Wolfkin

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 Wolfkin Copyright © 2008 by Emily Veinglory ISBN: 1-60504-066-5 Edited by Anne Scott Cover by Anne Cain All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2008 www.samhainpublishing.com

Wolfkin Emily Veinglory

Dedication Dedicated to SB Ashton, and her red pen.

Lupus est homo homini —man is wolf to man

Wolfkin

Chapter One “If you want to keep your sister out of my bedchamber you will do this small thing for me,” Old Man Jeryl said. Arun stood humbly before the keep’s lord in the chill darkness of the great hall. The desiccated wattle of Lord Jeryl’s neck swayed above the tight collar of his thick robes. Jeryl settled back into his great, carved chair, smiling smugly. The light reflecting from the rubies on his fingers held more life than the old man’s rheumy eyes. It was no surprise that the town was full of rumors as to which of his bastard sons would seize control once Jeryl himself was gone—or which might hurry him on his way. “You need not threaten Miri,” Arun said nervously. “If you need me to assist you in capturing the wolfkin then I will assist. It is no more than my duty, or any man’s.” He heard the tremor in his own voice and felt his face flush. It had been a shock to be pulled from his small cell to face the lewd threats of this town’s lord, but he would willingly face even a wolf-monster to ensure Miri would enjoy her handfasting unmolested. Although quite what help a puny acolyte like himself could be in that kind of fight he did not know. Jeryl laughed in a series of dry, almost soundless wheezes. “I put no faith in the abstract virtues of you Fire Priests,” he said bitterly with spittle flying from his mouth. “Charlatans, beggars and frauds, every one of you. No, I will take matters in my own hands. And it is only my witch’s assurances that make me believe you care enough for your sister to do as I wish.” Jeryl’s bony hands remained hooked over the armrests of his deeply upholstered chair; even his tight grip could not hide the trembling of his fingers. These were the hands that were choking the life out of the land with rents and taxes that spiraled ever upwards.

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After losing their parents to a fever, Arun and his older sister Miri had been grudgingly raised to a useful age by the village’s foundling and orphan house. She had then made her meager way as a seamstress in the village and Arun took to orders just to survive. But it was not a choice that he ever had cause to regret. Arun felt no love for the decrepit tyrant before him and did not know what had brought him to Jeryl’s attention. “I am just an acolyte. Not even a priest,” Arun protested weakly. “For all that I would wish to help, what can I possibly do about this beast?” “Ah, yes.” The old man leaned forward awkwardly. “And tell me, have you been a good acolyte and followed the whole creed? In particular, my boy, have you been chaste? Because if you have not, the creature out there…” He cast one gaunt arm out in a wild gesture. “It will simply kill you and lay waste to all of my careful preparations. So you serve no one’s purpose by lying now.” By his lord’s side, Jeryl’s guard captain raised a skeptical eyebrow. Many people went to be acolytes, but with ten years of training and a code of conduct that stipulated every detail of life, many dropped out and most suffered lapses of one type or another. At the end of the training, a great proportion were found wanting and did not go onto the priesthood. This one requirement—chastity—was reputed to be the most common cause of failure. It was said that a failure of purity always led to the acolyte being god-rejected at his offering—purity was the Fire Lord’s cardinal virtue. “I am a virgin.” Arun felt no embarrassment about it. Fire Priests followed many paths to the same truth and few were chaste lifelong, but abstention was required of acolytes and he had complied. Perhaps it had been too easy, springing less from strength of will than a withered and unnatural lack of desire, but if a chaste body was what the old man needed, that he could provide. How it came to help in catching a creature as powerful as the shapeshifting, near-immortal wolfkin, he could not begin to guess. Jeryl peered at him blearily for a long moment. His whistling breath echoed in the frigid air of the manorial hall. Finally he leaned back, tilting his head appraisingly to one side. “Perrin here will give you the amulet and the chains to immobilize the monster. And explain how they must be employed and when you shall have the opportunity. Catch him,

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bind him for me and you will be rewarded, richly. Fail me, and you will not be the only one to regret it.” The guard captain bowed and gestured for Arun to follow him. Truly, Arun knew he must do his part to protect the people from the wolfkin. Jeryl’s threat against Miri ensured that there was no way he could refuse. She would wed her beloved Berton soon, and as lord of the manor, Jeryl had an archaic customary right—to bed any maiden on her wedding night. So if helping to catch this monster would make him leave her in peace, so be it. Arun walked from the room with only one timid thought. He hoped, already knowing how faint a hope it was, to get whatever this was over with and get back to his studies. He knew himself to be a very ordinary young man. Winning the Fire Lord’s favor was his only chance to lead a life with any real purpose. With the choosing just over a week away, the Fire Lord had seemed so close; almost close enough to reach.

