she’d promised him purpose.
In return, all he’d had to do was keep the chain going. He’d honored that contract, until opium had taken her place. . . .
He glanced up to see Kosmina’s analytical expression. “Will we speculate on each other at every moment of this journey?” he asked. “Without blood, I’m surprised you have the energy for it. You grow weaker by the moment.” He might’ve spared some pity for his maneater, if he’d had any left in him.
She straightened her shoulders. “I do grow weaker. I’ll have to dig deeper and fight harder.”
No one could be as dauntless as she acted. Eventually she would hit her limit and revert to form: a spoiled princess using others for blood and damn the consequences. “You must miss a steady supply of victims.” Then he frowned as a thought occurred. “Why are your brother’s eyes clear?”
Her expression grew frosty. “Mirceo is an off-limits topic for you.” Her steely words were undercut by a muffled yawn.
That yawn made her look vulnerable and called to some unfamiliar emotion inside him. Was this . . . protectiveness? He turned the idea over in his mind, could remember feeling it once for his parents.
Defending Kosmina over these nights must have done a number on his head. Shake it off, Silt. Yet when he took in her heavy lids as she struggled to stay awake, words left his lips: “Sleep, vampire. I won’t hurt you.”
She made a scoffing sound.
“We can call a truce for the night, and I’ll keep watch for any bold wendigos.”
“Truce? You’ve vowed to use me to hurt Mirceo.”
“That’s not true.” At her look, he amended: “Well, yes, of course I will murder Mirceo. But I’m not compelled to use you.”
“And how can I trust the word of an evil sorcerer?”
“The same way I can trust the word of a parched maneater. We’ll each make a vow to the Lore not to harm the other in this cave.”
“Only an idiot would make that kind of a vow. They often end in ruin.”
Most immortals refused to make them because those oaths had a way of backfiring and were binding until death. Few could predict the perils of being constrained so totally. “Have it your way. We’ll both stay on guard and rest not an instant. But you’re looking done in. So cold . . . tired . . . thirsty . At your age, you must need to sleep every night. I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d drunk my blood now.”
“Will you let it go? I don’t have to listen to this. I can leave.”
“And I’ll follow. I won’t let you out of my sight, leech.”
She rubbed her temples. “You saved my life, almost as if you cared, and all the while, you’re plotting to kill the one I love best in the world.”
Yes. Which must be fucking with her mind. Good. “You’ll sleep. And then you’ll discover that if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have to wait until you were vulnerable. You’re always vulnerable.” The thought of hurting her made his gut tighten with something like anxiety. No, no. It must be the last of the opium leaving his system.
“So reassuring.”
When her shivering resumed—this time from obvious exhaustion—that unwanted protectiveness returned. “Fine. I alone will make a vow. I vow to the Lore not to harm you while you sleep tonight.”
Almost against her will, tension ebbed from her, her lids growing even heavier. “I will rest a moment. Then we must push on.” She curled up on the cave floor. In moments, she was asleep.
Even breaths. Parted lips. A lock of blond hair teased her cheek.
She was a ruthless warrior, yet fragile. At times tonight, she’d spoken as if she’d forgotten their animosity, reminding him of a rose opening in the desert, not knowing that the harsh sands would soon destroy it.
Had their trials together softened him toward her? A touch. But it wouldn’t save her. It wouldn’t save her brother.
Silt pulled the sand from his pocket, whirling it above his palm with difficulty. He was still tapped out by that platform from days ago. His sorcery sputtered and he grimaced, pocketing the grains once more. He’d blamed others for severing his bond to sand, but he’d done it to himself as well—with every lungful of smoke.
He thought of that lion shifter addicted to the taste of mortal flesh. Was Silt any different with his pipe? He’d surrendered to its spell without even a fight.
He returned his attention to the mysterious vampire. She would’ve fought.
Silt’s gaze traced over her finespun features. He’d noted her beauty upon first seeing her, but after beholding her in battle, a part of him found her . . . glorious.
He could watch her sleeping for lifetimes as the firelight danced over her ethereal face. Judging by her shifting expressions, her clever mind supplied a rich dream life. When a weak quake rumbled the cave, she frowned but didn’t wake.
Shame she was related to a male Silt would soon destroy.
Still, watching her like this relaxed him. And with that ease, hazy recollections arose from the night of his capture. Though he’d been passed out, he must have absorbed memories as if through diffusion.
He recalled Mirceo battling Sequara. As suspected, the vampire had slain her as she’d defended Silt. He briefly closed his eyes. He’d always known she would die for him.
Then snippets of a conversation between his concubines and Mirceo swirled in his brain. Instead of rousing Silt to fight the trespassers, they’d propositioned the vampire.
Perfidious females! He’d warned them not to hold any affection for him, but now he wondered why they hadn’t involuntarily fallen for him. In that perfect window after smoking his pipe—and just before smoking some more—he’d once been a somewhat generous lover. He wasn’t awful to them.
This princess would be half in love with him if he put forth any effort whatsoever. How badly it would hurt her—and therefore her brother—if she lost her heart to Silt.
Tempting. But he had no time to toy with her. Nightside isn’t through with us , he thought as another quake rumbled. The stakes were life-and-death, and all he wanted was to smoke and blunt the impact of them.
Mina rose silently, readying her weapon. The sorcerer had fallen asleep without insisting on a vow from her.
His last mistake.
While she’d rested, the plague had seemed to gain a foothold. After dreams of a moonlit desert, she’d been inundated with red-hot scenes of blood drinking—with this male in every one.
And now a cold-blooded kill was on the table. Taking a life without a fight struck her as wrong—her parents were rumored to have been murdered in cold blood—but what wouldn’t she do for Mirceo?
This cave’s dying fire reminded her of that night Mina had asked him why they had no parents. Later, she’d awakened and crept silently into his suite. She’d found him staring at the flames of his bedchamber’s hearth with blood-tinged tears tracking down his face.
Had he been struggling with the unimaginable responsibility of raising a child? Or missing his mother and father? Perhaps he’d also pondered Mina’s last question, one he’d answered only with a tight smile:
Who will take care of you?
Though only four, Mina had dedicated herself to him as much as he had to her. They were connected by blood, by their past tragedies, and by devotion.
Tonight, Mina would prove hers. . . .
The sorcerer slept sitting up, his breaths deep and even, his heartbeat like a drum. She quirked a brow. So much for keeping watch. In the waning firelight, her gaze roamed over him. His face appeared chiseled, the shadows lovingly dancing over him.
Shadows. Shady. He certainly was that.
She stared at his mouth and ran the pad of her forefinger over her lips, imagining his kiss. Her inexplicable attraction to him dwarfed the longing she’d felt for Kristoff. The Gravewalker had struck her as the most gorgeous male Mina had ever seen, but this . . . this ruffian’s pull was even more powerful.
Her gaze dipped to his laborer’s build. With rest, he’d put on even more ripcord mass. The tattoos across his broad chest, visible between the lapels of his coat, drew her eye. She made out curious shapes, animals, feathers. What did those mean? Why had he marked himself so before he’d even frozen into his immortality?
She would never know, secrets lost to the universe. Like her foremothers before her, she stalked closer to make a kill.
Standing over him, she raised her weapon. Mirceo would never be safe as long as Silt Harea—and his ill-conceived vow—endured.
Good-bye, sorcerer.
Some unsettling hesitation tried to stay her hand. Love for her brother made her swing.