At the time of year when the heat of summer wars against the chill invasion of autumn for custody of the land; a strong wind rose without warning, sending dark clouds skidding across the skies above the Waejontori town of Hell's Widow. Thunder growled and roared, followed by the dance of multi-colored lightning. The heavens opened and rain cascaded down in a blinding rush that drove all, save the most stalwart, from the streets to seek shelter wherever it could be found.

Alexander Jondries grimaced at the rain, bowed his head to keep the water from his eyes, and continued along Skull Road. He knew better than to keep Lord Heironim Traxton waiting without an excellent excuse, and bad weather did not classify as such. A spindleshanks of a mon, the whores at the Crimson Lady Brothel often complained that they got poked harder by Jondries hipbones than his cock.

Most people in Hell's Widow referred to this section of the town as the Blood District. In the beginning, the name had risen from the fact that the blood-drinking sa'necari aristocracy had built their elaborate homes and temples here. Over the past thirty years, the Sharani occupiers--sword-wielding viragoes--had either massacred or driven off all of the sa'necari from this region. The temples had been torn down, and the mansions and estates fallen to ruin, yet the name stuck as the surviving buildings were given over to far different purposes. Prostitution ruled. The surviving mansions had been turned into businesses such as the Scarlet Petticoats Brothel and the Red Buttocks, a bondage parlor.

The Crimson Lady reigned as Queen of the District; the largest, finest brothel in the whole of southeastern Waejontor.

The brothels were a gaudy island surrounded by the dregs of Hell's Widow's population. Every third house was derelict and the rest were rotting on their foundations. Stray dogs and cats took refuge from the rain beneath the cracked boards of neglected porches. Jondries noted with dour satisfaction that the rain had driven the rats from alleys and the drunks from the gutters and walkways.

Jondries had developed a distaste for drunks, addicts of every stripe, and all varieties of the homeless. A sa'necari-born, Jondries had gained his fangs and appetites at puberty, and required a generous daily helping of blood straight from the veins in addition to regular food and drink to stay healthy. When he, Dorjan, and Nelek made the trip to Hell's Widow from the Tyrins' estates in the north, the need for secrecy had been so great that the blood supplement to his diet had come almost entirely from drunks, addicts, and homeless; which had left the fastidious Jondries with a strong aversion to them.

The Blood District had begun dying long before Heironim moved in. Drugs, drink, and crime had been taking their tolls for decades; but now death haunted the streets with greater frequency and savagery than it had ever known. Even the Sharani occupiers rarely walked these streets. The sa'necari had returned to Hell's Widow, using it as a secret base to attack Clan Red Wolf across the Eirlys River and spy upon the Sharani garrison for signs of troop movements.

Heironim had sent Jondries a message to meet him for dinner at the Crimson Lady. The brothel had a bar and a fine restaurant as well as three dozen exquisite whores in residence. Well, mused Jondries, there are worse places for a meeting, and I can get my cock sucked when we finish.

Jondries had a fair idea of why Heironim had called this meeting and why he had decided to hold it at the Crimson Lady. Two weeks ago, Heironim's favorite whore had vanished with only her jewelry and none of her clothing. Jondries had suggested to him that, being lycan, Ellie might simply have dumped her jewelry in a bag and wolfed it. However, Heironim refused to accept that Ellie would abandon him that way; and so here Jondries was on his way to yet another meeting over her disappearance. He wished Heironim would simply find himself a new favorite and get on with the important stuff.

Caught up in his thoughts, he failed to see the drunk come barreling out of an abandoned house until they collided and went tumbling into the muddy street together. Jondries knocked the mon aside and sat up, outrage heightening the color in his copper-skinned face.

"What the hell?" Jondries grimaced at the ragged mon, and then at the mud coating the front his good clothes. "Look where you're going, you stupid piece of shit."

The drunk scrambled away from Jondries with the kind of clarity in his blood-shot eyes that suggested something had scared him sober. "I-I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"You ought to be."

The drunk waved his bottle, mud oozing from the bottom of it, in wild gesticulation. "M-murder ... tied to the bedposts...."

That got Jondries' attention. His people enhanced their powers through rites of rape and murder called mortgiefan. 'Tied to the bedposts' sounded like it might be a sa'necari kill. The Butchering Serpent had passed down instructions through Heironim that all evidence of their presence in Hell's Widow had to be destroyed or covered up. They could not risk the Sharani guardsmyn stumbling upon it. He seized him by the shoulders and shook him. "Shut up."

The drunk blinked and cringed. "There's been a murder."

"Yes, yes. You've said that." Jondries pulled a tenpence from his pocket, which was enough to buy three bottles of cheap liquor, and waved it at the drunk. "Show me, and I'll give you this."

A crafty gleam replaced the fear in the drunk's eyes as he grabbed at the coin.

Jondries closed his fist around it and drew his hand back. "After you show me."

The drunk pointed at a house.

"Don't point. Show me." Jondries got to his feet and jerked the drunk up by his collar. "What's your name?"

"Timothy."

"Okay, Timothy. Show me the body and I'll give you the coin."

Timothy led Jondries to an abandoned house. The steps of the long covered porch creaked beneath Jondries' feet. Timothy slipped inside after motioning Jondries to follow him. Jondries paused and peered through a grimy window, wondering what had happened to the people there. His sharp eyes made out the edges of the furniture. Whoever had once lived here must have departed suddenly, leaving with only the clothes on their backs because nothing looked out of order. Jondries stepped over the threshold and found Timothy standing in the middle of the living room, trying to wipe the mud off the rim of his bottle.

"Where?" Jondries demanded, his nose wrinkling at the thick layer of dust laying over everything and the odor of mold giving signs of the long absence of the inhabitants. He wandered into the kitchen and spied a pot on the wood stove. The contents of the pot had turned into a dry green dust. The possibility that this might be a trap occurred to Jondries. He extended his necromantic senses in a low-level scan and found nothing larger than rats in the house.

Timothy trailed in after him.

"Where is it?"

"In the bedroom."

Jondries shook his head in weary contempt. "Show me."

Timothy led him into a room and pointed at a bed that had huge sturdy posts and a canopy. In the middle of a disheveled pile of blood stained comforters lay a badly decomposed body fastened spread-eagle to the posts.

"Pay me."

"Ah yes. Payment." Jondries threw a lean arm around Timothy, pinioning him. Timothy's eyes saucered as he struggled to get loose. Jondries' incredible strength held the drunk easily. He drew his long belt knife and shoved it into Timothy's side, hitting the kidneys with the perfection of long experience.