His thoughts turned to Miri, always so patient with him, and pleased to see him on his widely spaced visits to her room in the maiden hall. Only that thought kept Arun by Perrin’s side as the real nature of his role in this scheme became clear. The guard captain stared ahead as he explained in hushed tones about the witch’s amulet and Lord Jeryl’s plans. On the way out of Jeryl’s keep—just for a moment—dark clothed and veiled, Jeryl’s witch spoke to him. From what he could see of her face she was no crone, in fact almost beautiful, but her hard eyes glittered with something other than Divine Fire. Without a word she stopped them in the hall, clutching Arun’s arm with gloved hands. She looked him up and down appraisingly. Perrin could not meet her eyes. It was as if he did not want to admit this woman’s existence, but he allowed her to detain them. Her voice was strangely soft and almost gentle. “Soon you will be one of ours.” “Hardly, madam,” Arun replied coldly, trying to pull away. But her small hands were strong. “The less you fight it, the easier it will be, my son.”

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He shuddered to think of it. A craven witch, who had to cover every inch of her skin from the wrath of the righteous light of the Sun, using such familiar terms on him, imparting such ambiguous and sinister advice. It haunted him as Perrin led him through the keep and out to the waiting carriage. They rumbled down through the town. The temple was concealed from sight, on the far side of the hill the keep was perched upon. If only he could have seen it, if only he could have spoken to Lanner, his confessor and mentor at the temple, but Perrin would brook no delay. Arun had thought his morals sound and deep, a solid foundation for his hoped-for life as a priest. But the power of good intentions was quickly shaken when he heard what he must do to keep up his end of the bargain with Jeryl. It required a dark spell and a chaste but willing body, no matter how grudgingly it was given. Was this truly the only way, the best way? Everyone knew the nameless witch dwelt in a deep dungeon and served no wholesome god. He did not want to be a part of her magics. At the end of their daylong and hurried, jarring journey, Perrin and Arun stood together upon an island deep in the inhospitable marsh. He would be stranded here, too confused to retrace his path even if he had the means. There was nothing for miles about but the sucking swamp and dismal channels, no doubt teeming with predatory beasts. Perrin paused in leave-taking, clasping Arun’s shoulder in a vaguely fatherly way. Perrin’s manner had softened a little during the hours of the journey. No doubt he saw in Arun no more than what most people did, at first. A rather ordinary, gangly young man in tidy robes, plain to look at, bookish and a little prim. Arun knew few people found him appealing. But now he was dressed in the simple country clothes the guard captain had given to him, and he fancied he couldn’t look anything other than scared. There was so much fear in him; it was a wonder it left any room for blood. “Remember, keep the amulet against your skin at all times. Only…after, will the creature be vulnerable. Then bind him with the gold chains and light the beacon. We will come for you as soon as we can. The amulet, they say, will protect you. The longer you wear it the stronger its action will become. So be patient. If we have to wait awhile, it will only be better for you.”

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Arun understood the captain’s sanguine acceptance of this macabre trap. It was simply his nature. It had become clear as they spoke together on the journey. Perrin held duty as his highest virtue, and it led him astray only because he had not pledged obedience to a higher power but a base, earthly ruler. Perrin was staking Arun out like a hunter might tether a goat to lure a ravening wolf. Except a goat, no matter how anxious and perplexed, did not know what was coming for it, and a normal wolf consumed only flesh and blood. Arun had so much more to lose, his very sanctity, his soul. He tried to cultivate a priest’s long view and indifference to his own mortal fate, and Perrin said this was the only way to rid the land of the wolfkin that was roving these lowlands. It did not really console or reassure Arun. Who, after all, cares about the feelings of the goat? Perrin’s brow furrowed over his deep-lined, ruddy face. He had told the tale during the journey, of the bodies he had seen—of animals torn apart, and even of the wolfkin fleeing from the men who hunted it and finding shelter in the dense, perilous swamp. It would only be a matter of time before the monster was strong enough to hunt in the villages nearby, drawn by its need for human blood. With one last word of vague encouragement, Perrin turned away and clambered into the flat-bottomed boat. His men pulled them through the reeds. A bird called out shrill monotonous notes and small creatures scuffled through the rank vegetation out of the small boat’s way. Perrin’s broad and black-cloaked back faded from sight as he stooped forward on the plank seat of the retreating vessel. The birds grew still. All that could be heard was the whisper of the reeds. The tall, rasping rushes grew up shoulder high, punctuated by a few winter-bare trees reaching into the low clouds that oppressed the sky. Arun’s tidy life lay in disarray and for the first time he realized that it might be drawing to a sudden end, just like the darkening day. Arun stood tall and tried to be stoic, but he was terrified. Even after the men had gone, he did not let his face betray him. The reason they needed a grown youth who was chaste was quite simple—as bait. It lured the roving wolfkin, so they said. Even one as debased and wild as the beast that haunted this swampland harbored deep drives that

