Brimstone Angels

CHAPTER TWELVE

Neverwinter 13 Kythorn, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

Havilar edged down the hallway, her right foot leading, her glaive held low. She scooped the edge upward, guiding it with her left hand and driving it forward with the thrust of her hip. Angle down to slice across her imaginary foe’s throat. Sweep across his shins. Then lift, plant the right foot on his knee, and drive the blade home.

There was hardly room inside the temple for her to practice-every room had beds or tables or piles of books in it, and nearly every room had a scowling priest or acolyte giving her disapproving glares for bringing her glaive through the door. Even the library in the basement, where nobody went, still had that horrid little librarian who’d shrieked at her, called her a barbarian, and chased her out.

She thought of his face as she jabbed forward again. Barbarian, indeed. If she didn’t practice, her muscles would go soft, and forget how to control the long, heavy glaive she’d spent so long practicing to wield. If those priests were clever enough to be healing people and archiving books, they should be clever enough to know that much.

It had taken the better part of the day, but at last she’d found the long, wide corridor in the still-damaged part of the temple. Unlike the rest of the temple, no one rushed up and down it. The tapestries still hanging on the walls were thick with old soot and dust, and trimmed with cobwebs. Nobody but spiders to tell her to go elsewhere.

Stupid acolytes, she thought, resetting her grip. They thought she was an idiot or a child with a toy. Even if she wasn’t as smart as Farideh, she wasn’t stupid. Just like Farideh wasn’t a complete waste in a fight, even if Havilar was much better with a blade. It wasn’t as if one of them got everything and left the other one without.

Except sometimes, she thought with a scowl of her own. Everyone they met lately seemed to like Farideh better-that man in the shop, the red-haired nurse. Stupid Lorcan, she added, even though it made her sound even more childish. Brin.

She planted the glaive and rested. Stupid Brin. She didn’t want him under her skin. It was just that he’d rushed her out of there, off to find Farideh. That’s all.

That’s all, she told herself more firmly.

Even though Farideh protested it wasn’t true, she got to be the smart one and the one people trusted, but Lorcan made her the interesting one, too, and the one who might be dangerous. Havilar and Kidney Carver might as well not even exist.

Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, she remembered, and wrinkled her nose. Perhaps Farideh was right. Perhaps that did sound pretentious. She needed a shorter name.

“ ‘Justice,’ ” she said scrutinizing the weapon. “ ‘Cutter.’ ”

Bad and worse.

“Devilslayer,” she said. Everyone would probably appreciate it if she could fight Lorcan to the death. Except Farideh.

Half a year had gone by since Havilar had called down Lorcan, and too much had changed. Farideh had gotten so short with her. Farideh slept fitfully-awake, her mind would just drift off, Havilar could tell by the way she would suddenly be staring at nothing at all, as if all the treasures in the world were somewhere in the middle distance. Farideh might be as private as she could with Lorcan, but Havilar wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way Farideh looked at him. And still, she thought she could tell Havilar what to do.

She made another series of passes down the corridor, and was about to turn around and work her way back, when she heard the murmur of voices a short distance off. The sunlight from the broken windows did not penetrate all the way down the hall, but Havilar padded into the graying shadows, toward the sound, the newly christened Devilslayer at the ready.

Some twenty yards on, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. Havilar peered around the corner. At the opposite end of the hall, a door led into a room which had seen almost as little use as the corridors. Brother Vartan sat in a chair that had been draped with some sort of heavy canvas. Rohini stood beside him, practically vibrating with energy.

Something was odd about the hospitaler, something Havilar couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if she were there … and yet she wasn’t. The nervous energy she exuded seemed almost as if it were shaking the edges of her. It made Havilar’s eyes ache.

“They are perfect,” she was saying.

“And … controlled?” Brother Vartan asked.

“Of course,” Rohini said merrily. “Perfect, as I said.”

“It’s just that I’m concerned. If something should happen-”

“Nothing will happen,” Rohini said. She set a hand on either arm of the chair and leaned forward. “I swear it.” Then she kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

Havilar wrinkled her nose. Was there really nowhere better to tryst than the filthy, dusty room? Maybe Rohini was desperate to keep anyone from finding out. Havilar might not have thought Rohini was all that pretty, but she was sure Rohini could do better than a bore like Brother Vartan.

