The silence that followed seemed to swallow all sound, all breath. Malcolm's shock was written plain across his spectral features. When at last he found his voice, it was little more than a rasping croak.
"Gwendolyn?" His eyes flared with a mixture of fury and disbelief.
"I thought I must have misheard you in our last exchange, brother..."
Tristan held up a weary hand, forestalling his sibling's inevitable outburst. "You heard me clear as highland morning mist, Malcolm. The very same Gwendolyn - that emerald-eyed she-devil made of sickly flesh and lies."
The memories of their encounter rippled through his mind, as vivid as fresh paint on canvas. "She emerged from the darkness, like death itself. Full Cyscodols witch wearing that serpentine smile that speaks only of exquisite torments t