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could not be denied. It needed to taste the blood of mortal men, and it desired to destroy purity wherever it could be found. The old man had made sure of things with a spell put on Arun by the amulet tied to his wrist—Arun felt it on his skin like a stench. Compulsive, carnal. It would call the wolfkin and beguile it. Something seemed to leach into him from the carved bone, a creeping chill that already reached throughout his hand and past his wrist, like a seed putting down icy roots. His instinct was to tear it off, but thinking again of Miri, he stilled his hand. Perrin had not quite spelled things out, but by embarrassed euphemism, he had finally made the matter clear. The wolfkin would find him and the bespelled amulet, in conjunction with Arun’s virginal state, would make lust overpower any native caution the monster possessed. If it found him pure and appealing enough, it would take his blood and his body. If it was pleased enough by these things, it would spend its strength and weaken itself enough to be bound. If it found Arun neither pure nor pleasing enough, it would probably take his life instead. Arun pulled his cowled coat tight around his body with a compulsive shudder. The thought of being forced into such an act was horror enough. To have to submit to it, even worse—but there was something else he feared even more. To be despoiled by a creature of the dark, it would surely mean he could never be a priest. It was the one requirement the acolytes whispered about, saying the lord never waived it; the acolyte must come to testing pure. The imminent loss ached in him like a wound that bled without cease. He had been so close. In less than a ten-day, they would have called him into the temple and he would have known whether the Fire God would accept him. He might finally have felt his god’s touch and heard his voice. Every quarter-year he had held his breath waiting to see if Lanner had put his name forward for choosing, had judged him ready. Finally his chance had come, and it had slipped through his fingers. Even if he survived, a body so tainted could never serve the Light, which was by its nature never tainted nor cast into shadow.

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Jeryl had been right. Only for Miri would he do this, and only if Miri never had to know the sacrifice he had made. To save the lands from the depredation of a monster was a fine act, but without the old man’s threats he would have sought to escape this fate.

There was an ache in his lungs that burst out as an intermittent cough. Food supplies were low. The rats had broken into his pack, and what wasn’t destroyed was spoiled. Arun toyed with the idea of lighting the beacon torch that was hidden in the branches of a thorny tangle-bush nearby and begging Perrin to take him away. But the captain was a loyal man, and his lord both spiteful and powerful. Arun could do no such thing—he could only wait and endure. The cold came not only from outside, but seemed to grow inside his body like frozen cobwebs creeping over every organ. His body ached with a misery that did not wane or end. Arun leaned over the crackling fire. It cast a meager glow and little warmth, but seemed to burn some of the wet chill from the air and make it easier to breathe. He tried to look into those licking flames and think of the benevolence of his god, but only felt irretrievably far away from him. Was it the amulet that seemed to hide him from the grace of the Fire God, or was it his own sins that did so? Was the estrangement only in his own heart? He was not even sure what sins he might harbor, without confession to draw them out, but a kind of frigid blackness grew in him with every moment, and he felt sure that some of it was his own. There were furtive movements all around him. The rush gazelles were timid and pretty creatures. He glimpsed their bright eyes and smiled. Even the rats and the crows were some kind of company. He was always in fear of the bog lizards that were said to grow larger than horses and eat men, but another gloomy suspicion was growing in him. Something else moved in the dark hours, watching. He had walked the edge of his dismal and very small domain, and peered out into the shifting forms of the shrubs and grasses. He even called out once, when he thought he saw a flicker of pale flesh beneath a waxing moon. Was that some passing peasant, or the wolfkin itself? What was the wolfkin doing out there, anyway? The followers of the wolf

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lived in high wooded mountains and the stone towns of distant lands. In these lowlands, they were spoken of in fables but only the oldest men claimed to have seen one, and most of them clearly lied as they fashioned their late-night tales. He could not help but wonder what drove such a creature to roam and—given his temperament—what drove Jeryl to such a concerted effort to capture, rather than to kill it? Arun held out his own gaunt hands. What was here to tempt the beast? Just a rangy body with no great claim to beauty. He was neither good meat nor a worthy seducer. Was the witch’s spell enough to make something of his innocence, alone? He had tried in his life to cultivate a few virtues: a little piety, a small knack for growing useful herbs and dogged determination to complete any task set before him. A determination perhaps enhanced by a distinct lack of imagination. That was fortunate at least; he had been unable to picture what might happen to him. He realized he had not even prayed for guidance all day. Was that the kind of acolyte he was? Pious only for show and quick to despair when alone? Arun curled on his side as close to the fire as he could and drew his damp and moldering blanket up, pulling it over his head. Lord of life’s Fire, if it be your will, give my sister Miri a safe and joyous handfasting. Prevent her from thinking of me and worrying on this, her happy day…and be it your will, let me live, even unworthy of you. I wish to live. He dozed for the first time, even cramped and cold, with the wet wood popping sparks that sizzled on his blankets but did not catch. The dark hours ambled by, alive with the intermittent chirps and distant dying squeals of the night’s creatures. The fire grew quiet. He must check it soon or it would burn too low to dry the new, damp wood he fed to it, and he had no way to start a new fire if this one went out. With that concern nibbling on his exhausted mind, Arun slipped fully into sleep. Watchful eyes glinted, fastened on the huddled body, resisting its sorcerous call.

