Sabíana saw it. Voran entwined in lust with another woman. Hatred rose up from her depths with the sudden ferocity of a winter blizzard. She looked at Otchigen and spots danced before her eyes. She nearly fainted.
There was bestial hunger in the face of Otchigen.
“Why, Sabíana, you look upset. You did not set your hopes on Voran, did you?”
All pretense had been dropped. This was not Otchigen, but some thing wearing him like a winter coat. And yet, that frightened her less than the visions of pain and blood that danced in her head—all of them variations on the theme of killing Voran.
“Oh, you could kill Voran easily, Sabíana. I know you would like that. For me, it would be a simple thing to arrange. I could do that for you.”
Her vision swam; her thoughts moved like stale molasses. Ever