Timothy gave a grunt of anguish, shuddered, and went limp in Jondries' grasp. He pulled his blade out and wiped it clean on Timothy's clothes before letting the dying drunk fall.

"Well, well." Jondries stepped over Timothy, moving to the bedside. He stared down at the maggot pond that had once been a living being and shook his head in distaste. Jondries had never liked dealing with the disgusting remnants, which was why he had never learned to create zombies and other forms of undead chattel favored by his peers.

He extended his necromantic gifts in a focused scan of the remains. A dry chuckle followed his determination of the dead mon's identity. "Well, well. Heironim will be so happy to hear I found you, Ellie. Now I'll not have to put up with anymore of these tiresome meetings."

Silkie Faggini, the Madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel, had once been one of the most beautiful courtesans in Waejontor. At forty-four years old, the angles of her light-bronze face had hardened, and the lines radiating around her eyes and the corners of her mouth had been etched deep by the harshness of the life she had lived. Yet enough traces of her fading aristocratic beauty remained to make her striking to look upon.

She maintained an attitude of arrogant indifference, indurate to the vicissitudes of life while Heironim Traxton raged through her office, throwing books and papers about, smashing her fragile treasures. She clutched her murdered lover's words to her heart: 'Don't let them see you cry.'

"Where's Ellie?" Heironim seized a delicate blown-glass bird from a shelf.

Silkie planted her gaze on the door as her stomach soured--her son given her that bird when he was nine. Cullen had taken their son shopping to buy her a birthday present. She remembered the joy on their faces as they had watched her unwrap it. I'm not going to cry, Cullen. I promised you I wouldn't let them see me cry. "I don't know."

"Who was her last customer?" Heironim smashed the bird against the wall.

"I told you. Eideard Doyle."

"Did Kynyr Maguire send him to talk to her?"

"How would I know?"

"You spent an hour talking to him."

"He wanted to know about Cullen. I didn't tell him anything."

"Doesn't matter whether you did or didn't." A thin sneer crossed Heironim's face. "Kynyr Maguire is dead."

Silkie's tough façade cracked. "You killed him."

"Of course."

She spit in Heironim's face.

Heironim raised his hand to strike her and Silkie laughed at him. "I'm pregnant, remember? The Serpent will not be happy if you cause me to miscarry his son."

"Bitch!"

"I wish." Silkie turned the insult into a double entendre, because lycans called their females bitches.

"Heironim!" Jondries entered the office and stared at the destruction. "I found Ellie."

Heironim lowered his hand and turned toward his lieutenant. "Where is she?"

"Dead."

Disbelief flashed across Silkie's face and then she began to laugh.

Heironim glared at her. "What are you laughing at?"

"An eye for an eye. No one does it better than a lycan."

As soon as Heironim and Jondries left, Silkie kicked her way through the debris and dropped the bar across her office door. Her throat felt tight and tears lurked behind her eyes, telling her that she was not as tough as she had once believed.

At twelve, Silkie had fled her sa'necari family who planned to sacrifice her to the hellgod Bellocar for failing to inherit the recessive sa'necari gene, and had become a child prostitute. By the time that Silkie reached the age of thirty, she had become hardened and calculating. She established the Crimson Lady and felt completely safe and beyond the reach of her family and the rest of the sa'necari.

But then she had made a mistake. Silkie had fallen in love with a lycan courier, Cullen Blackwood, eleven years ago, borne him a son named Cooley, and counted herself happy. Three months ago, the sa'necari returned to Hell's Widow. Heironim and his employer, the Butchering Serpent--whose face she had never seen--tortured and murdered Cullen in front of her. She had sent their son, Cooley, to Cullen's friend Kynyr Maguire, begging for help just before Heironim's net closed like a spider's web around her, robbing her of contact with the outside world. Kynyr came two weeks ago, and promised to return with sufficient help to get her out. But Heironim killed him.

"An eye for an eye, Heironim."

Silkie reached her desk, shaking so hard at the memories, that she could barely lower herself into her chair. With Kynyr dead, the only options left to her were measures so desperate that she had always prayed that she would never need them.

She jerked open the middle drawer of her desk, causing it to land in her lap with a thunk. The drawer was shorter than the shelf that held it. She shoved the drawer onto the floor with a flash of anger, leaned down, and fished around the back of the shelf until her fingers brushed against what she was looking for: a black velvet pouch that contained a wooden box.

In her youth, Silkie had risen to the highest levels that a prostitute could hope to reach, and become the highest priced courtesan in Torment Lake, the ancient capital of Waejontor. Her clients and lovers had included mages of every stripe and the magic-obsessed aristocracy. They had all given her gifts, dangerous gifts--and they were all in that box.

Silkie grasped the drawstrings on the pouch, and drew it out of its hiding place. She took the ornate box from its velvet shielding and set it on the table before her. Silkie's hands trembled as she stroked the leaves, vines, and flowers carved into the lid. A sense of melancholy resignation replaced her anger and her fear as she spoke the word that would release the mage-lock on the box.

The lid came free.

"You told me that one day it would come to this, Brandrahoon--my undead dragon of damnation. I did not want to believe you then. Now I know you were right."

Beneath a layer of enchanted jewelry and arcane stones, rested nine vials wrapped in black cloth. One by one she unwrapped them, lingering over a vial of crimson fluid with an elegant 'B' and runes of preservation upon it.

She remembered his words and the look in his eye as the oldest and greatest of the Lemyari vampires handed her that bottle.

"You are so beautiful, My Silkanna, My Lady of Silken Grace. When the vicissitudes of life engulf you beyond all hope, drink this and die. Then come to me and I will vanquish your enemies and wrap you in my love, forever. You are my Amalthea returned to life."

She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself, twisted the golden top of the vial to break the seal, and drank it. The liquid burned her throat, yet she swallowed every drop of it. Silkie tasted more than blood in it. She tasted something sharp and sweet, and the tingling of a spell at the back of her throat.

"Brandrahoon ... what did you put in it?"

Silkie tried to remember everything he had said when he gave it to her. Forever young ... forever mine.

A sensation of first dizziness, and then a searing joy spread through Silkie so intense that she could find nothing to compare it to.

"Drink it and then choose a way to die."

She swayed in her seat as the fire lit her veins. A surge of anger cleared away the disorientation.