But Havilar’s eyes fell to the canvas-draped chair, to the place where Rohini gripped the fabric on the armrest. To Rohini’s nails, which had been neatly trimmed and clean, and which were now the color of blood and the length of iron spikes.

And as she watched and as Rohini pulled away from Vartan, her nails shrank back to being neatly trimmed, clean, and pink. Havilar sucked in a breath. Rohini cocked her ear and for a moment, Havilar was certain she’d heard. She gripped Devilslayer, ready to spring into a defensive stance.

But instead, Rohini smiled down at Vartan. “Perfect,” she said once more.

“Perfect,” he agreed.

She opened a door on the other side of the room and ushered in five orcs, armored like the ones Havilar had fought when the caravan had been raided, and painted in the blue, dancing magic of the Chasm. Wafting tentacles of blue fire surrounded one. Another wore gauntlets of the stuff, which wavered and bulged as if they were made of water. A female seemed to be covered in hard blue spikes, like a dire wolf. Havilar could not make out the other two-there was too much magic swirling in that room-but she could see the taint of the spellplague had marked them all.

And not a one was fighting Rohini as she led them out.

“Here we are,” the hospitaler said. “Five perfect specimens for you to bring to the Sovereignty. Just as you suggested.” She walked down the line of spellscarred orcs. “Your notes were surprisingly accurate. I only lost four.”

Vartan stood, looking over the orcs as if they were weapons fresh from the forge-greedy to make use of them, but well aware if he tried he’d regret it.

“They’re exactly what you imagined,” Rohini said. “Take them to the proxy now, and think about that. They’re perfect for what the Sovereignty needs. You were very clever to come up with them. Tell them you have more where they came from, and other gifts besides if their masters are willing to parlay.”

“They are,” Brother Vartan said, looking confused nevertheless. “I was.”

“Then hurry back and tell me what those disgusting aboleths say. We’re on a timeline now.”

Brother Vartan nodded thoughtfully. “How … do I bring them?”

Rohini smiled, and it sent shivers down Havilar’s back. “They’ll follow you,” she said. “They’re very pleased with the current state of events. Aren’t you, my pets?”

“We will fight for the Sovereignty,” the tentacled one said in his low, growling accent. He slapped his shield with the flat of his sword. “We will spill the blood of their enemies and those who flee will mark us all as a threat.”

“Yes, wait until they ask.”

Whatever the Sovereignty was, whatever an aboleth was, these things had nothing to do with the running of a hospital, Havilar was sure. Spellscarred orcs had nothing to do with a hospital.

And Rohini-

Rohini opened the door she’d led the orcs in from, and herded them and Brother Vartan back out. As she turned, she looked out into the hall, directly at Havilar. She laid a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.

As she did, the fingernail became again a weapon and Rohini’s eyes flared red and fearsome.

Havilar took a step backward, afraid to look away from Rohini and find her suddenly near and testing Havilar’s glaive’s new moniker. Rohini didn’t look away either, and it wasn’t until Havilar had backed into the shadows of the hallway that she turned and ran.

She had to find Farideh. Farideh would know what to do with a devil who changed shape. Havilar raced back to the room she’d left her sister in on the other side of the temple.

Farideh was not there. She wasn’t in any of the rooms they’d been set to clean. She wasn’t in the wardroom where the acolytes lingered. She wasn’t in the little bedroom they shared with several ancient wardrobes.

Worse, her rod and sword lay on the bed. Her cloak was missing.

“Oh gods,” Havilar whispered. She leaned her glaive against the wall and picked up the rod. It was weighted like a mace, toward the tip, but not as heavy. A terrible, taut feeling seized her stomach. Surely Farideh wouldn’t have gone out without a weapon-but where was she if she hadn’t left? What if Rohini.…

She clutched the rod to her chest. “Oh Fari.”

The surrounding rooms had more old furniture or books or were locked tight. She pushed open the second to last in the hallway, dread pooling in her heart. The room was dark-the broken windows had been boarded over and only cracks of light shone through. Someone moved within. Someone big.