Arun awoke, twitching at a touch against the skin at the small of his back. A mouse or spider under the blanket, he assumed with disgust, but if in driving it off he let the heat

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out from the blankets, he might well freeze by morning. The touch came again, its nature clearer. Arun stayed still, feigning sleep. It was the contact of a finger against his bare flesh. Whoever it was must have reached under the blanket, beneath the cloak and tunic. Now several fingers moved gently along his spine, describing the gentler bumps of his bones and then moving up as far as his hip before drawing cautiously back. Could it be some human wanderer? No, any man would announce his presence, rob him or kill him in his sleep, would do anything but this. It was the wolfkin in its man form; all that remained was to see just what it sought. Arun lay still, indeed he had little choice. His body failed him. It generated a compulsive shudder. Would the bestial creature take his body, or his life? The hand drew back and his blanket settled over the void it left. For a long moment, Arun wondered if it had simply been an illusion from the depths of a dark dream. No. With his eyes squeezed shut, he felt the hand return, now just a muted stroke over the top of his dampened cover. A contemplative, gentle contact that drifted down his side slowly and dropped away. The touch was soft, almost as if the beast was trying to comfort him. It drew back again. Why did the damned thing hesitate? “Time you were leaving, boy,” a hoarse voice said. “You tempt me.” Arun eased onto his back, pulling the blanket down from his face. An empty arc of sky was all he saw. The moon picked out his small island—bare ground all around except for the small, slender tree at its hump-backed center. No matter how he strained his eyes, he could see no sign that any creature had been there, nor evidence of where it had gone. Arun’s heart beat hard, his breath caught in his aching throat. It seemed, somehow, even worse to be spared, to wait on for a fate that must still, inevitably, follow.

Better to have it done. The moon had been full a few nights ago and would wane now towards darkness absolute. Arun fidgeted the day through, shuffling his sodden feet as he walked a circuit around the hump-backed mound he had been left upon. His steps were wearing a bare path through the rank weeds.

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The gold chains were buried just beneath the moss near the place where he usually slept. The dark spell welled up fitfully from within him and crawled across the surface of his skin, prickling like lice. Where the amulet was tied, his skin was raised with angry, ridged welts that radiated out from the waxed string that tied the thing in place. They ran up as far as his elbow like worms beneath the skin. With dusk he felt the weight of watching eyes. He let the fire dwindle. There was little left to burn now, but the beacon. Night fell in fading veils, in tones as pink as skin and red as blood. It was a little milder this night, cool but not frosting. Here I am. I can wait no longer. Arun dropped his cloak and drew his tunic up over his head. Pulling off his leggings and boots, he felt foolish and afraid standing naked with bumped, frigid skin. He looked out across the reeds towards the largest of the trees that he could see. It seemed sometimes like something moved over by its trunk. Was there another island there, a solid place to stand? After a long while, he sat on the tunic and pulled the cloak and blanket over him. He shuddered, pulling his knees up to his chest. Come now and be done. He felt in his gut that this would be the night and amended his prayer, to let it end here, not even hoping to go on, into whatever uncertain future lay beyond. It was fully dark when the reeds parted. Through the muted haze above his banked fire, Arun saw the wolfkin clearly for the first time. Its clothes were in tatters, ragged edges fluttering in the low, swirling breeze. Arun stood, dropped his covers and walked forward slowly, stopping just beside the guttering fire. In a place beyond fear, he watched his own actions numbly, as if from a distance. The creature’s taint was clear in the pallor of its glistening skin, and its eyes were black without any white. Coarse hair rose up from its head in a mane and ruff, in a suggestion of its other form. But in the dim light it looked, otherwise, almost like a man—tall of frame, broad of shoulder, smooth in its motions as it approached. Arun was transfixed by the wolfkin’s glassy gaze. It had the strong bones of a handsome man, but its skin was pulled too tight upon them and its hair sprouted back from its cheeks and brow. A jagged gash marred its forehead. It looked down at him. The fingers of one of its