"The sa'necari be damned. Let them face the wrath of the blood of Brandrahoon."

Silkie returned the contents to the box, closed the lid, and slipped it back into the velvet pouch. She tied the strings to her belt, reached into another drawer, and brought forth a long dagger.

Rising from her chair, Silkie faced the wall behind it and spoke the word that would reveal and open the spiritdoor. A panel of the wall shimmered, became transparent, showing a comfortable room with thick carpets behind it.

Silkie entered the room and sealed it once more with a word. She lay down upon the floor, slit her wrists, and closed her eyes to await death and the transformation that Brandrahoon had promised her.

"Soon, you bastards ... I'll be coming for you. Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan will have her vengeance."

As blood loss dragged her toward oblivion, Silkie dreamed of Cullen and smiled.

Lieutenant Kynyr Maguire slept, stirring restlessly without waking, his fists clenching and unclenching in his troubled dreams. His long, thick golden hair covered the pillows like a sunburst, circling his handsome face, now marred with the traces of illness from his wounds. A narrow fringe of close-cropped golden beard framed his face from sideburns to an inch from his chin. His lantern jaw, pronounced cheekbones with dramatic hollows beneath them, and cleft chin made Kynyr Maguire the visual epitome of lycan masculinity. Yet the image was flawed now by dark circles beneath his eyes, and the handsome angles had given way to a gauntness that aged his visage well beyond his nearly twenty-one years.

Toward morning, his leg always began to throb and hurt. The poppy milk wore off, the muscles tightened around his wounds, and his leg stiffened. Then the pain led inexorably into nightmares before it released him into wakefulness. That morning was no exception.

"I see them! Whip those horses up!" Ramsey shouted.

Kynyr slapped the long reins across the hindquarters of the horses and the wagon lurched as the startled horses broke into a run. Retreat was not an option. He knew he would never get the wagon turned. His only choice was to try and drive over them, break through to the bridge around the bend.

Kynyr spotted a mon standing among the trees with a long bow. He brought the crossbow up, laid it across his forearm, and fired. The archer went down with a scream. He tossed the bow at his feet, grabbed the other bow, and fired at another. A hailstorm of arrows fell around them. Several struck Kynyr in the chest, and failed to pierce his armor. The wicked shafts hit his horses, sending the wounded beasts into panicked flight. The wagon careened out of control into the dip in the road near the turn.

Kynyr writhed in his sleep, groaning. "No. Nooooo!"

Three arrows protruded from his thigh and two from his calf. Three of the shafts were black with crimson and brown fletching; the others were red shafted with blue and red feathers. He clutched his leg. Archers had one principal reason for coding their arrows: poison.

Kynyr tried to reload the crossbow, but the out of control wagon seemed to hit every rough spot in the road, jarring him.

Far back in his mind, submerged within the nightmare, Kynyr knew what was coming next; yet could not free himself from it.

Eideard tumbled from the saddle and the wagon rattled past his still form. Kynyr cried out in rage at seeing his friend fall. Then the acrid scent of dark power swept over Kynyr and he glanced to the right. While he had no magic gifts, he could see the patterns of arcane energy--and he saw the bolt of death strike his horses. They stumbled and fell. The wagon tongue struck the ground and the next instant Kynyr was tumbling through the air as the wagon heaved over.

Kynyr struck hard, skidding into a roll. The arrows twisted in his wounds as the shafts broke off close to the skin, leaving just the heads embedded in his flesh. The pain nearly caused him to black out. He tried to drag himself up, but his wounded leg would not support him. Pain seared through him as if his veins were on fire. His chest felt tight, as if a fist pressed down on his heart and lungs. He recognized what was happening. "Devil's Silver."

He saw Ramsey fall with arrows in his chest and back. "No!"

Finn had nearly broken free, when he saw that Kynyr had been hit and turned back.

"No, Finn! Keep going! Keep going!"

"Kynyr!" Finn sprang from the saddle, and ran toward him. "I can't leave you behind."

Barely three yards from Kynyr, Finn stiffened and stared down at his mid section as three arrows punched through his ribs and a fourth hit him in the belly. He swayed a moment before collapsing where he lay unmoving.

"Finn.... "Kynyr choked on the name. He crawled forward. His fingers brushed Finn's face. "I loved you ... brother."

The scene melted into another memory as Kynyr tossed and turned.

Ramsey's face was flushed with fever and his breathing stertorous. His round cheeks had become sunken and the bones in his face stood out as if all the muscles beneath his skin had melted away.

"Ah, gods, Ramsey. Not you too."

Ramsey's eyes fluttered open. "K-Kynyr ... I been waitin' for ... you." Ramsey shuddered, struggling for breath. "Get those ... assholes ... for me."

"Yeah, Ramsey. I'll get them. Whoever's behind this ... I'll get them."

Ramsey's body stiffened in pain for an instant and then his features went slack. Kynyr clutched his friend to his chest, but it was too late. A long howl of grief erupted from Kynyr's throat and shivered through the building as he held his dead friend.

Kynyr lurched upright in his bed, clutching his leg. He blinked away the cobwebs in his mind and saw that Kady had left him a dose of poppy milk on the nightstand, knowing that he still woke in pain each day. Kady, always so thoughtful and kind; Kynyr envisioned her at her tasks and her image pushed away the unhappiness that lingered from his troubling dreams. He drank the drug, stretched out, and waited for his leg to ease.

The door opened and his grandfather entered. Todd Sinclair had a strong, hearty face. The folded lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien suggested a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it.

Todd pulled a chair over to the bedside. "We should talk."

"About Kady?"

"Among other things. You made me a promise, Kynyr. It's time to collect on it." Todd's heavy-lidded eyes narrowed to slits. His voice remained even. Todd did not have to raise his voice; Kynyr was sensitive to the subtle nuances that outsiders missed. In that much, Todd reminded Kynyr of his father, Branduff--Bran to the family--who had learned it from Todd.

"What promise?"

"To tell me everything that happened at Hell's Widow."

Kynyr's fingers dug into the healing wound in his thigh as he sat up again. Todd left his chair, snagged the pillows from the far side of the big bed, and piled them high behind Kynyr.

"We got to Hell's Widow without a hitch. There was no one on the road that day. I briefed Eideard and Ramsey on what Claw expected."

"Find out who killed Cullen?"

"Yeah. Eideard began to speculate about Ellie Remus ... saying she must have helped the sa'necari capture Cullen."