“Mehen?” She moved toward the shadow. The person was rocking on his heels, ever so slightly. She held the rod tighter, and hoped Farideh didn’t mind if she had to brain someone with it.

The shadow shuffled into the light from the corridor and Havilar made out russet scales and familiar armor. She cried out in relief and threw her arms around Mehen’s neck.

“Gods, I thought I’d never find anyone!” Mehen didn’t answer, so she kept talking. “We have a problem-a big problem. Rohini is a devil, and you’re the only one I can find! We have to get out of here, but I don’t know where Fari or Brin or anyone is. I’m afraid Rohini has them.”

Mehen said nothing. Didn’t even chastise her for being overexcited. He stood, rocking on his heels.

“Mehen?” Havilar asked. “Mehen, are you all right?”

“He’s fine.”

Havilar felt a hand-small but strong-close on her shoulder.

“Pity,” Rohini said, “Lorcan’s not here to help you this time.”

And something alien seeped into Havilar’s mind before she could point out Lorcan had never really helped her.

To kill the orc took until well after the sun had gone down, but the longer the sacrifice took, the more intense the power it created, and by the time he no longer screamed but made small hissing whimpers, Yvon was still wide awake and flush with the power of the sacrifice.

“The final stroke,” Sekata intoned. She pulled back her robe so the orc-had he eyes still-could see her angled, elf face. She pointed the ritual knife point down, and glanced around at her confederates.

“Take off your hood,” Yvon whispered to Creed.

“This is perfectly ridiculous,” Creed said, but he did as he was bade, revealing his own solid black eyes and pointed horns.

“It is part of the ritual,” Lector said.

“It’s a stupid part,” Creed said. “He can’t see us.”

“The entire ritual is critical,” Imarella whispered, her tail lashing in annoyance. “Or do you want our offering to the Supreme Lord to be for naught?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Creed said. “I-”

“Shut it!” Lector said. “You’re lucky we even asked you back.”

Sekata cleared her throat. “The final stroke!” She plunged the blade down into the erratically beating heart of the orc.

A sudden swell of black and silver energy swelled over the hilt of the blade, spitting and crackling.

Then abruptly, it coalesced and shot skyward, a missile of death. Sekata leaped backward. Creed covered his face. Imarella was so startled she backed into one of the tree’s root-branches. Yvon and Lector stared up at the sky as the crackling bolt faded out of sight.

“That,” Creed said, “is not part of the ritual.”

Again, Lorcan threw himself shoulder-first into the door. Again, it flexed and shivered, but did not budge. He stretched his jaw, the joint popping back into place after being so long clenched. Bloody Sairche.

She’d had time enough now to activate the Needle, to find Farideh-he didn’t doubt Sairche would seize the opportunity and damn the consequences. If she hadn’t simply appeared in the middle of all those people, she’d at least walked right up to Farideh and … and what? Would Sairche be so incautious as to kidnap his warlock?

He leaped at the door again. Again it didn’t move. Lorcan roared and kicked the portal hard enough to make it ooze.

An imp popped into existence beside him. “Are you Lorcan?”

“Not now!”

“Soul of yours is in dispute,” the imp said. “It was named Goruc Darkeyes?”

Lorcan fought the urge to kick the imp down the hallway, and kicked the door instead. If someone else wanted Goruc, they could have him. “Well, if there’s a prior claim, I cede,” he said.

“No,” the imp said. “A subsequent one. The Supreme Lord’s barbezu are claiming primacy. Starting trouble down by the Styx. The archduchess’s barbezu are spoiling for a fight and I think they might just tear the soul apart so-”

“He’s dead?” Lorcan cried. A number of curses fought their way out of his mouth, but none seemed quite graphic enough to capture his fury.

He channeled all of it into a blast of magic so intense it made the door scream. It charred half the portal to the bone and burned the jamb away with a smell revolting enough to make the imp behind him gag. He slammed against the weakened door again and it gave under his rage, knocking over the heavy axe that Sairche had shoved up against it.

The imp flapped in behind him. “If you wish to dispute the claim-”

“Tell His Supremacy to keep the shitting orc!” Lorcan snarled. “And you get out of my sight.”