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hands were crooked, almost crushed in appearance. Hunched forward as if pained, the creature stood with tilted head, quizzical. Water dripped from its meager clothing as it emerged onto solid ground. “What is it about you?” the monster’s hoarse voice said ruefully and with unconscious irony. “It is not natural.” It strode up onto the island, and paused. Arun held the thought of his sister’s safety in his mind. The wolfkin walked on more slowly, circling wide around the fire. At first Arun turned to keep it in sight, but then he stopped, looking down to the ground and awaiting what would come. He wondered at how the monster spoke, almost like a real man. Doubts were nascent in Arun’s mind—the monster spoke as a man, its mangled clothes were civilized… No, this is no time for doubt. It spiraled in towards him, coming around in front again. Impatient after this torture of waiting, Arun walked, naked, to his fate. The wolfkin watched Arun with wide, deep, hungry eyes. As it approached, Arun saw that it stood taller than him. Its frame was wider at the shoulders with long muscledcorded arms that were sparsely furred on their upper surface. The creature’s appearance made it seem cold, alien, but not repulsive. That last realization came as a muted surprise. Its eyes seemed to drag over Arun’s skin like tiny hooks, its nose and open mouth scenting the air. It met his approach, palpable warmth emerging from its body. It came to stand so close that hand, chest, thigh, glanced and brushed together. Arun startled but it held him with one heavy hand resting on his shoulder. The wolfkin dipped towards him. Dry lips touched him just where his neck curved to the top of his shoulder, but he did not let himself draw away. It sidled around him until it stood behind, more closely, touching the full lengths of their bodies together. Arun took a half-step forward, reaching to grasp the out-flung branch of the scrubby tree that stood at the center of his small domain, offering himself grimly. The wolfkin closed in on him again, hard against his back, heavy. Its gaunt, tapering fingers hooked over Arun’s waist and drew them close. Its scenting nose and mouth blew air over Arun’s frigid skin. It moved slowly against him. Rank cloth, bristling hair and

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hot flesh felt harsh to every pore of Arun’s skin. In a moment the creature’s last hesitancy slipped away. Its jagged teeth touched his shoulder, scraping over the skin then moving over the abrasions left with a rough, insistent tongue. Unfamiliar wet warmth flowed sluggishly throughout Arun’s body, pushing open veins long frozen and lax. As the feeling reached his groin, Arun felt desire, no, simple lust. The wolfkin mouthed the back of his neck—and it felt finer than anything else he’d ever experienced in his life. If this was the prey’s lot, it suddenly failed to terrify him. He experienced his own pleasure at a strange remove, not trying to understand. Not daring to. He melted back into the body pressed against him, feeling the first real heat for days. His mind followed his body in surrender. The wolfkin groaned as it sucked at his flesh; he felt it fumbling, one-handed, with its clothing. Arun curled both hands against the rough tree branch that was at breast height before him. The wolfkin’s cock pushed upright against his back. All fear had fled. Arun was consumed by an aching need that kindled and spiraled out from deep inside his body and he knew there was only one thing that would put it out. The wolfkin pulled back its mouth and Arun felt bereft. A thin trail of blood trickled down his front, making a lazy path along his clavicle before dripping down to the frigid ground. The creature’s hand ran over the small wound, smearing warm blood with its palm. And that same slick fluid on the hard cock that pushed against him, sliding and seeking entrance. Anticipation crawled up his spine. His skin prickled now, set alight by mercurial lust, and only this cold intrusion could ease the burning. It was a harsh, forced entry. The amulet flared and the wolfkin pierced him. The monster moaned as if in pain as it thrust into him, in and up from bended legs, its greater height and strength pushing him up onto his toes. Arun called out too in confused desire, flaring with despair and loss. The life he had yearned for for so long slipped away into the darkness, but he barely noticed it go. In this blazing moment, Arun wasn’t living towards that calling, that moment when he would see if the Fire Lord would accept him. He was totally immersed in the embrace, the coupling, the blood and darkness.