"Did he say why he thought that?" Todd returned to his chair and settled in, his thick wrists draped casually across the chair arms with his elbows sticking out.

"Not in so many words." Kynyr's eyes went distanced with reflection. "I told them about Cooley ... Eideard insisted that we pledge ourselves as Cooley's uncles ... fill the place left vacant by his father's death."

"Eideard was a good mon."

"Mostly."

"You still think he killed Ellie?"

"He could hardly have left her alive after stealing her jewelry." Kynyr sucked in a breath. "I assume it's her jewelry you found on Eideard."

"I planned on packing it up and sending it to a friend in Creeya to sell. Set Cooley up a bank account in Havensword."

"Can I see it?"

Todd gave a curt nod and fetched it.

Kynyr's eyes widened in surprise as Todd laid the casket of jewels next to him. The box was a foot and a half long, eight inches deep, and eight inches wide. Kynyr lifted the lid and set it on the other side of the bed. "I had no idea there was so much of it."

"It filled four pouches and one saddle bag." Todd watched Kynyr sort through the jewelry. "There's at least ten thousand crowns there."

"Wergild. Ellie drugged Cullen so they would take him without a fight."

"Did Eideard know that?"

"Yes." Kynyr came across a simple gold necklace set with jasper and obsidian. "This is her jewelry. I recognize this piece."

"You should not have told him." Todd took a heavy ring from the box; a piece of jade shaped like a temple.

"I expected him to obey orders."

Todd turned the ring over and thumbed a complex button in the underside. "This is how she did it." A bloodstained needle emerged.

"Cullen's blood?"

"That's what Cahira says. It's coated with Yellow Moon. Hit's the blood stream fast."

"Are you thinking of sending Cooley to Creeya?"

"If it gets too dangerous for him here ... Either to Tiderider or StealsThunder."

Kynyr considered while he returned the jewelry to the box. "If Ellie had all this, why did she continue working as a whore?"

"Find the one she worked for and you'll know."

"You mean the sa'necari?"

"Ayup."

"I must go back to Hell's Widow. I promised Silkie I'd get her out."

"Finish the story."

Kynyr told Todd about arriving in Hell's Widow and staying at the Three Candles Inn. The lycan who owned it, Amos Raggat, informed them that Ellie had been spending money in conspicuous amounts, leading him to wonder if she had been paid for betraying Cullen and perhaps a bit more. Flavio, the clerk at the Crimson Lady, had tried to prevent Kynyr from seeing Silkie, until Kynyr brandished Claw's name at him. Once Kynyr got in to see Silkie, the madam told him that Ellie had betrayed Cullen, confirmed that Ellie had not done so as a result of intimidation, and promised to reveal the name of the sa'necari behind it if Kynyr would help her escape.

"You should have kept your mouth shut about Claw." Todd glanced down and stared at a point on the floor, his lips tight.

"You think that's why they ambushed us?"

"Maybe. The only way to know for certain is to go back."

"I intend to. My friends ... deserve their vengeance."

"Then you haven't lost your nerve."

A spark of anger flashed in Kynyr's eyes. "Why would you even wonder about that?"

"I know about the nightmares. You talk in your sleep ... loudly."

"Just because I..." Kynyr's calf spasmed and he grabbed it, grimacing.

Todd threw the covers back. "Let go."

Kynyr drew the edge of his blanket across his loins and left the leg exposed.

Todd's big, powerful hands worked on the cramp. When it eased, he studied the fading lines crossing his grandson's stomach. "You were lucky. If Pandeena and I had gotten there a fraction later, they'd have had your organs out."

Kynyr suppressed a shudder.

Picking up Kynyr's cane, Todd examined the tip which wore a thick layer of cloth bound in place with a rawhide strip. Todd's bushy red eyebrows quirked. "So that's how you've been sneaking up on Kady?"

Kynyr flushed. Kady Wiggins was the only thing in his life that could completely throw him off stride and demolish all traces of maturity in a rush of dismay. He had always been an alpha male in his circles--except in relation to Todd--and yet a bitch was bringing him to his knees in a way he had never experienced before. His primal instincts wanted to chase her howling as if he had lost his mind. Restraint seemed impossible at times, and yet he held it back with a two-fisted tenacity, and said quietly, "She started it."

"Kady? Don't lie to me, Kynyr." Todd's quiet, measuring gaze pinned Kynyr as securely as a mounting tack through a butterfly.

"I'm not lying. She kissed me first." Kynyr's flush deepened to crimson, making his hair look more yellow than gold.

"When?"

"When I first woke up ... she kissed me." Kynyr remembered waking in the darkness, not knowing where he was and how he had gotten there, feverish and in pain from his wounds, thinking all his friends were dead--and then Kady came in like a pale-haired angel bringing comfort, and kissed him.

Todd looked dubious. "One kiss and you're stalking her through the house?"

Kynyr hated it when Todd put him on the spot with that gentle disapprobation. There were only two people who could make Kynyr feel defensive and flustered: his grandfather Todd Sinclair and his father, Branduff Maguire. Kynyr never wanted to disappoint either of them; or appear the fool in front of them. However, stir Kady Wiggins into the mix, and Kynyr felt like he was in over his head. Todd had taken Kady to the Willodarian Shrine and pledged himself as her guurmondru--an archaic term that had fallen mostly into disuse, which combined a number of roles that included father, brother, mentor, and until Kady completed her training in the arts of war, protector. All of that ran through Kynyr's mind as he tried to decide how to explain his behavior. "Uhmmn. She kissed me again the day of Ramsey's funeral. And she said she'd go to the Faire with me."

"That could have been just a kindness, Kynyr. You shouldn't make so much of it."

"There's something we weren't going to tell you." Kynyr shifted on the bed, and sucked in a breath, feeling as if someone had taken a straight razor to his pride.

"Tell it." Todd crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

"The day of Ramsey's funeral, Preece Malloy attacked Kady. I chased him off ... Kady helped." Kynyr looked more embarrassed by the minute. "Kady thought I couldn't take care of myself ... what with this damned leg. I came round the bushes, and Preece had her pinned on the ground ... and she..." Kynyr swallowed, his lips tightening for an instant. His tattered audacity wavered, making it all the harder to speak of the event. "Well, Kady ... screamed at me to go away ... that Preece would kill me."

A knowing look came in Todd's eyes and his arms relaxed. "And then what?"

"I kicked him. He staggered back ... my damned leg buckled ... and then Kady tackled him around the knees and took him down. She hit him a good one in the grapes and landed one in his face."

