Yet though they were now enemies of another sort, the enchantress still lusted after Morgan, even as she despised him for using her to fill long nights he did not want to spend alone. She would not admit she had also used him, just as she would not admit she would return to him as his lover if he so much as beckoned.
"It seems to me your wife sought a man who could satisfy her desires when you could not!" she retorted with an anger that further reddened her complexion. "But never mind old accusations. I might kill him yet!"
"Let us calm down!" Xavier said, pretending Varen's scathing comment had not affected him. Let those gathered under his roof think he was an old fool for letting Morgan slip through his fingers. When he had the scrolls safely in his keep, he would begin anew his vendetta against those who mocked him openly to his face. It was only a matter of time, time he would bide by making his despised guests useful to his purpose.
"Enough of this foolish talk." Xavier motioned to bring the discussion to its end. "Such conversation is not appropriate for the feast to come. Let us eat and enjoy. Later, I shall tell what the Dragon has revealed to me. I think you will be interested. Very interested."
At the sorcerer's signal, a woman came forward with a carafe in her hands. She poured red wine into a silver goblet, careful not to spill a drop, and handed it to him. A beautiful girl of perhaps sixteen, she had none of the luster of youth. Much crying had permanently reddened her eyes and blotched her complexion. Frown lines deepened her forehead and chin. She drew back quickly when Xavier ran his hand over her bare arm before taking up his cup.
"A toast, my legions! To the Dragon. He never fails the true believers!" the sorcerer said, drinking the potent wine.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Morgan ran at an easy lope, keeping just ahead of his pursuers.
He was on the run because he'd just executed a raid on a Jansi scouting party, tracking the warriors through the jurn-aehys knowing they would be walking the veils searching for victims to snatch from the mortal side. The veils allowed Sclydians to walk among the humans without being seen. A scrounge of a wizard named Bennak was their guide.
The assassin had swiftly dispatched Bennak with a bolt through the eye socket. The Jansi had no choice but to follow him back into Sclyd to escape the rapidly collapsing portal.
There were five men remaining, men who were mightily pissed off. Well-armed, their intent was to separate his head from his shoulders. He had no doubts they were going to try very hard to accomplish just that.
Lengthening his stride, he maneuvered his pursuers like mice in a maze, leading them into a dense Southland forest composed of acres of untrammeled wilderness. His stride was smooth, easy. The air around him whispered, the mist shimmering like the ocean under the night's twin moons. He was back in his element, doing what he did best--stalking prey. Only, in this case, the prey walked on two legs.
Putting all thought of what he was doing aside, Morgan set his mind into the mode of killing machine. His mental focus became as sharp and deadly as a razor. He was in the black realm of the assassin, finding that place deep inside his mind where there was no fear, no regrets nor any second thoughts. There was only the will to destroy. He was more than an instrument that would deliver death--he was the Reaper at work with a merciless vengeance.
This was not his established territory, but they were playing by his rules. They just didn't know it yet. Across his back, his crossbow was a weight he hardly noticed. It felt familiar, resting easily. Save for the fall of his footsteps, he made no sound. Years of abuse--alcohol and cigarettes--had taken no toll on his physiology. Untouched by the decay of aging, he was in top shape. He'd suffered no dwindling of physical power, no deterioration of skills.
He budgeted five minutes--or roughly one minute per man--to do his killing. He had no doubt about his ability to pull it off. The art of killing was also an exact science, and he'd studied until he was a master. To take five men without being injured himself he'd have to catch them off-guard and take down one at a time. That was easy enough.
A tall oak with straight, solid hanging branches hove into sight. Perfect. With the grace of a feral cat, he propelled his body into the air. Higher than any human could possibly jump, it was an easy reach for him. Catching the branch, he swung up like a gymnast, balancing on the limb.
