by Megan Derr
"Perhaps there is a misunderstanding," Midnight said. "How awful that so much has happened to Neirin. 'Tis a wonder he does not hold it against us, all that has befallen him since meeting us." He smirked briefly. "Then again, he apparently likes Barra's kisses."
Barra frowned.
Devlin felt anger stir again. A 'mongrel' like Barra was hated by other wolves—that meant he stood no chance of ever finding a mate amongst them, and he was wolf enough to want a mate. He was not elf enough, unfortunately, for their fierce independence and wanderlust to overcome the wolf's desire for pack and mate.
Midnight rested a hand on Barra's shoulder and smiled again at Devlin.
He attempted to say something, but his voice seemed not to function when Midnight looked at him.
Beneath the table, Troyes whined again, then gave a series of low, sharp barks and stood up, padding across the room to the door, sitting back on his haunches as it opened.
"You should not be up," Barra immediately said but did not rise—though to judge from the way his hands were balled into tight fists in his lap, he was fighting the urge to do precisely that. "You are mostly healed but still require a great deal of rest, and you will reopen your wounds—"
"What's wrong?" Neirin cut in, looking from Barra to his dragon. He held out a hand to Troyes. "Why are you crying?"
Troyes shifted back and stood, wrapping himself gently around Neirin. "Wolf-elf no like. Troyes bad."
"Troyes good," Neirin said sharply. He lowered his head and dropped a kiss on Troyes's shoulder, a bit of which was revealed for the dragon was only barely wearing a loose white shirt, having shucked all but it and breeches while he lay with Neirin.
Devlin blinked. He had noted that Troyes was always touching or clinging or some other such, but he had taken that for simply one more peculiar element of dragons. That casual kiss was not the sort a master gave to a subordinate, even if said subordinate was a dragon.
Surely they were not amorous… Hadn't the damnable dragon just said Neirin had, until very recently, had a mate?
"Why is my dragon so upset?" Neirin demanded.
"You have—or had—a mate," Devlin said coldly. "One that you appear to have simply discarded. Are knights and dragons always so dismissive about such things? I told you before, I will not tolerate you playing with Barra."
Neirin frowned, looking as confused as Troyes had before. "Christina? We were to be married, but it was simply an arranged marriage. To be honest, we never much cared for one another. Her family is extremely old fashioned; the le Fay clan has always been excessively so. I had every intention of breaking the engagement even before I got myself—" His mouth tightened, then he finished more quietly, "Banished."
"So she is not your mate?" Midnight asked calmly.
"Well, we were obviously supposed to have children. A du Lac with a le Fay…" He drifted off, looking at Barra, who regarded him cautiously. "Mate," he continued slowly, "only refers to childbearing amongst dragons. In dragon thought, she would have been my mate. But dragons do not take such thing seriously. Troyes has already been mated twice; he has fathered three children, and more will shortly be following. I think, perhaps, that word means something else entirely outside of the clans?"
Midnight laughed softly. "Quite. Among wolves especially, a mate is a love and lover for life."
"Oh," Neirin said, looking horrified. "Please, no, forgive us. That is not what she was to me at all. As I said, I could not stand the woman—nor could she bear me. She quite hated I was more interested in the outside world than clan politics."
He kissed Troyes's shoulder again, then let him go and strode to Barra, kneeling and resting one hand on Barra's. "Please, I intended no harm. I meant what I said to you the other night."
The tension bled from Barra's frame, and he gave a slow nod.
"There," Midnight said. "As I said, it was naught but a simple misunderstanding." His faintly glowing blue eye slid toward Devlin. "There seems to be a great many of those—" He abruptly broke off and doubled over as a terrible scream tore from his throat.
Devlin was across the room before he thought. Midnight clung to him, still screaming in abject pain.
"What's wrong?" Devlin demanded. "Damn it, Midnight, what the devil is wrong?"
"Song," Midnight gasped out. "Drowning—you—can't hear you, hea—" He screamed again, and when he looked up, his eyes were glowing brightly. "Please, I can't hear you. The song is drowning you—going to hurt—don't want to be—"
Devlin grasped his shoulders and gave him a shake. "Damn it, Midnight. You are mine. Do not dare listen to another; I will not tolerate such defiance."
Midnight tried to laugh, but it only came out anther scream.
Devlin had never felt so helpless. Damn it, where was the bloody bastard behind all this and how was he finally getting to Midnight?
"Help," Midnight pleaded. "I do not want to hurt you." His glowing eyes were full of misery—and a growing madness that was visible proof the siren song was winning.
Devlin tightened his grip on Midnight's shoulders and dragged him close, ignoring the pain where Midnight's fingers dug into arms, the layers of cloth insufficient protection. "You're mine, Midnight. Do not dare forget that simply because some stranger sings to you."
Then he covered Midnight's mouth with his own, dispensing with niceties for the moment in favor of kissing hard and deep and sure. Midnight tasted as he smelled—sweet and bitter, rich and sharp. Like magic, just as Devlin had always thought of him.
He also abruptly realized that Midnight was a bloody liar: It was so very easy to tell that Midnight had never been kissed. Dark. Love. Lies. Midnight had lied to him about being with others.