Todd chuckled. "So you went to her rescue and she ended up rescuing you?"

"Basically." Kynyr lowered his head, unable to meet Todd's bemused eyes. "And then she wouldn't stop kissing me and telling me how worried she was about me. After that, I just sort of figured ... well, maybe it was okay to steal kisses." Kynyr's words came out faster and faster, jammed together between breathless pauses.

"Keep one thing in mind, Kynyr. While a dog has a right to ask, a bitch also has a right to say no. Unwanted sexual advances--and kisses aren't innocent when they are unwanted--is a subtle humiliation for a bitch."

Kynyr felt as if he had been slapped. Kady alone kept the nightmares at bay that haunted the silences and lurked in the quiet moments since the ambush. "If she hits me, I'll take that as a no and stop. Will that satisfy you?"

Todd looked thoughtful. "Don't cross the line with Kady. She's had enough grief." A tiny smile arrived to soften the seriousness of Todd's tone. "Otherwise I'd have to take you over my knee."

"As if you could." Kynyr's teasing grin covered some of his embarrassment. He had padded the cane so that it would make no noise when he snuck up to Kady and stole a kiss. He had become bolder after the day she kissed him, hidden in the trees following Ramsey's funeral. It had added a taste of sweet to the sour of grief, and mitigated the guilt edging his thoughts that day.

Todd gave him an askance look. "As if I couldn't."

Kynyr's jaw clenched and then his grin broke through again. "I'm younger than you are."

"I'm better than you are. The student is not yet the master."

"There's that."

"Remember, Kynyr. Kady's taken a lot of rough handling. The Greenlea brothers and their friends raped her."

"She's seemed a lot more like her old self since she killed Cormic Parry." Kynyr pressed for agreement on that. He needed her whole, wanted more than her kisses, wanted a full-blown courtship and he could not have that if Todd decided to stand in his way as her protector.

"She did a righteous job of it. You should have seen her." A note of satisfaction entered Todd's voice. "Cormic dragged her out of the chair, and the next instant she had knocked him down and was kicking the shit out of him."

Kynyr lifted his eyebrows. Todd rarely resorted to foul language. "She's got her confidence back."

"Just in time."

"What do you mean?"

"Lawgiver's got myn repairing the scaffolds. Sentence has been passed on Donald Greenlea and Iollen Newell."

"You think Caimbeul will hang them?"

"Attempted kidnapping is not a hanging crime. Maximum sentence is one hundred lashes. I doubt Caimbeul will order that."

"Why not? They deserve it." Kynyr had mixed feelings about the situation. The night before he left for Hell's Widow, he had promised Kady that he would avenge her honor when he returned. Kady, Todd, and now Caimbeul, had done it instead. Although Kynyr knew intellectually that there was nothing he could have done following the ambush and his wounding, he still felt as if he had let Kady down by not doing it himself.

"They're village toughs who think pulling down a helpless bitch makes them big dogs."

"I'd order a hundred."

"Fifty would probably kill them, knowing the way Caimbeul likes to see the blows delivered."

"I doubt that."

"Caimbeul uses silver. High-grade silver spikes braided into each of the lashes."

"Ouch." Kynyr flinched at the thought.

"Kady needs to be there when Donald and Iollen receive their punishment. She needs to let all the wet-tailed dogs know she's not weak ... that what happened to Cormic was not pure luck."

"I'll talk to her."

"Good." Todd stood up to leave.

"Wait. I have a question."

"What?"

"Do you think twenty-one is too young to settle down ... get married? I mean ... you were in your thirties when you and Gram..."

"Only because it took me ten years to track her down. You have someone in mind?"

Kynyr had always found the story of how Todd had searched for Cahira romantic. The disastrous conclusion to the Lycan Rebellion had separated them, and yet Todd had kept searching until he found her again. "Kady."

"Are you certain this isn't just a taste of the Wild Cousins?"

"I'm certain. I just need to convince her."

"Well, don't do it the way I did your Gram." A naughty boy smile erased the years from Todd's lined face. "I switched her herbs and landed her one in the belly."

"Uncle Trevor?"

"She still held out until two months before he was due. She looked like an overripe melon walking up the aisle."

The skull of Ellie Remus, cleaned and glazed by the best artisan in Hell's Widow, rested upon a shelf of the bookcase in Heironim's office as a memento mori. Alexander Jondries surreptitiously studied the room, masking his irritation behind long lashed eyes half-closed as he tapped his steepled forefingers against his lips. Heironim had turned the office into a macabre shrine to his murdered whore. Before Jondries found Ellie's remains, the room had been decorated in Heironim's usual shades of greens and mustards; now everything was black from the carpets to the curtains and the cushions on the chairs and sofas.

Heironim spent more time obsessing on Ellie, than on the twenty-five myn they had lost to Kynyr Maguire's as yet unidentified rescuers. Jondries had lost two close friends, Dorjan and Nelek, in that ambush gone wrong. He wanted answers and Heironim showed no interest in looking for them.

"You can't be certain that Doyle killed her."

"He was her last customer that night." Heironim drummed his fingers on his desk and stared at her skull. "He did it."

"No one saw either of them leave the Crimson Lady."

"They went out the window ... obviously."

Jondries leaned back in his chair. "What if one of them survived? What if Ellie told Doyle your name? She was tortured ... after all ... I assume interrogated. I think you should keep off the streets, Heironim."

"Malthus is coming in two days. We'll know then." Heironim rose and went to the bookcase. He took Ellie's skull down and kissed it. "Murdering bastards. If any of them are still alive, I'll get them."

A skeptical frown lined Jondries' narrow forehead. "I can't understand why you're getting so upset over a lycan whore."

Heironim spun about and glared at Jondries. "I loved her."

Jondries fell silent for several minutes. He disliked lycans almost as much as he did the gutter trash he had once been forced to feed upon. Coupling with them seemed like bestiality to Jondries. "You don't have enough myn to achieve anything. We have only fifteen myn and five sa'necari besides ourselves. Our soldiers barely classify as veteran and the sa'necari can't even be considered middle rank. Sidera sent them so we could finish their training ourselves. It would be suicide to throw them at the lycans."

Heironim's scowl deepened. "I have the will, so there must be a way."