Crouching down, he closed his eyes, stilled his breath, his heartbeat, and listened. Over the sounds of the forest, he heard the crash of angry, careless men. They ran without regard to stealth, pounding along the rough path. Having had so much time on his hands, he was well schooled in observation. Like any good surveillance artist, he required a fixed post.
Beireann cú mall ar a chuid, he reminded himself. A hound stalks his prey slowly.
A moment later the men passed beneath him.
Morgan counted.
One…two…three…four…five…
As the last man passed under him, he struck.
Dropping from the branch, he landed with full weight. The stunned warrior stumbled before falling spread-eagled on the ground. A soft ummpph escaped the man's lips, but that was all.
Straddling the man's body, Morgan caught his head between both hands and twisted viciously, snapping the neck like a twig, killing him instantly.
It had taken less than thirty seconds.
Without pause, he grabbed the strap of his crossbow, bringing it around. Leveling it, he pulled the trigger, putting a steel bolt into the back of the fourth man. This death was not so silent--his cry of pain alerted the remaining men. Backtracking, they advanced, weapons drawn.
Dressed in leather trousers, knee-high leather boots and open leather vests, they were bulky men--big, brawny and dumb as oxen. They were well-armed, though, with swords at the ready.
Immediately on his feet, Morgan prepared to take down the remaining three drones. Driven more by instinct than consideration, he stretched his hand toward the first slain Jansi. His eyes narrowed, focusing on his objective.
"Thalla!" Come along.
The broadsword abandoned its owner's lax fingers, rising from the ground to connect squarely with the assassin's palm as though returning to the only man who should wield it. He did not have to think about it. The ability came as naturally as breathing. He and the ci'biote functioned as one complete being; it using his fleshly form, he its many abilities.
Drawing back his arm, Morgan flung the blade in a graceful arc, impaling the third man, spearing him like a fish from front to back right through the guts. It was this mastery of psi-kinetic forces that made him such a formidable enemy. It was also this gift that he suffered the most from employing. It was best used sparingly.
Three down, two to go.
He thought about loading another bolt in his crossbow, but there was no time to waste. Instead, he swung the weapon with fierce strength, connecting squarely with the closest man's face. Clutching a shattered jaw, his assailant collapsed onto the ground, screaming. His skull exploded when the assassin delivered a second blow, then tossed the ruined crossbow aside.
The fifth man decided the present was not his time to be a hero. Backing away, he turned on his heel and ran.
"Damn it!" Morgan cursed under his breath. If the Jansi got away, he would look sloppy, like he could not handle his chosen targets.
He sped after the man, tackling him from behind; and the two hit the ground, rolling. Gaining the superior position, Morgan slammed his knee between the man's shoulder blades, stealing his breath. The man began to buck like a wild horse attempting to climb out from under his rider.
Reaching for the dagger sheathed in his left boot, Morgan dug his fingernails deeply into the man's brow, wrenching up his head. The slice of the blade, the sound of flesh parting, the eerie swish of blood running from the gaping wound…
The man died with a soft gurgle. Blood spread in a dark pool around his face when the assassin let his limp head fall.
The deed done, Morgan was able to breathe evenly again. He'd gambled and won, know
ing the outcome of his actions. He had just declared a new war on Ouroborous's legion, committing an unprovoked act of war against his own race. The council and the legion were at peace; they would be forced to act, at Xavier's behest. At Megwyn's. He did not have many allies. Right now, that was the way he preferred it.
A groan cut through the silence.
Damn.
He froze, scanning the trees for sign of more enemies. He waited a minute. No more were coming. The slaughter was over.
Quickly on his feet, he walked over to the closest man, prodding him with his boot. The Jansi grimaced, groaning in pain. His hands pulled weakly at the sword protruding from his guts, blood gushing from his mouth, his nose.
"Have m–mercy," he struggled to say through the clutch of agony. His voice was raspy, hoarse, barely audible.
Morgan was not listening. "Would you have had mercy on the human women you were planning to take tonight?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "I think not."
Pulling out the sword like Excalibur from the rock, he chopped the blade across the Jansi's neck without emotion.