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The creature bit him again with a jaw stretched long enough to grip his shoulder tightly. It thrust into him in hard, curtailed pushes that pressed him forward against the rough tree branch. His body strained as it gave in to the onslaught. The feeling was carnal, sharp and intoxicating. The pain just a faint resonance to the unfamiliar, animal pleasure. In the darkness his body opened, raw, with swelling eagerness, to a monster. Arun cried out as molten desire coursed through him, deafening his ear with a sound like heavy rain falling. He would have regretted nothing if he could just stay, here in this moment. The creature pushed deep into him and dragged him down onto the ground. The wolfkin rutted, forcing Arun against the rough, sodden earth. Arun came wetly, with a gasp, just as the monster jerked against him, filling him with its seed, and they lay tangled together. The wolfkin lapped at the torn skin of his shoulder, a strangely soothing rhythm that gradually slowed as it came to lay motionless, spooned against his back. After a few moments, the tide of unnatural lust boiled and leaked away through the cracks in Arun’s delirium. He lay, clutching the cold, damp ground. The wolfkin’s body slumped as a dead weight against him. Consuming passion swept out in a sudden, fugitive tide, leaving him adrift, cool, aching and sober. This cannot be for nothing. He crawled forward out of the creature’s supine embrace without giving more thought than he could bear to the turmoil inside his mind. He could not put a name to the boiling confusion of fullness-loss-pain-fear that lay exposed in the wake of the animal heat that had made him so crave a monster’s touch. Was it his desire, or the spell? Was there a difference now, and would there ever be, again? Arun’s questing fingers pushed deep into the spongy moss, searching for but not finding the fine golden chains. He churned the soil frantically like a digging dog. Finally his thumb tangled in a loop of chain. It seemed far too fragile to hold a creature of such primal strength, but it was his only hope. Perrin said it wasn’t really the metal that would hold it, but some old spell that made blessed gold poison to the wolf.

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Shaking as the sensation of cold returned, Arun could see his breath fogging the air as his hands and throat grew numb. The wolfkin lay lax, seeming to be unnaturally asleep, as he bent to bind it. Arun tied its wrists and ankles as tightly as he dared without breaking the tiny links. He moved quickly, unsure how much time he had. The chains seemed like they might snap between his fingers at any moment. Looking down at the bulky, muscular figure, he felt another moment of doubt—but also a sort of pity despite the puny nature of the chains. It did not look right, somehow, to see a creature of such wild power restrained. He saw the moonlight flicker in the beast’s all-black eyes as they cracked open and was sure that any moment the creature would break free. Arun clambered back and fumbled for the beacon torch. He thrust it into the scattered embers of his fire. The pitchsoaked straw caught quickly. Arun raised it high, but suddenly he wanted to get his clothes on, not to be found like this, naked and bloody. He propped the beacon awkwardly in the branches of the tree, watching the wolfkin nervously as it feebly stirred. The beacon teetered for a moment as if it might fall but it tipped the other way, against the trunk. The wet wood of the living tree popped and cracked in protest as the flames licked over it. As he dragged his tunic over his head, Arun saw flames leap up and catch in the dead leaves still clinging to the gnarled tree’s branches. The small twigs on the limbs caught and the conflagration spread across the tree’s crown. There was no chance they would miss the signal now. But fire had to be dangerous for a creature of the night… Arun wavered, crept forward again. The bound wolfkin lay now with his eyes closed, seeming somewhere between sleep and death. Arun grabbed its musty shirt and pulled, feeling the cloth rend, but still managing, laboriously, to drag the heavy creature clear of the tree’s overhanging branches. He huddled at the water’s edge, feeling tears beading up in his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards slowly in a desperate effort to find some consolation or a lull in his confusion. One of Arun’s hands rested unconsciously, almost protectively, on the motionless form of the wolfkin. The coarse texture of its fur was vivid to his fingertips.

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Time idled by to the sound of wet wood steaming and cracking as the avaricious fire inexorably destroyed it. Small branches and embers fell free and landed on water or land with dozens of muted hisses. He could see the glinting light reflecting in the eyes of the rats and other creatures that froze in the reeds and looked on with amazement. The whole tree blazed and filled the air with wafting clouds of milky smoke. All around him the air crackled and whispered. Finally the sound of oars could be discerned, interspersed with this muffled tessellation of sounds, drawing closer. Arun kept on watching the burning tree with his back to the lapping water. The beacon torch had fallen to the ground, near the trunk, but its flames still licked upwards hungrily over the rough surface of the twisted trunk while the branches burned above. Whole limbs started to sag and tear free, partially doused as they fell into the damp grass. He watched the burning, not even looking for the boat. A large hand descended on his shoulder heavily. Arun looked up almost incuriously. Guardsmen took the wolfkin from beneath Arun’s hand, and Perrin led him to the boat and set him on the plank bench. The captain even put an arm about him as his four men rowed through the dark, cursing the intransigent tufts and lumps of sod that blocked their way. It took at least twice as long to get back out of the swamp as it had to get in, in the light of day. Arun’s body hurt, wetness leaked from inside him. A carriage waited for them, but it was only the creature they placed carefully inside it. The carriage clattered away without Arun, Perrin or two of his stolid men. Arun was directed to one of the large, carthorse-bred mules the lord’s men used to get around the less hospitable margins of the fief. Arun felt worn and whittled down to a witless stubbornness that was his only strength. “So, I have done as you asked?” he said to Perrin. “You have, boy. Exactly as Lord Jeryl asked.” His voice was surprisingly soft with concern. “Then I am done with this. If my Lord Jeryl was sincere in offering me a reward, tell him he gave me a mule.”