The defeat of his units under Dorjan at the bend in Pendarke Road--which the lycans called Cataract Road--where they had ambushed Kynyr Maguire had hurt Heironim's endeavors in Hell's Widow, putting an end to his efforts to close the road to travel. He could have recruited a few wandering sa'necari through the waystation concealed in the Devil's Dance Inn; however, Malthus had forbidden it. The only sa'necari recruited had to come by way of Sidera Tyrins' estate in the far north, vetted and trained by her. Messengers had been sent to Sidera, but no replies had arrived yet.

Although Flavio and Heironim's other spies in the Crimson Lady kept him informed about Silkie, he chafed under the restraints placed on him by Jondries' logic. Until they could ascertain whether any of Maguire's party had survived the ambush, and if they had, how much they knew about Heironim's operation, he did not dare show his face in public. He had considered having her brought to him, but that would have entailed risking her learning the identities of his people.

Heironim felt certain that Silkie was playing some kind of lone hand against him, but there was nothing to do about it until consulting Malthus.

"Jondries, let Flavio know that I wish to be informed of any irregularities in Silkie's behavior. And she is not permitted to have visits from lycans."

"So you will stay out of sight for the time being?"

"As much as I can."

"You need a rite to steady yourself. Shall I have one prepared for you?"

"Yes. I'll be down to the altars shortly. Put it all in order."

Kady Wiggins had done everything she could think of to make herself less attractive since becoming Cahira Sinclair's apprentice. She had cut her flaxen hair two inches all over, only to have it turn into a mop of curls as soon as she washed it the first time. She had switched from wearing dresses to going about in loose drawstring trousers and baggy shirts. However the broad leather belt that supported her pair of fighting knives and pouches cinched the shirt in and revealed her small waist and the generous curves of her classic hourglass figure.

She sat at the kitchen table, reading a book. Kady knew that she risked discovery by bringing it with her, but she had a basket of knitting close to hand where she could shove the book into hiding if anyone walked in. She found it hard to stop reading, even though it contained many large words that she had absolutely no idea what they meant. Instead, she kept a small tablet with a list of the words penciled in that she failed to recognize.

Kady closed it at the sound of footsteps. They turned away and she glanced down at the title stamped in gold leaf across the top:

Early Lycan Marriage and Sexual Customs.

The volume had a long ribbon attached to the top with which to mark her place. Kynyr was getting entirely too pushy; he kept stalking her, stealing kisses, sometimes going as far as to brush his finger across her nipples, and he had already proposed marriage twice.

She did not want to lose him; nor did she wish to give in too easily. She held fast to the old dictum that a dog had a right to ask and a bitch had a right to say no. Kady wanted to find the most complex ancient courtship custom that ever existed, and use it to slow Kynyr down. She was not ready to either get married or open her legs to him. The rapes still bothered her more than she wished to admit to. Killing Cormic had brought her a sense of limited closure--a closure that would be complete when the rest of her attackers were laid in their graves: Donald Greenlea, Iollen Newell, and Gorgarty Burr.

Having to constantly look words up in that huge dictionary that Cahira kept in the library, where the elder bitch did most of her translations, slowed Kady's search down a great deal. She would read a section, make a list of the words, look them up, and then re-read with the meanings in mind.

"The Wild Cousins Courtship, as stipulated in Divine Law, handed down by the First Mother. That looks promising." Kady added three more words to her list.

"What are you reading, Kady?" Kynyr limped in with his cane.

Kady straightened and covered the book with a dishtowel, edged it to her basket and shoved it under a bright red square of knitting.

Kynyr raised an eyebrow and reached for the basket. "Are you hiding one of Todd's naughty books? Hmmmn?"

"None of your business." She slapped his hand.

Kynyr reached again for the basket. "Bribe me."

Kady tangled her hand in his long hair and kissed him thoroughly. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah." Kynyr grinned, and settled on the opposite side of the table. "Now I know it's a naughty book."

"You know nothing of the sort," Kady said tartly, stood up, grabbed the basket, and carried it to the counter where she set it close to the stove. Using a towel, she jerked the oven door down and took out a nicely baked pan of meat pies.

Cahira removed the bar and unlocked the door of her shop. As the tiny mage stepped out onto the boardwalk to greet the day, a tiger-striped cat darted into the shop. She blinked, startled by the creature's boldness, and followed it inside.

The cat wrapped around her legs, purring.

Tossing her long graying braid of blonde hair over her shoulder, she knelt and stroked him, scratched behind his ears. "My but you're a big boy. And so pretty."

The cat reared up, put his paws on her shoulder, and licked her face.

"I wonder what your name is?" Cahira extended her powers to see if there was any residue of a past owner and a name tickled her thoughts. "Kerry. Someone called you Kerry. It's a nice name."

She picked him up and he clung to her shoulder as she carried him upstairs to the kitchen. "Such a pretty, pretty."

Kerry's rumbling purr sounded pleasant to Cahira's ear.

She set him on the floor. Kady turned from cutting slices of salt pork up to add into a pot of beans for flavoring. "What have you got there, Gram?"

"A cat."

"Well, I know he's a cat ... he's the biggest cat I've ever seen, except for Kenly of course."

"His name is Kerry."

"Another K." Kady chuckled, cut off some extra pork, and dropped it in a dish, which she placed on the floor for the cat.

"You know how Kenly got his name, don't you?"

"How?" Kady squatted and watched the cat gobble the pork up.

"Darmyk wanted to name his cat Kynyr, but couldn't pronounce it. So it came out Kenly. The cub has always adored Kynyr."

Kady laughed. "That still doesn't explain Kerry here."

"I touched him with power and found that name hovering around him. So Kerry must be his name."

The teakettle had steam pouring from the spout. Kady took it off the fire, filled the teapot with hot water, and put the lid in place to hold the heat in while the tea steeped. "What does power feel like?"

"Why are you asking?"

Kady felt suddenly uncomfortable. 'Why' seemed to be Cahira's and Todd's favorite word. "Because I think I've felt it sometimes."

"When did this start?"

"The day of Eideard's funeral. I went to check on Kynyr, and I found Malthus standing over him with his fingers on Kynyr's chest. And the room felt strange."

Cahira's eyes darkened. "He has some kind of mage or Reader's gift. He tried to Read me and I slapped his face. Reading someone without their permission is quite rude."

The cat stopped eating and stared up at the two bitches with sharp interest.

"Do you think he's sa'necari?" Kady persisted.

"Anything is possible with those monsters. He's been Read by many and no one has detected his being anything but human. Otherwise, he'd be spellcorded like the others."

"But could he be sa'necari?"

