Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 10-2

G

Jamus’ anger curdled into an ugly miasma of grief and guilt as he strode out of the house. For although rain and traffic and the carrion crows had wiped all trace of murder from the courtyard, he could still see the mangled pieces of Pieter’s corpse, and still smell the blood and s**t that had clotted in the grass that night. If only he had not let the trapper leave the party, he told himself. If only he and the others had come looking for him sooner.

And poor Liselle! By the time she finally came out of her drugged slumber, Pieter’s remains were already in a box. Jamus had had to show her the head. She had clung to Jamus then, and drenched his shirt with her tears.

And how did she repay him? With hurtful accusations and mistrust! He deserved better from her. Much better.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he did not see the woman in his path until they collided. She landed on her backside with a startled squeak; he staggered back a step to catch his breath. His immediate thought was one of amazement: whomever he had run into was very solid indeed.

“Pardon me, good sir,” his victim said then, “but could you please help me up? I think I’ve twisted my ankle.”

Stammering apologies, he hastened to her aid. She was a plump woman, not old yet but no longer young. The touches of time which feathered her cinnamon eyes lent a dignified depth to her pretty face. She favoured him with a shy half-smile as he eased her onto her feet, then winced as she tried to stand on her own.

“Lean on me, Mistress,” he told her then, “and I’ll help you home.”

She studied his face as if searching for signs of secret malice, then eyed the rest of him as well. What she saw must have relieved her, for she sanctioned him with another of her shy half-smiles.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re too kind.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied. “After all, it was I who knocked you down. Now tell me: where do you live?”

“My house is that way,” she told him, and pointed toward a poorer section of town.

He flashed her a smile and then spouted a lie. “What a coincidence. I was heading in that direction anyway.”

They started down the road then. She had an arm around his neck; he had her by the waist. As they walked, he became increasingly aware of her scent. It was warm and yeasty like fresh-baked bread, yet deliciously spiced with hints of s*x. His eyes strayed toward her ample breasts. His thoughts were quick to follow.

“I find city-life terribly stimulating,” she said then. “Is it so for you, too?”

Caught in the middle of a fantasy, he started and then flushed. “Huh? Oh, yes,” he stammered. “Very stimulating indeed.”

Her scent was driving him to distraction. It urged him to knead the soft flesh of her waist, to caress the rounded slope of her buttocks. His hands were all but trembling now. Other parts of him were protesting his restraint, too.

“Here we are,” she announced then.

They were standing in front of an old wooden gate. The courtyard beyond was overgrown with weeds and smelled vaguely of decay. The house looked like a gap-toothed derelict.

“You live here?” he asked, too surprised for tact. In his mind, she dwelt in a mansion filled with feather beds and silken sheets.

“Life has been hard since my husband died,” she said, eyes downcast as if with embarrassment. Then, as he shifted, meaning to let her go, she looked up again and hastily added, “But not so hard that I cannot offer hospitality to a gallant stranger. Will you come in and refresh yourself? Whatever I have is yours.”

The invitation spurred his pulse to a lusty gallop, for there was no mistaking the glint in her eye. This voluptuous pigeon wanted him! And oh, how he wanted her back! But even as the thought stiffened within him, Liselle’s frowning image slapped it down again. Behold a philandering fool, it cried. Behold a man who traded help for s*x. He tried to refute the charge, but that was hard to do when his trousers were around his knees.

Ah, Liselle! He had treated her badly, and she had only been telling the ugly truth.

The woman was smiling at him now. Her pretty face was all aglow. He patted the soft flesh around her waist, then gently withdrew his support.

“Mistress,” he said, as he opened the gate, “I’m honoured by your invitation.” She sallied into the courtyard, clearly expecting him to follow. Instead, he closed the gate behind her. “Unfortunately, I have a previous commitment to keep.

“Good day to you. I hope your ankle feels better soon.”

He hurried away then without a backward glance. So he did not see the rage which consumed the woman’s face, or the shadows which then swallowed her up.

G

Liselle sat by the hearth with a book of sorcery open in her lap, but the words blurred whenever she tried to look at them, so she gazed into the fire’s flickering depths instead. Its tongues conjured images of Jamus.

He had been kindness itself over these past few weeks, a stalwart pillar of strength. She did not know what she would have done without his help and support. Even so, she did not dare to trust the honey-tongued rake too much. He could make a stone love him if he were so inclined. And in spite of her wishes to the contrary, she was not a stone.

Even now, as she mourned her past and agonized over her future, she had to admit that a part of her was attracted to him. This was a terrifying admission, and one which she must keep strictly private. For now she knew what The Rogue would do if he found any more soft spots on her.

Ah, Pieter! Forgive her!