There in the mirror, Sairche was walking beside Farideh, who had a stony expression that said she clearly knew Sairche was trouble. He’d seen that look enough.

“Good girl.” He waved the ring before the surface. The mirror had no trouble pinpointing Goruc, or at least what was left of him, spread-eagled on the ground in the mud of his own blood. Over him, twisting branches of a strange tree filtered down the moonlight. The axe still lay clutched in his dead fist.

Holding the image of the twisted grove in his mind and spitting a steady stream of curses, Lorcan activated the Needle. He wasn’t taking chances on who found Goruc’s body. He’d drag that sorry orc back from the grave if it meant stitching his body back together himself. Asmodeus could claim him after.

When Yvon bent to help the others take up the body, something gleamed at the edge of his vision.

“Hold.” He leaned over the corpse of the orc, peering at the viscera as if there were a secret message scribed upon them. He felt his cheeks flush, and his pupils open as he searched for the faint traces of diabolic magic. Something was definitely there. Someone or something had definitely made a claim on this orc.

Which meant someone in the Hells must have sent him after the warlock girl.

He looked at Lector and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

“This one is marked.”

“He’s one of us?” Lector demanded.

Yvon peered at the orc a moment more. The twisting marks of the Hells were faint and hard to divine. Beyond sight, beyond touch, beyond any sense-and yet somehow with all of them, after long years of practice, he could perceive those identifying traces. These were particularly odd. But certainly not of Asmodeus or his legion of followers.

“No. Someone else’s.”

“A warlock?” Sekata said.

He shook his head. A warlock’s brand was much stronger, much more tightly connected to the Hells, even if it wasn’t so easy to sense where that connection lay. This was more like a net around the orc’s soul than a lead.

“What then?” the elf woman demanded.

“It …” Yvon squinted at the remains. “It is hard to say. It wasn’t a willing mark. Or a very powerful one.” He plunged one hand into the wet mess of the orc’s organs and squeezed his heart, gently, as if testing the ripeness of a peach. Ah-there. The patterns were distinct, and he’d felt this one before. “Sixth Layer,” he said after a moment. “He was a Glasyan.”

“So,” Lector said. “An orc marked by Glasya sought to openly murder an Ashmadai adept.”

Yvon raised a finger. “A warlock,” he said, “and a supplicant. She has not taken the mark of Asmodeus yet.”

“Always precise,” Sekata said.

Creed snorted. “Nevertheless. She’s a tiefling-and we’re blessed by the king of Hell-and a warlock bound to the Hells. And a supplicant is still Ashmadai enough for bloody Glasyans.”

“And,” Imarella added, “he did try and kill us all.” She nudged with one foot the axe that the orc still tightly clutched with one foot. Not once in the entire process had he loosed it.

Lector smiled wickedly. “The Glasyans have obviously not learned their lesson.”

“Perhaps if there were fewer,” Yvon said, “it would be a simpler lesson to retain.”

“One moment,” Sekata said. “Are you suggesting we go up against the Glasyans again? You’re clutching at a creek here. All we know is that Glasya-or someone in her service-claimed his soul. That doesn’t mean he’s been acting on Glasyan orders.” She wrinkled her nose at the orc. “Besides, I’ve never seen such an ugly Glasyan.”

The female tiefling scoffed. “You would do anything to avoid your duty.”

“Well, have you seen such an ugly Glasyan, Imarella?” She turned on Lector. “Mordai Vell told you not to go starting trouble with the rest of her cult without having good purpose. Said we were drawing too much attention.”

“We were establishing the proper order,” Yvon corrected.

“Both of you, quiet!” Lector said. “Sekata is right. We shall simply have to determine by usual means whether or not this signifies a return to the Glasyans’ … obstinacy.”

The portal at the edge of the grove opened with a gust of heat, hot enough to brown the needles of one of the nearest branches. A cambion leaped out. He took in the scene with a look of mixed disgust and confusion. His eyes fell on the robed adepts gathered beside the gutted orc and widened as he seemed to recognize the situation.

“Oh damn you twice over, you stupid orc,” he said. Then he vanished.

But not before five pairs of eyes registered the pendant hanging boldly from his neck: the scourge of Glasya.