As soon as they were safe, he was going to wring Midnight's pretty neck.
Gradually the death grip on his arms ceased, and he could feel Midnight relax, knew the spell was losing its hold. He broke the kiss when all seemed well, and the need for breath grew urgent.
Midnight looked at him, eyes wide with surprise and happiness.
Devlin reached into his jacket and drew a single rune, pressing it to Midnight's forehead. "Sleep, dark angel," he said softly, catching Midnight in his arms as he immediately succumbed to Devlin's spell.
Motioning for Barra to precede him to open the doors, he carried Midnight back to their bed and laid him out, gently smoothing his hair and pulling up the blankets. Fetching his chalk, he warded the room and bed heavily enough that even a demon would be thwarted for a time.
Finished protecting Midnight from further attempts at foreign control, still tasting the kiss on his lips, Devlin snatched up his greatcoat and gloves and went off to find Winsted, for the bastard priest was his best place to start.
And when he found the sorcerer responsible for the siren song, he would rend the bastard limb from limb.
Hex
Finding Winsted proved to be a simple matter—he was, conveniently enough, right where a priest ought to be.
Devlin entered the small church with an amused smirk. More than a few of his ancestors had been condemned in such places—some were even buried in them.
He stood before the altar and regarded it absently, waiting. A moment later, his waiting ended as a priest came out and stopped short at the sight of him.
Devlin was interested to note the man was a nightwalker. Not human, certainly, though that was all he could tell for certain; his exact nature proved elusive.
"Where is the slayer?" Devlin asked. "You would do better to tell me, for I will have no qualms tearing this place apart to find him. I have done worse."
The priest regarded him in disbelief. "Even you, Your Grace, would not evade punishment for bringing harm down upon God's house."
Devlin snorted with laughter. "If you think so," he replied, "you do not know the whole of my reputation. I assure you, I will destroy this place unless you tell me where to find that slayer."
"So violent," said a cold voice just as Devlin sensed him.
He
spun around sharply, reaching for his runes—but Winsted simply stood there, looking tired and hateful and furious. "What was that nonsense about making promises to my sister?" Winsted demanded. "Why would she extract such a promise from you?"
"Because she knew that if she did not, I would kill you and gladly," Devlin replied. "Only that promise stayed the hand of Midnight last night, and we both know it."
The hate overtook Winsted's face, blocking out all else. "Your nasty little ghoul killed my angel."
"Your angel was trying to kill me," Devlin said blandly. "Under the circumstances, I cannot extend apologies. I take no pleasure in the death of an angel, even your poor imitation, but I prefer to live."
"That ghoul—"
"He is a draugr, technically, not a ghoul. A ghoul is something else entirely, being living for one thing." Devlin sneered. "As a hunter, should you not have your facts straight? You speak of ghouls as a normal might."
Winsted returned the sneer full measure. "I hardly take offense to being thought of as normal. Better than being thought part of your abnormal lot."
"My dear Father," Devlin said idly, "you are part of our abnormal lot."
"I choose to kill you abominations when you trespass too far. That does not make me one of you."
Devlin shrugged. "If you say so, Father."
"Why did my sister extract such a promise?" Winsted demanded.
"As I said, because otherwise you would be dead, and she does love you. Family always loves family, no matter how stupid they might be." He thought sadly of his own sister and brother, somewhere on the ocean, and hoped the idiots were alive.
Winsted stared at him, the hate vibrant and alive in his eyes.
The case had been years upon years ago, back in his earliest days of working independently, taking over almost entirely that peculiar element of his father's life. He'd been tracking an alchemist believed to have gone mad, and along the way learned that his housekeeper had gone missing. He had met Winsted then, but had not learned until the end that the missing woman was the Father's little sister and the only family he had left.
The alchemist had indeed gone quite mad from his own studies.
A delicate art, alchemy. Equal parts magic and science because mastering one of those was simply not enough. A spell gone horrifically awry, and it had been Devlin who had killed him and saved Winsted's sister—while Winsted had taken a nasty blow to the head and spent several weeks laid up in a church.
Devlin and the sister had become… not friends, precisely, but he always kept a distant eye upon her. A housekeeper in the household of a normal acquaintance, he suspected she was far more accepting of and involved in the nightwalker life than she ever wanted her brother to know.
Winsted had hated him ever since. For being the one to save his sister while he had only fallen to injury. For being what he was. For being untouchable, as even a slayer tread carefully in the matter of a blood debt.
It had been upon an occasion of visiting her for tea that she had extracted a promise that Devlin not kill her brother. He had done so, even knowing that she would never manage to extract the same from Winsted.
"Why are you trying to kill me?" he asked. "I have done nothing but try to find the cause for the draugr here."
"Before your arrival, the draugr wandered about the village, causing fear and panic and occasionally a bit of harm, though it's believed the harm was not intentional." Winsted pulled out a notebook and made a show of turning pages, reading off his careful little notes. "Since your arrival, the number of draugr per night has increased, and they have turned purposefully violent. Upon the arrival of your abomination, it all increased again. The obvious experimentation occurring with the draugr has shifted its attention to you. Given the nature of your abomination, the council agrees that whoever is experimenting with draugr has taken an interest in you and the creature Midnight and has turned hostile in his efforts to obtain you. "
Devlin went still. Experiments? "What do you mean, experimenting? Someone is attempting to study the draugr?" That would perhaps explain why they were being woken and controlled, but what was the goal of the experiments?