Cahira poured a cup of tea, adding cream and sugar. Her eyes went distant as if trying to put her finger upon an odd and elusive fact. "Yes. According to some works I have translated, the mage Brandrahoon created rings of concealment for his brother Waejonan to protect the leaders of the sa'necari cult from being detected while they were working to conquer the tribes of Waejontor."

"The same Brandrahoon that became a vampire?"

"Kady, your lack of knowledge appalls me. There has only been one Brandrahoon. The sa'necari regarded his evil as so terrible they declared that his name could never be given to another. According to St. Tarmus of Lorendon, Brandrahoon's name--which means fire-dragon in an ancient tongue--became a brand of infamy that would stand forever."

"He must be terrible indeed if even the sa'necari fear him."

"He is and they do. I have never completely bought into the belief that to say the true name of the beast was to draw his attention. However, I don't bandy it about either. Best to call him simply Hoon. I studied for a year with the foremost expert on Hoon. One day I will tell you all of it."

The cat bolted across the room to the kitchen window and leaped out of it.

Kady laughed. "I think all this talk of sa'necari and vampires has scared the cat."

"He probably saw a bird." Cahira extended her hand. "Put your hand in mine. Have you ever been Read for the gift?"

"No." Kady placed her hand in Cahira's. "Will it hurt?"

"Not at all. However, from now on I must endeavor to cure your ignorance. Whenever you run out of tasks in the shop, I want you to read. But I'll pick the books." Cahira's Readers gift examined Kady with greater thoroughness than ever before.

Kady felt the searching magic tingle through her muscles, warm her veins, and tickle like a profusion of butterflies in her stomach.

"You have the gifts in profusion, Kady. You have a fully developed mage-net; several of your shaukras are very well developed. The secondary nervous system is very strong."

Kady sucked in an uncomfortable breath. "Are you saying I'm a mage?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying."

Malthus Estrobian needed to put several matters in order before his next visit to Hell's Widow to check on his units there--or what was left of them. He had walked the line of heads tacked to the scaffolds on the Commons three weeks ago and recognized several of his best operatives. He had not managed to learn precisely what went wrong. Four elite units had been sent out, comprised of five sa'necari officers and twenty Waejontori humans, to ambush four lycan guardsmyn returning from Hell's Widow. Two of the lycans had died, and the other two, although wounded, had survived. One of the survivors had been that thorn in his side, Kynyr Maguire. Maguire's grandfather, Todd Sinclair, and his mage wife Cahira, claimed responsibility for wiping out the force that attacked their grandson. A broad spectrum Jump had brought the wagon and all of the dead and wounded from the bend in Pendarke Road to the street in front of Cahira's shop. Their story seemed off, but Malthus could not discover the missing component to it.

In an attempt to fit in better among the lycans, Malthus had adopted many of their styles; wearing his silken black hair in a tail at his neck, rather than oiled and braided like his own people; and kept his oak leaf beard and long mustaches well-groomed. However, there were many things that he could not change, such as the color of his skin: a dark bronze that made him stick out among the fair-skinned lycans like the proverbial sore thumb. Even the light olive complexion of the so-called "black" lycans looked pale compared to Malthus.

The chieftain's hatred of the sa'necari ran bone-deep. His two sons had been captured and executed by the sa'necari following a lycan rebellion eighty years ago that had been efficiently crushed. Malthus stroked the unadorned golden band on his right hand, which he never removed. If they did decide to gaze in his direction, the powerful spell of concealment on the ring would cause him to be Read as human, preventing the foolish lycans from realizing that he was one of the hated sa'necari. Spellcording him would not affect the ring because it was an inanimate object. Even if a yuwenghau Read him, they would not be able to pierce the enchantment, for a yuwenghau had embedded it into the metal.

He shook himself free of those musings. He had schooled himself into ignoring the ring in public as if it were nothing important, nothing to draw the eye to it.

Only a male lycan could rule Clan Red Wolf, Merissa, her mother, and her aunts were effectively removed from inheriting Claw's title. Darmyk could not inherit it because, although he was Claw's grandson, the boy had been born sa'necari like his father. Malthus, passing for human, could not rule either; however, his influence in the household had grown. He had disguised the genetics of his children growing inside Merissa's lovely belly, making them appear to the Readers as lycan.

The logical male to be given regency for Merissa's children was Belgair, Claw's Captain of the Guard. Malthus had Belgair in his pocket, and figured that he had all the angles worked out. All that remained to be done was to kill Claw in a way that could not be traced back to him.

Doubt whispered through his thoughts, reminding Malthus that there were other claimants. He doubted that Brock Redhand, Claw's brother, would return; and even if he did, Brock was nearly as old as Claw--just another feeble old lycan easily disposed of. Kynyr Maguire was another matter. If push came to shove before Malthus got an opportunity to kill him, the illegitimacy of his father's birth would work against them just as Malthus' own bastardy had disallowed his claim to the titles and estates of his father Lord Feodras.

He had been promised lands, great wealth, and a title of nobility by the Waejontori Queen, Tomyrilen, through her agent and advisor, Lord Brandrahoon in exchange for subjugating the lycans here and assassinating the ruling Redhand family. They had not specified how he should do it, but a large force of arms had been provided to him and were currently raiding the northern hamlets and steadings. Malthus planned to rule this valley, and with Claw dead, the rest would be easy.

He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a chain with a set of globes on it in various colors. Malthus selected the green one, tapped it twice with a word of command, and three small crates appeared on the desk. He looked through the contents of one crate and pulled out six bottles of Tormuth Whiskey, a Creeyan single malt that had a well-deserved reputation for smoothness, flavor, and potency. More deadly presents to give his father-in-law.

Malthus sketched a rune--actually a sa'necari ideogram--on each bottle. His magic flared and the rune burned brightly for a moment before fading into invisibility. The curse on the bottles was very specific: it only affected Claw Redhand, the chieftain. Anyone else who drank it would experience no ill effects; however, the death spells were slowly accumulating in Claw's body like poison, and contributing to his heart problems.

He sent everything back into the green globe except for the whiskey. Then Malthus placed the bottles in a satchel and walked out with them. His father-in-law could usually be found in the Blue Room at that time of day, so Malthus went there first.