“Well,” Yvon said after the portal had closed. “I think we can all agree that’s a tidy enough sign?”

“Where exactly are we heading?” Sairche asked, her voice dripping sweetness.

“The chandler,” Farideh replied. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I haven’t been before.”

Sairche gave the ruined buildings around them a skeptical eye, and Farideh flushed. When Sairche had told her about Bryseis Kakistos, one thought overtook Farideh’s mind and steered her feet: keep Sairche away from Havilar.

If Farideh was so valuable for being this Bryseis Kakistos’s descendent, then so was Havilar-more so, because there was no Lorcan in the way of claiming Havilar. Farideh had only been thinking about avoiding the House of Knowledge when she crossed the Dolphin Bridge and entered the Blacklake District.

The buildings of Blacklake had once been much larger and much grander than anything on the other side of the river. They made for spectacular ruins and vast piles of rubble. Here and there, reconstruction efforts shored up an ancient mansion, and reclaimed lumber crisscrossed the proud facades of villas overrun by the opportunistic. There were no shops, as far as Farideh had seen. This would be the next bit of Neverwinter to rise from the ashes, but not for some time. She was running out of options.

Sairche didn’t know about Havilar, Farideh felt sure. Most of the time they walked, Sairche had kept up a nearly constant stream of chatter about all the ways she could improve Farideh’s situation. There was a smugness to the way she described powers Farideh didn’t have, devils Farideh didn’t know. Sairche thought she’d won already. She didn’t know there was another piece in the game, one that no one had played.

And why had no one played her? Lorcan had chosen Farideh instead, but he knew about Havilar. Was he, like Sairche, searching for a devil to pay the right price for his reserve Kakistos heir? Or was he keeping her for himself, ready for Farideh to snap or break or even just threaten to leave?

Havilar, who was reckless enough to summon a devil or run out into a strange caravansary or coax strange boys back to their room-what would a devil be able to convince her to do with careful words and subtle pressures? She thought of Lorcan’s barely suppressed impatience-what would another devil do when Havilar refused to do what they wanted? She might be lost. She might be corrupted. She might be killed.

Farideh couldn’t let Sairche find out.

“Your tour of the city is terribly droll,” Sairche said as they threaded their way down another street littered with broken lava rock and slipped pillars, “but don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Farideh stopped walking. She didn’t know. She couldn’t. “Oh?”

“There is no chandler. You’re stalling until my brother finds us.” Sairche let go of Farideh’s arm. “If you don’t want my help yet, you only had to say so.”

“Thank you,” Farideh said, trying to keep her true gratitude out of her voice. “I’ll consider it.”

“Of course you will. Just remember: You will come back eventually. You will accept my offer. It’s just best if you decide to do so on your own.”

“Is that a threat?”

Sairche smiled. “Well, it’s not an invitation to take tea. Now I’m sure Lorcan will have plenty to say when he swoops in to rescue you.”

Farideh narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need rescuing from you.”

“Precisely,” Sairche said. “I don’t make messes like Lorcan does.”

The portal opened between two fallen pillars, and Lorcan bounded out, looking fierce and frazzled. He spotted Sairche, and without a pause, pulled his wand from his belt and let a burst of flame loose at her. Sairche ducked away from it and behind Farideh.

“Fool,” she said. “Fire’s not going to-”

The second bolt struck the ruins behind her, and Sairche leaped out of the way as a rain of stones clattered down where she’d stood. Farideh scrambled out of the way. When Lorcan reached out to catch her, Sairche sprinted behind him and through the lingering portal. With a nearly noiseless pop, it closed.

“Shit and ashes!” he snarled.

“Where have you been?” The words came out without Farideh wanting them to-a demand, a supplication, a plea for him to take control of this unbearable situation.

Lorcan said nothing, scowling at the space where Sairche had been, tense and angry and thinking of something else, someone else. Of course, Farideh thought. I’m just a piece in his collection. I don’t matter.

“Where have you been?” In the braver corners of her thoughts, she didn’t want to say any such thing. She didn’t want him to save her, not even this time. But she couldn’t forget that he had barged into her life nearly every day for the last half year on the merest of pretenses, and this time he’d left her with his wicked sister, who could take everything away. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking now that Sairche was gone. Sairche couldn’t take Havilar.

