by Jane Kindred
base of his little finger, slicing it clean. Clarity struck him instantly.
While he howled in pain, Aeval ran her tongue down the blade
and captured the blood, and then his anguish disappeared into her
kiss. He tasted his blood on her tongue, skittering between them as if it became living matter only within her mouth. The pain transformed
into an urgent desire and he grasped for her in hunger, but she shoved him away.
“Later, my angel.” She pushed the sword into his wounded hand
and smiled. “Now. Defend your queen.”
Kae gripped the weapon, the missing finger inconsequential and
forgotten. “You will kneel before Queen Aeval!” He rushed forward,
swinging the blade in a deadly arc that sliced several peasants through at once. Something within him quivered with arousal at the sight of the flowing blood, and he lunged into the swarm, skewering the enemies
of the queen on the end of his blade.
Behind the first wave pressed another, wielding swords taken
from the fallen Ophanim. The principality effortlessly deflected their untrained advances, cutting sword arms from some and heads from
others. With each demon he cut down, the thrill of spilled blood surged through him like wildfire. Bodies and limbs piled at his feet while he pressed onward. He was the Angel of Death.
Demons tried to turn back, but others were pushing in from the
great halls behind, and soon they were crushing each other in the
melee, skulls cracking beneath boots, faces stamped into the glossy
wood of the dance hall floor. As the riot descended into panic and
chaos, the fire closed in behind the demons.
If Aeval hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulders, he would have
advanced into the conflagration. She pushed him down to one knee,
facing the flame billowing in toward them over the bodies of the dead.
The fire thundered across the ceiling of the drawing room in a blistering orange storm, whipping the velvet curtains from the windows with the
roar of a furnace and consuming them. Screams of pain and terror
filled the air.
316 JANE KINDRED
“Steady, now,” she murmured in his ear. “We will hold here.”
Kae thrust the point of his sword into the floor, grasped the hilt
with both hands, and waited obediently for her next command, but
this was not to come in words. Her hands moved down his back, and
then sharp pain dug into his shoulder blades as if she’d grown steel
claws and reached into his bones. He shuddered and cried out, and
with an agonizing wrench, something was called forth from within
him. Kae arched back, twin columns of water bursting from beneath
his skin. Aeval stroked her pale hands upward from the joints at his
shoulder blades and stretched the strange manifestation of his element until they towered over them both like the wings of a beautiful bird.
Crimson rivulets of blood swirled through the captive water from the
wounds at his back.
Flame lapped at him, but it meant nothing.
Aeval tilted his head back and kissed him once more. Her lips were
ice. She drew the heat from him, as she had done with that first kiss, and it was all he could remember now: his blood freezing within his
veins at the touch of her lips. But this time she didn’t stop at his blood.
His skin grew cold and tight as marble. The moving water spanning
from his shoulders began to solidify into towering pinions of ice.
The fire sprang at him with the animation of a living thing, licking
up one side of him in a lover’s caress, but when it touched the wings, it froze into place, cracking into sparks that fell away into pieces of brittle amber. The solid fire tumbled out into the hall and down the
grand staircase, and then a great flash went up. All the screaming
ceased. In the silence, Aeval sighed with satisfaction as if he’d pleased her in bed. As each beat of his heart came at intervals greater than the last, delicate sounds surrounded him like precious crystal shattering.
This time it wasn’t the fire. Pieces of himself were breaking away.
About the Author
Jane Kindred began writing romantic fantasy novellas at the
age of 12 in the wayback of a Plymouth Fury—which, as far as she
recalls, never killed anyone who didn’t have it coming. Born in Billings, Montana, she was soon whisked away to Tucson, Arizona where
she spent most of her childhood ruining her eyes reading romance
novels in the sun (and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark).
Although she was repeatedly urged to learn a marketable skill in case
she couldn’t find a man to marry her, she received a B.A. in Creative
Writing anyway from the University of Arizona.
She now lives in San Francisco with her son Samson, two feline
overlords who are convinced she is constantly plotting their death, and a cockatiel named Imhotep who punishes her for sins in a past life
(and whom she frequently imagines tastily smoked, dried, and splayed
on a stick like omul fished from Lake Baikal).
Acknowledgements
My deepest gratitude goes out to the people who believed in me
even when I didn’t believe in myself: Martin Pedersen, for reading my
fanciful stories from his home across the sea and always telling it like it is; Stephanie Rossi, for listening to me talk about the people in my head as if they have lives of their own (they do) and only occasionally looking at me as if I’m certifiable (I am); Cat Ellen, my cheerleader, for reading voraciously and wanting more; Daphne Phillips, whose
invaluable critique made my work stronger and whom I adore for
adoring my boys; Diana, my first reader, whose appreciation of my
dark side sometimes prompts me to write scenes where somebody
eats a baby (which didn’t make it into this book); Jon and Beth and
everyone at Wednesday afternoon tea, for listening to me whinge; my
son Samson, for putting up with a mom he only saw over the top of a
computer screen for most of his childhood, and who, for some reason,
seems to like me anyway; and a special thanks to my late husband Jack, for letting me plot out loud (also known as “listening to me whinge”)
and for providing much loving inspiration for the relationship between my naughty demons—I wish you were here to meet them.
I’m also grateful to Allison Pang, for being Vasily’s first fangirl,
and for encouraging me to dig deeper; to my agent, Sara Megibow,
for believing in Anazakia and the boys and putting them into the
right hands; and to my editors, Liz Pelletier, for loving the book and believing in my voice (and for not changing that line that contains the word “gluttonously”), and Catherine Kean, who did the heavy lifting.
Lastly, I’d like to add a special thanks to Lynn Flewelling for inspiring me with her magical world and her inimitable rogues, and for bringing together the wonderful writers of Writing on the Waves—as
well as to the writers on those waves with whom I’ve shared the voyage; to the Bling Babes of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers 2010 Colorado
Gold, and the amazing writing community on Twitter with too many
to name, who’ve provided unending support along the journey even as
they embark upon their own; and to Kate Bush, whose album Aerial
accompanied the all-important dreamtime of my writing.
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