Of the dozen drawing rooms in the manor, the Redhands used the Blue Room most often. It was decorated in shades of blue: rugs, furniture cushions, and curtains. A long row of built-in cabinets--another thing borrowed from the humans--lined the south wall. A dining table that could seat forty stretched its stout polished surface near the west windows, which were open to cope with the lingering heat. The hearth on the north end had not been lit in months, and a cluster of chairs with end tables and a pair of sofas framed its heavy bricks. A square table that normally sat off to the side had been moved over to the chairs, and the checkers and board rested in the middle.

Claw sat at the table near the hearth with his checkerboard, stacking and unstacking the wooden rounds in a preoccupied manner. He grimaced, pressing his palm into the left side of his chest. Malthus knew that Claw's chest pains had worsened steadily over the past month.

"More presents from my mother."

Claw looked up, his dark cobalt eyes brightening in his lined jowly face. He scratched at the grizzled stubble on his chin. "What have you got for me this time?"

Malthus put the bottles on the table and waited for Claw's reaction.

The chieftain turned the first one and read the label. "Tormuth Whiskey! That's the best there is."

"Nothing but the best for you is what my mother says."

"Grab some glasses."

Malthus fetched them from the cabinet and Claw poured for both of them.

"You play checkers, Malthus?"

"Not well."

"That bloody ambush cost me my checkers partner--at least until Kynyr's wounds heal enough for him to come back."

Malthus stiffened for an instant and covered it up with a sip from his glass. The young guardsmon had made Malthus' courtship with Merissa difficult--until Preece put a knife in Kynyr's back during a riot at the Camp. "I would be happy to play checkers with you until Kynyr returns. We all miss him here."

"Do we?" Claw snarled, his expression turning dour.

"We put our differences behind us, Claw."

"Set up the board."

The Difficult Horse Tavern, called that because of its sign featuring a horse sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, stood on Main Street across from the village common. The dark wood of the wainscoted interior contributed to the pleasant simplicity of the tavern. Barrels with spigots jutting from them lined the rear wall behind a polished bar of walnut heartwood. Sturdy chairs circled the round tables placed throughout the common room.

Preece Malloy swaggered up to the bar and propped his elbows on the counter. Years of working in the sun had weathered his fair skin to a nut brown. Preece's drawstring pants slouched around his lanky hips and if they had been any looser would have slid to his member. A pair of long fighting knives hung from a worn leather belt, the sheaths lashed to his thighs for an easy draw, and his pants legs bunched around them. While his sturdy bones could easily have carried more weight, Preece did not lack for muscle and the long curves of his biceps looked like hammered steel. A length of leather held his long, mustard brown hair in a tail at his neck.

He regarded Hereward Wiggins, owner of the Difficult Horse Tavern, with dead, jaded eyes and an indolent smile. "Hey, Hereward. I want a private word with you."

The stout tavern master viewed Preece with suspicion. "What about?"

"Not out here. There's gold in it. I have a proposition to make you."

Hereward inclined his head toward the back room. "Come on then."

Once there, Hereward poured them both a whiskey. "What's this about now?"

"I want to marry your daughter." Preece sounded dry and flat, almost indifferent. "I can offer a large bride price."

"For which one?"

"Kady."

"Kady? You saw what she did to Cormic Parry?"

Preece sneered. "Yah, I saw that. I'll give you one hundred gold for her."

"Five hundred."

"Two."

"Four."

"Three hundred?"

"Done." Hereward's eyes glittered. "You can have her. But there's a hitch."

Preece downed his whiskey. "What do you mean?"

"The priest here would never agree to it. You'd have to carry her off to another village to do it."

"Will you help?"

"Of course. I'll be glad to be rid of her. She's unnatural."

"She won't be when I'm done with her." Preece poured himself another glass, and examined the label. "Tormuth Whiskey. Very smooth."

"And the bride price?"

"Half when we get her to the other village. Half once the marriage has been consummated."

"It will be difficult getting her away from Todd Sinclair. He's a tough one."

Preece shrugged, his dead cold eyes showed a flicker of interest. "Not from the back."

Hereward blanched. "You're talking murder."

"You got a problem with that?"

"I feel like I'm making a deal with a devil."

"You are." Preece leaned back in his chair and drank his whiskey. "It's going to take a devil to break that trolleymog daughter of yours."

Malthus stepped through the door into the yard and heard children's voices. Ros' sweet laughter carried clear and high to his ears. He heard Lyrri giggle, and knew that both of his nieces were in the garden. A smile touched his lips and he stole between the low hedges with an expression of boyish mischief on his thirty-six year old face.

As penniless orphans and daughters of a Waejontori noble house whose estates had been destroyed by the Sharani, seven-year-old Ros and her six-year-old sister Lyrri had been bounced from one set of relatives to the next until Malthus had taken them in.

Ros had her back to him braiding a chain of late-blooming snow jasmine. A large bloom, white with streaks of azure, had been tucked into her hair with the long stem behind her ear. It contrasted against her black locks.

A pretty child; Malthus could already see the signs of her becoming a beautiful young mon. He imagined having to beat her suitors off with a stick by the time she reached marriageable age at fourteen.

He spied Erskine Faraday seated upon a boulder beneath the shadows of an oak tree, watching over the girls. The lycans thought they were keeping the girls safe from the vampire that had attacked Ros two months ago; however, Erskine would not even slow Sergei down should he decide to make another grab at Ros. Sergei Wraithsbane had been a battlemage before Brandrahoon turned him--and Lemyari vampires always retained whatever powers and abilities they had possessed before becoming undead.

Erskine noticed him and started to speak. Malthus put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Erskine looked away with a small smile.

Malthus' hands clamped onto Ros' shoulders. "Booga-booga."

Ros flinched and hit him with a bolt of power. Malthus turned it with a thought, laughing.

The lycans could not see the patterns of power and so Erskine had no idea of what had happened. Lyrri could and she dropped her flowers.

Ros glanced up at Malthus, her eyes serious, and a look of exasperated disapprobation filled her face. "Uncle Malthus! You scared me."

"I could not resist." He kissed her forehead. "I'm going to Hell's Widow day after tomorrow. Is there anything you would like me to bring back?"

Ros looked mollified. "The cherry candies?"

"Lyrri?"

"Taffy sticks."

"Consider it done."

Erskine sauntered over. "Should you be going? It's not safe."

"I should be safe enough. The bandits were decimated. If there's anymore out there, they're probably still licking their wounds." I'd like to know how they managed to kill so many of my myn. Heironim had better have the answers.

"I suppose." Erskine shrugged and returned to his rock.

Malthus straightened. "Well I'm off to the Difficult Horse.