This was war. In war, men die. That was the way it had always been, since the beginning of time. That was the rule. Period.
He walked to the next, giving a prod with his black boot. Dead.
Tossing aside the bloody weapon, he reached for his cigarettes. Selecting one, he tapped it on the surface of the gold case, then lifted it to his lips. He gave a little mental push. Just a little. The tip immediately burst into a brief flame before dying into red embers.
He briefly scanned the woods again. Just in case. He would not fit among the Sclydians. He was not garbed in a medieval style. He wore a black shirt, black jeans and a long, calf-length black leather duster. Why the hell bother changing? He had chosen which side he would fight from. Nor was he the only one. Other forces were coming into play.
Many eyes watched--he felt their burning stares. Otherworld eyes, the familiars of those who wanted to know how he would act now that he had returned to the occult.
They have their answers now, he thought.
The watchers would not interfere. They were only there to observe.
He smiled. Cha'n eil bàs fir gun ghràs fir. There is no man's death without another man's gain.
He was neither excited nor thrilled to be going back into the battle he'd vehemently foresworn. He was only doing his job. And this time, he was going to do things right--by his heritage and by the woman who had followed him.
Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he sauntered over to the last man, the one who had taken a crossbow bolt through the back. Lying face down, semi-conscious, he'd attempted to crawl into the brush but hadn't quite made it. A tough one. Judging by the rattle in his chest, he would not last much longer, though.
A steel bolt through the back was a miserable thing. The arrow was barbed. It would only do more damage to try and pull it out.
Taking one last satisfying drag, enjoying the burn on the back of his throat, Morgan extinguished his smoke. He rolled the warrior onto his back, pushing the bolt clean through his chest. Agonized brown eyes stared up at him, pain contorting his features. He had a raised white scar along his right cheek. Muscles convulsed, quivering uncontrollably as death wrapped its hands tighter. A cold sweat covered his brow; the stench of fear emanated from his body.
"You may take my life, Lethe," he spat out, gagging on his own blood as a trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. "But the Dragon will have your soul. You will only be one of--"
Before he could finish, Morgan's hand shot out. Pinching the warrior's nose between thumb and forefinger, he pressed the heel of his hand into the man's mouth, cutting off his air and effectively smothering him.
"Death might reign over all," he conceded, "but the Dragon shall not win this dark war."
That done, he stood.
Five dead men.
Death was so damn messy. Bodies were a bitch.
Leave them to rot?
One corner of his mouth lifted.
Burn them.
Rising, he spread his hands, palms out, away from his body. "Flames of my anger, their bones to dust, take them all, my revenge is just."
Centering his psi-energies, he pushed. Hard. The five bodies burst into flame, charring and withering, burning until reduced to piles of unrecognizable ash.
Raising his arms to the level of his shoulders, turning palms inward, he summoned the four winds to his command.
"Take far from here all that is profane," he commanded. "Take far from here all that lives in evil. Begone, shadows that live in darkness."
The breeze grew violent, sweeping the ashes into the air and bearing them away. Where the bodies had been incinerated, not a single leaf, nor blade of grass scorched or stained with blood. Not a trace remained save for the weapons they had carried. It was as if they had never existed.
The spike of pain came swiftly, without warning. A vein in his left temple jumped.
He winced. His hand rose, fingers pressing to his skin. His blood pressure was rising. He could feel the thick dull pain thrumming against the walls of his skin.
You are pushing yourself too hard.
Pushing? Hell! He was showing off.
Instead of fading, as it had the last time, the headache settled at the back of his skull, like a pasha sitting down to a lavish meal, preparing to glut upon the feast.
If he kept up this pace, there was going to be hell to pay.
Too bad he never paid attention to the warning signs.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dirty gray fog rolled over asphalt patterned with cracks and potholes. Creeping like an experienced thief, the unnatural mist invaded dead-end alleyways between abandoned tenement housing and obscured the decaying buildings from each other. Alternately thick, then thin, swirled by the lashings of an icy wind, it acquired a sickly ashen cast from the light of the lampposts sparsely dotting corners of the neighborhood.