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With sullen pain, Arun raised himself up and settled into the saddle. The mule answered to his knees and ambled down the road. Arun wanted to be gone, far from here. He urged his mount to go as fast as its placid temperament and the darkness of the predawn would allow. The road opened up before him like a wide black ribbon, like the promise of escape. Although it felt like the thing he most feared, he now carried within him. He rode all through the day and night, and pushed the weary and irritated mule on into midmorning. He knew what he was doing, which wasn’t to say it was a good idea. After all this fretting and care to keep his sister safe and ignorant of all that had occurred, he was going to the only place that felt safe to him. He was going to the little house Berton had built for his beloved Miri. After spending the best part of ten years in the temple with only fleeting visits to see his sister, she now represented the only place he had any hope of feeling secure, faint as it was. The only place he could put his head down and sleep long enough to clear the fog from his mind and decide what to do. It was the closest thing he really had to a home.

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Chapter Two On her second day as a married woman, Miri was mildly annoyed. She had traded a good linen shift for three laying hens, but as soon as she let the hens out of their basket, they had vanished into the hedge and not been seen again. Damned if she shouldn’t have marked them somehow first, because she wouldn’t put it past Widow Whent to have those birds set to go right back to her looking just like all the others. And then what would Miri do for eggs? Berton was off working on the fief land, bringing in hay. Miri knew that when he got back she could depend upon his sympathy, but not any solution to the problem. Berton was a good, strong, caring man but he didn’t go thinking his way around too many corners. Even in being vexed, she was happy. To have a household to cause her problems was a joy after the confines of the maiden hall, which was little more than a workhouse for orphan girls. She looked up to see her younger brother approaching—not that much younger, mind—he was a few weeks short of his twentieth year. There was enough to alarm her in that he was not wearing his acolyte’s robe, nor walking up the path as he usually did with his tall walking stick. But beside the unfamiliar, muddied black cloak he wore and weary mule he rode, there was the look on his face. Grim, but somehow empty. He looked more like a golem than a man. For all his faults, Arun had always had a sort of inner light to him—and she couldn’t see it in him, now. Arun saw her and ventured a smile that seemed hollow. He stopped beside her. “I am sorry I missed the ceremony, sis.” Miri had a feeling that she needed to act calm and gentle, like around a spooked animal. She just wanted to get him in the house and bedded down, because although

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Berton might not be cunning, he had a way with people and together they could surely work out what was wrong here. “I know that temple business keeps you sometimes, Arun. I am glad you are here now. Won’t you come in? The kettle will still be warm.” Arun dismounted stiffly, like an old man. “I rode through the night,” he said quietly. “That was, perhaps, not a good idea, but I felt bad for not being here to see you wed.” And yet he had come from the wrong direction to have ridden from the temple, which was not so terribly far away and did not keep beasts like this mule, besides. “Well if you want to get some rest you can take the bed,” Miri said as casually as she could. “I’ll make the green-leaf soup you like so much, ready for when you wake.” Their new cottage was little more than a single room with a hearth and a lean-to at the back, but it was a palace compared to her old bed in a drafty hall. There was a big, posted bed with a heavy curtain about it that they had been getting good use from. Miri and Berton both deeply appreciated the freedom and privacy they’d finally won. Miri took Arun inside, noting how he huddled into his strange, oversized cloak as if the cold was biting when the day was actually very mild for the time of year. Arun washed his hands and face in the basin with quick, nervous movements. He seemed uneasy and exhaustion was etched on his face and weighed his narrow shoulders down. Anxiety clutched at her chest but she tried to keep her manner light. “You get some rest, Arun. I’ll see to that mule and I have a couple of strayed chickens to track down, so I won’t disturb you. I hope you can stay awhile before the temple needs you back.” “Maybe a little longer than you’ll want,” Arun said vaguely. “That could never be,” Miri assured him and she meant it. If her brother needed her, she would do everything she could. She pulled out Berton’s near-worn-out old bed-shirt and put it on the end of the bed. “You get yourself some rest.”

Bless Miri, but no doubt there would be questions later. Arun set his hooded coat aside. He looked around the small room and lifted his tunic. It stuck to his skin at his

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neck where there was a terrain of small, ragged scabs. He bent to use a corner of his dark coat, dampened with water from the basin, to gingerly wash himself. There was blood farther down too, where an ache inside him stopped him from putting the events of the night from his mind. Even now in the light of day, thinking back to the harsh rutting in that swamp on the cold ground, he couldn’t say it had been terrible. Maybe that was what was terrible. He’d been violated by a half-animal monster that fed on human blood, and it had been the most intense pleasure he had ever felt in his life. It was as if everything good he could feel after would be just a pale shadow of that sensation. The amulet, scorched and broken, was still tied by a cord to his wrist. He tried to tear it off, but the tough waxed cord just bit into his skin. He couldn’t pull it free. Finally he found a knife on his sister’s scarred second-hand kitchen bench and cut it off, nicking his livid skin in the process. The amulet peeled off his skin reluctantly, leaving a raw, seeping mark like a burn. He tucked the warped remains of the amulet into the toe of one shoe and then slipped into the clean, worn cloth of the borrowed shirt. For the first time in days, he set his head down feeling warm and dry and ready to just lie still and die if that’s what it took to have proper rest. Pains throughout his body made themselves known and his stomach churned with neglected hunger, but his mind fell gratefully into sleep.