“Solving larger problems,” he said. He grabbed hold of her arm and led her to a more open part of the street. “We need to go.”

“Where? Why?”

“Neverwinter’s not safe. Not anymore.”

“Because of Sairche?”

“No, because you’re toying around with …” He bit off the words. “Stop asking questions and come along, darling.”

She pulled away. “If it’s dangerous, then I need to get Havilar and Mehen. And Brin.”

“We don’t,” he said snatching at her, “have time for that. I’ll get them later.”

“If it’s safe enough to leave them, then I can leave the normal way.”

His anger made sharp pains lace her scar. You’ve given over the reins already, they seemed to say. There is nothing you can say to change that.

“I know about Bryseis Kakistos,” she said.

“Bloody Sairche,” he all but growled. Lorcan’s mouth curled into a sneer.

“Well then, darling, you must know everything. You must know how to stop the Hellish civil war we seem to have set off, and how to crush the nest of vipers you’ve blundered into?” He grabbed her arm again, yanking her close. “Ashmadai and Glasyans, and goddamned Rohini, the biggest viper of them all-for such a wide-eyed girl you stumble on a lot of villains. You must know how to lock Sairche in the Hells away from my warlocks and turn back time to keep that orc from being sacrificed to the king of the Hells, since you know bloody everything now.”

“Orc?” Farideh said. She pulled free of his grasp once more. “What orc?”

The rage on Lorcan’s face slipped behind his flippant mask. “No one,” he said. “It’s a matter of politics. You don’t need to worry about it. What you do need to worry about is being in Neverwinter when the wrong people find out. So let’s leave.”

She twisted away as he reached for her.

“Don’t lie to me-”

“Come now, darling,” he said, the edge creeping back into his voice. “I’ve never lied to you.”

No, she thought, you only talk me into circles. Not this time.

“Did you send that orc?” she said. “The one who shot Havilar?”

“Of course not!” he cried. “Lords, what do you think I am? I have no interest in killing your sister. Let’s be on our way.”

She dodged him again. “To kill someone else? Did you send him to kill Mehen? Brin?” She hesitated. “Me?”

Once more Lorcan’s insouciance shattered. “You always think the worst of me,” he said. “What exactly do I have to do to convince you I’m not going to kill you? Obviously saving you from the middle of a Hellish civil war isn’t enough?” Farideh folded her arms.

“Answer the question, please.”

“I didn’t send an orc to kill you.”

“And the others?” Farideh asked, growing angry.

“I told you before, darling. What would I be doing with orcs?”

“Yes, you did say that. Did you send an orc to kill someone?”

But she didn’t need him to answer. What he wouldn’t say was answer enough: he’d sent the orc to kill Brin or Mehen or maybe even Tam, and even if he hadn’t meant for Havilar to be hurt, she had been.

Because Farideh hadn’t cast off Lorcan’s pact. There it was: Mehen was right. It had been her fault. Her flaw.

“It sounds like you’ve already decided my guilt,” he said. “I did come to your aid in the midst of that unpleasantness, or did you forget that?”

“You came,” Farideh said, growing angrier. “But it wasn’t because Havilar was in trouble. Or because I was in trouble, was it? You weren’t watching. Because you already knew the orc would come, and someone was supposed to be dead.” She met his smoldering eyes. “It was meant to be Brin, wasn’t it? The way you said he should have stopped the arrows … I thought you meant by stopping the orc.”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed and he tried to grab her again. Farideh struck his arm aside and stepped back.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I was trying to protect you-”

“From what? From having another person to talk to? From having someone remind me you can’t be trusted?”

“From having him fill your ears with lies!” he said. “From having him convince you to strip away your pact because he’s afraid of it.”

“You’re just afraid you’ll lose your set,” she said. “I’m not going with you-not without Havi and the others.”

Her scar was screaming now, and without meaning to she clutched her arm with her opposite hand, as if she could stem the pain. Lorcan’s eyes were burning, the air between them boiling. He twisted his ring.

The portal swirled.