In the distance were sounds of the city's main streets. Car horns blasted, people shouted or cursed and the flashing red-and-blue lights of police cars cut into the nothingness. Swathed in the safety of civilization, people did not suspect the vapor descending on the city like a wet cloak might bring with it creatures from a more sinister side of existence.
Emerging from the shadows, Julienne smiled. Dressed simply in a light suede jacket, a sweater, slacks and flats, she looked like any well-dressed woman out for an evening walk. Where she walked was a place no self-respecting white woman would be caught in after dark, but she was not a woman--nor even human.
She was in search of a victim to feed her hunger.
She carried no purse. On her right hand, she wore an unusual piece of jewelry. True to his word, Morgan had designed and cast it. Among his many talents, she learned that he was a competent silversmith. An etched slave bracelet was connected to twin rings by a delicate chain that spanned the length of her hand. The rings were worn on the two middle fingers. To the eyes, it was simply a unique adornment. However, the rings masked a danger. On the inside of the hand, where they would do the wearer no harm, two sharpened half-inch spikes protruded. When forced into skin, the spikes opened up a bite-like wound; drawn across flesh, they would rip it open. Serving as her 'fangs', it was a creation of simplicity yet diabolically lethal, and she loved it.
Single-minded in her quest, she strode boldly up the alley with a grace possessed by those fortunate enough to be born so blessed. She stopped when she reached the end. Pressing her body against the wall, she peered around the corner. Her tongue traced her lips in anticipation as she searched the fog for the silhouette of a human being. Her eyes were bright, alert and wide, taking in every inch of the street. Her guts churned with nervousness.
The streets of the slum were deserted.
Sighing, she withdrew and retreated to the rear of the alley, to the shadows she must conceal herself in. The night was her time.
Her body was stronger and more flexible, and she m
oved with stealthy dexterity. Thinner than she had ever been, her tall frame had readjusted to accommodate the creature inside. As she grew used to her new strengths, learning her limitations would come with experience. The only drawback--aside from the hunger for human blood--was, as Morgan had warned, a slight allergy to the sun. A long period of exposure caused her skin to break out in blisters. To avoid discomfort, she had to wear long sleeves, sunglasses and a hat with a huge brim.
For a few seconds, a veil obliterated the solidity of the solid brick wall. Morgan emerged and made no attempt to blend into the shadows. Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, he moved without caution, automatically noting the alley's tactical strengths and disadvantages.
No immediate danger presented itself, and he relaxed.
"Do you see?"
"What?"
He pointed toward the wino sleeping in a stupor amid the overflowing trash heaped in the alley. He was oblivious to those who had suddenly invaded his impromptu bedroom. Half his body was covered with week-old damp newspapers. His skeletal hand clutched an empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 he'd recently consumed. Clothed in Salvation Army rejects that never saw washing, the wino bore no resemblance to a human being. He could have been thirty or seventy--alcohol had taken such a toll on his fragile mortality it was difficult to tell.
Julienne admitted sheepishly, "I didn't see him."
Looking at the man, she wondered if he was even alive, so shallow was his breathing. She had not even known he was present. Now that she had, she did not care. No way would she approach the stinking figure. Not with the rat sniffing so familiarly around his wrinkled face.
The huge rodent crept out from beneath the trash, black eyes glittering and tail swishing, in search of food. Like her, it was a predator of the night, willing to go to any length to feed itself, even take a bite out of human flesh.
Sickened by the parallel, she turned away, hands over her eyes, just as a black boot crushed the skull of the rodent. The rat died with a soft sound, barely disturbing the wino. The drunk snuffled in his sleep and rolled closer to the protection of the graffiti-coated wall. In his dream he probably had five dollars and a full bottle of wine.
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