Her thoughts blew through the house in search of solace, but memories of her nephew lurked everywhere: in the kitchen, down the hallway, even in the furs beneath her feet. He had been dead for over two weeks already, but she still could not shake her grief. It ran on and on, as deep and bitter as the guilt which ran alongside of it. She had pulled out fistfuls of her hair, torn her garments, cried until her eyes and nose were raw, but nothing made her feel better because it was her fault that he was dead. She should have driven him away that very first day. Or, failing that, she should’ve stayed awake that last terrible night. Ah Dreamer, if she had only known! She would’ve helped him, freed him maybe; or if nothing else, taken her place alongside of him. But she had been weak from start to finish, and poor dear Pieter had died because of it. She’d never forgive herself for that.

And she wasn’t going to let it happen again, either.

That’s why she needed Lathwi.

Lathwi would teach her strength and the ways to endure a world of pain and grief without flinching. Lathwi would show her how to survive, regardless of the scars incurred. And as soon those secrets were hers, she would attack The Rogue with the whole of her hate intact and rend his body even as he had rent Pieter’s. There would be no mercy, no quarter begged or given. Lathwi would teach her that, too, and she would learn the lesson well.

In the meantime, though, she had other work to do.

She drew the book closer and began to read even though her mind cried out for rest. There could be no rest for her yet. Pieter’s murderer was still at large.

G

Alone within the confines of his stronghold, Malcolm limped back and forth across the cold stone floor and cursed. Things were not proceeding according to plan, and that didn’t please him at all.

The Recluse was his foremost source of aggravation. She was proving to be a most difficult target: cannier than a ten year old trout and surprisingly hard-hearted. Who would have guessed that she’d allow a kinsman to be murdered rather than put herself at risk? Up until now, he had regarded that kind of ruthlessness as his own special trademark.

Her calloused instinct for self-preservation wasn’t the only burr in Malcolm’s drawers, either. There was the matter of the new boneyard patrols, too, and her sudden interest in the curra-chewing sorceress’ whereabouts. Neither detail was worrisome in and of itself: D’Arque’s minions could prowl the catacombs for years without ever finding this stronghold; and The Curra-Chewer was a loose thread that he could snip at any moment. But the two so suddenly combined set off alarums in his head, for they suggested that The Recluse knew more about his doings than she ought to. And the only ones who could’ve possibly told her about those doings were demon-born.

It made sense. The compulsions with which he had bound his slaves would make treachery difficult but not impossible; and a geas-guarded tongue would explain her rather haphazard countermoves. In addition, there was one demon in his t****l who had the means, the motive and the intelligence to connive against him.

The naj.

He knew that the demon lordling resented its subservient status, and that it would cheerfully take his place if given half a chance. But he was not so sure that it would risk The Dark One’s displeasure by actively conspiring with the enemy. That tiny uncertainty was all that stood between the naj and The Spell of Unmaking right now; that and a grudging respect for its abilities. He did not want to destroy so precious a resource until he had the last talisman in his hand—unless, of course, he had to.

So he would bait a series of little traps for the naj. Then he would wait and see.

And as for The Recluse—well, perhaps he could trap her in the same web.

He summoned one of the lesser demons with a psychic snap of his fingers. Several minutes later, it came skulking into the chamber with a worried look on its hideous face.

“You’re the one who is watching The Curra-Chewer, are you not?” he asked.

“I am,” it replied.

“Can she be caught outside of her wards?”

“She can,” it told him, “but not easily, for the d**g she ingests makes her uncommonly quick. It will take two to accomplish the task: one to give chase, the other to grab her as she bolts for her stronghold.”

“I see.” He tapped his chin, a thoughtful gesture, then said, “Instead of two, I will assign three of you to the job. The third will act as a look-out, and, if necessary, distract any humans who may be hunting for our rabbit.”

“What sort of distraction?” the demon asked, in a tone that rippled with cruel possibilities.

“So long as you don’t kill anyone or reveal your true nature, I don’t care how it’s done. And once you have The Curra-Chewer in your custody, you are to bring her straight to me.

“Alive,” he appended sternly, noting the evil smirk that slithered across his minion’s lipless mouth, “and relatively unharmed. Is that clear? Or are you too dull-witted to be trusted with such a task?”

“I will not disappoint you,” it replied.

“See that you don’t,” Malcolm warned, and then dismissed the demon with a wave of his hand. As it half-turned to take its leave, he added, “Oh, and by the way.”

It tensed like a dog expecting the whip. “Yes, Master?”

“The naj is not to know about this. If it asks, tell it nothing, then report its interest to me.”

“I will do so,” the demon replied, and then went loping on its way as if it were happy to have escaped unscathed.

Malcolm sat back in his chair and congratulated himself: two snares for the price of one. He wondered what he would catch.