Farideh threw her hands up as he darted forward. Anger and instinct drove from her lips the triggering word for the blast. The crackling purple magic swelled in the few feet that separated them. The spell had struck Lorcan full in the chest before she realized she’d cast it.

He stumbled backward and pressed a hand to his scorched armor, shocked. Farideh stared a moment, appalled, elated. Then her scar caught fire again. Lorcan spread his wings, and in his own hands, a spell of flames danced.

Run, she thought.

She bolted. Deeper into the city, scrambling over lava flows and ruins, Farideh didn’t know where she was heading-only hoping, hoping that she would lose Lorcan in the twisting streets. But as she sprinted across a square she heard a heavy, gusting sound-he was flying, not running. The streets made almost no difference at all.

She turned a corner, skidded in the rubble that made the road, and crashed down on her hip, rucking her robes up to her waist as she slid. The leather leggings kept the gravel from embedding in her leg, but not her unprotected tail. And they did nothing for the bruises that screamed as she rolled back to her feet to start again, Lorcan’s wingbeats growing closer still.

Farideh’s throat ached, her lungs burned, and her heart pounded as if it were trying to pump a well dry, but still she ran.

She turned a corner, and there, as if an angel from above had deposited it especially for her, was a small temple, shining silvery in the moonlight. As brightly as it shone, the temple had to be new. Maybe with a priest. The doors were wide open and she made for them, pressing herself on with everything she had in her.

“Farideh, no!” She heard him land, but she didn’t dare look back. If there was one place he couldn’t chase her down, it would be the hallowed ground of a sanctified temple.

She sprinted up the steps, but as she made to cross the threshold, Lorcan caught hold of the back of her robes. She screamed and wrenched against his grip, the fabric tearing-as she fell into the temple.

Her fall pulled Lorcan’s hand into the doorway, but as his knuckles reached the point where the temple began, they may as well have struck a solid wall. He let go of the fabric, furious and panting. He threw himself shoulder-first against the empty doorway, and yet again, an invisible barrier threw him off.

Farideh scuttled backward into the temple, trying to catch her breath.

“Darling,” Lorcan said, his voice sharp as a knife, “come out of there.”

She shook her head. “Leave.”

“Come out of there, right now!”

She held her hands up, ready to speak the words of the spell. “Get away from me, you bastard, or I’ll do it again!” She would, she thought, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d hit him with everything she knew. Burn him to ashes if he tried to drag her away again.

Lorcan snarled and punched the invisible barrier. He sprang into the air and a moment later she heard him pounding and cursing at the temple’s other windows. They all held.

Limping, Farideh entered the sanctuary of the temple. Incense scented the air, and the silvery light of the risen moon lit the temple instead of torches. Rows of benches faced a platform where the icon stood. From the altar, a statue of a goddess framed by silver eyes and silver stars regarded Farideh benevolently: Selune.

Farideh sat on one of the benches and covered her face with her hands. She didn’t belong here. She was as good as stealing Selune’s protection while she snatched at the powers of the Hells. And while Lorcan howled and cursed at her for being so fickle.

Gods, she was such a little fool, trapped in an empty temple and crying when she knew exactly what she needed to do. She wondered if Yvon could help her find a safer devil than Sairche could. The thought undid her, and she sobbed into her hands.

The pain of her scar lessened as she sat, and the warm air and the scent of the incense made her eyelids heavy as her pulse slowed and her breath deepened. The temple was empty-surely no one would mind if she just lay down a moment.

Lorcan was scared, she reminded herself. Scared of Rohini? Scared of … what had he said? The cult of Asmodeus? Ashmadai? She could still hear him pounding on the barriers of the skylights, and she curled her arms around her head to block the noise.

Scared or not, he was still dangerous. Mehen was still right.

She had to get out of the temple. She had to get back to Havilar and Mehen and Brin before anything bad happened, before Sairche caught Havilar, before Rohini-whoever she was-struck, before Lorcan did something worse. She shut her aching eyes, just for a moment.

Please, she thought to the statue on the altar, please just make him go away. Please just keep them safe until I can get rid of him. Please …

You need to leave, a voice said, clear as a bell in her thoughts.