He drew a sharp breath as his reading on the beach came back to him.
Death connected to magic, which desired the bond between spirit and dark.
The magic user manipulating death desired the bond between him and Midnight. If he was experimenting with draugr and trying to control them, then of course he would covet Midnight, who was the ultimate draugr.
Who, though, would perform such experiments? Why could Devlin still not sense him?
"How do you know so much?" he demanded.
Winsted smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "The gift of observation, something you clearly lack."
"The gift of letting everyone else do the work, you mean," Devlin retorted. "I believe your lot calls that sloth."
"You would know nothing about it," Winsted replied, "so I really do not care what you have to say, Your Grace."
Devlin shrugged dismissively. "If you know so much through your amazing powers of observation, perhaps you have observed the location of this experimenter? I cannot think you would suffer one such as that to live."
"You know nothing about me," Winsted replied.
"So let me be certain I understand you: a nightwalker is waking the dead for the purpose of some strange experiment, and he now covets Midnight, so obviously he seeks powerful draugr. Instead of seeking out and killing him, you choose instead to focus your attentions on me and Midnight?"
Winsted drew a bit closer, and Devlin wondered that so much hate could be contained in one person. "My duty is to execute those nightwalkers who trespass too far into the land of God's children," Winsted replied. "You cause more harm than good to the world. That abomination should never have been brought forth, and the longer it lives, the more harm it will bring to the world. Unless you truly believe that he who seeks your draugr will be the last to desire him."
Devlin could not argue that. He knew all too well the dangers in continuing to let Midnight exist. Too tempting a thought, cheating death. "I do not care. Midnight is mine, and with my death will go the secrets of his making. Until then, I will kill all those who dare to bring him harm."
"Selfish and uncaring," Winsted said bitterly. "You are the same as every noble I have ever encountered. Do you not care, even the slightest bit, that you bring more harm than good to the world?"
"Of course I do," Devlin said. "I also disagree. My path is to protect the world—both the normal and the nightwalker. We need not be enemies; it is you who has ever made us so."
Winsted bared his teeth. "I will never call one such as you friend."
"Is it that you hate me?" Devlin asked. "Or do you envy me? You are already guilty of sloth, priest, I would not add envy to the list."
"What is there to envy?" Winsted asked, drawing closer still. Devlin tensed, wondering what he was about. "Your title? I have no need of such things. Wealth? The church provides me with all I need in that respect. Your magic? Mine is the equal of yours, and divinely granted, not taken from the bones of a corpse and washed in blood. What is left to envy after all that?" he gave a mean laugh. "The fact that you must sate your unholy needs by spreading the legs of an animated corpse?"
That was quite enough.
Devlin was across the church without even realizing he had moved, reason returning only slightly with the feel of Winsted's nose shattering beneath his fist. He stepped back, trembling with rage and reached into his jacket, ready to draw his runes in a moment.
Winsted lay upon the floor, hand cupped over his bleeding nose, hate a hot-cold fire in his eyes.
"Do not dare impugn my honor or his," Devlin snarled. "Midnight is no man's whore. Do you mention such things because his beauty stirs unholy wants in your blood, priest? Perhaps the church should be burning you right alongside me. I would be careful, because yours is not a brotherhood that ever understood true loyalty. They care not who they burn."
Devlin laughed. "I see," he said, unsurprised. "So the church has decided it wants the secret of my dark angel. Too bad. You will never have it." Especially if they killed him, but he would be damned if he told them that—let them kill him. He and Midnight would not be parted by something as trivial as death. "Come, then, priest. Kill me."
"With pleasure," Winsted whispered, rising to his feet, and in a single fluid movement he pulled something from his pocket and threw it.
Devlin barely blocked it, throwing out a rune that countered the object just in time.
The power of it lingered for a moment, making Devlin flinch.
A hex. The bastard had actually obtained a hex—and typical of the church, it had been bound in a cross.
He fell back, eager to get away from the hex, though his rune had managed to break its magic.
Back in the earliest days of witch-hunting, the so-called holy had developed ways of marking out and capturing nightwalkers. Of those various ways, none was more effective than the hex. Its mere presence caused a nightwalker pain, and should it touch him, it would cause excruciating pain and paralysis of his magic for a brief period of time—just long enough to kill him.
The secret of their making was fiercely guarded by the church, but Devlin did know they were extremely difficult to create. He had never encountered one before, for typically they were reserved for nightwalkers far more important than he. Then again, one rune had broken it, which meant it was an extremely weak hex—probably not intended for more than causing guilty parties to flinch.
It made him wonder what the hell the bastard was really up to.
He took a step back as Winsted moved forward, hating to give ground but not willing to be closer to the man than necessary if he was hiding further hexes. "I'm flattered, Father. I had not realized I was worth a hex. You could have simply asked if you were not certain I was in league with the devil."