Arun awoke groggily, his mouth dry and his mind fogged. He could hear low voices. “That’s blood on his clothes,” Berton’s deep voice said. “He seemed, well, not all right, but not wounded, just…” “Just what?” “He said something about staying here, and those clothes aren’t exactly what he’s meant to be wearing.” There was a pause then Berton replied, “No, surely not. Anyone can see that Arun was meant to be a priest. And it’s, what, a matter of days before his final testing?” “Berton, love.”

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“What.” “If he leaves them, the temple…” Berton sighed. “As much as I would rather have you to myself within these four walls, I would never turn your brother away. I know how you feel about him.” It was hardly honest to stay still, listening in on them without their knowledge. Arun shifted, feeling a constellation of pains from the ache in his temples to the trembling in his legs from riding the mule. And there were other parts not used to such harsh and hasty treatment. The bracken-stuffed mattress rustled and he pushed back the curtain to find them both seated on a bench before the small hearth. “Don’t worry, Bert, I’m not planning on moving in with you two.” “You’d be more than welcome,” Berton said with every sign of sincerity. Not much older than Miri, Bert was a big man who enjoyed his pleasures honestly— running a little to fat despite the long hours he put in laboring on Jeryl’s lands. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” Berton added. “It’s…” I was bespelled to be irresistible and sodomized by a bestial monster. And I loved it so much I may have to rethink being able to go before the Fire Lord pure. Well that isn’t really something you say to your sister. “I, um…just don’t think I’m going to go through with it.” Berton leaned towards him. “It’s a bit like getting married, you know. You’re bound to get a bit wrought up with the big day fast approaching. But you know it’ll be worth it.” The newlyweds exchanged a grin that suggested they had proved well matched in every way. Arun leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. Much as he appreciated the effort they were making, comparing serving the Fire Lord to sleeping with his sister was hardly a reassuring image. “I, maybe. I just took some time out and…got into a bit… I guess I’ll head back into town shortly.” Berton’s smile slipped. No one would take him for the brightest man, but he was devilishly hard to lie to. Fortunately, he was also too kind of a man to press the matter. “You’re meant to be a Fire Priest, Arun. Don’t get messed up and lose sight of it.”

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Meant to be a priest? What made that so clear? The fact I have no useful skills or my natural sexual frigidity? Berton leaned towards him. “But if you manage to lose sight of that, you’re welcome here from a day ’til forever. There’s still work to be had in these parts for anyone who wants it.” Arun knew his sour mood was not down to Berton. He was a good man, and if his advice was simplistic, it was only because Arun had not confided the full truth to him. “Is it about a girl?” Miri burst out. “No,” Arun replied, affronted. “A boy?” Berton added. Given that Arun had only just been groping towards the idea that it wasn’t women he was giving up for the Fire Lord, Berton’s insight irritated him a little. Maybe it was time he stopped thinking of Berton as nice, but dim. “No, it wasn’t a man either.” Maybe it was his tone of voice, but they were content to leave him to brood for a while after that. He brooded over the fact that the monster did dress and speak much like a man. Arun’s mind slid far too easily to the subject of the wolfkin. He could see how it had been injured and perhaps ended up alone in that dreary marsh. And what had it done? Killed some animals. Up until a little while before, the fact that a wolfkin was a creature of the night—as much beast as man—might have been proof enough. But now Arun found himself thinking that the night was the domain not only of the bog lizard, but the rush antelope too. Even the rats didn’t act out of evil or spite just because they make their way by night. And finally, if Jeryl was a man, was it truly such a bad thing to be a beast? In the final accounting, the wolfkin might be just some type of a man after all. Maybe if the tyrannical lord of the fief had a so-called monster caught, bundled up and brought right to him unharmed, there was more to the story than Old Man Jeryl, or his man Perrin, was telling. Arun found a little more strength then, because if anyone deserved to know the whole story he figured it was him. So he would simply have to find out, somehow.

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Miri and Berton were the best of company. They told him all that had been happening in the village since he last visited, and chided him for his morose mood. They prompted a fuller explanation of Arun’s doubts, but did not demand it when he balked. The next morning, the pale mule huffed its unhappiness at seeing him. But it was a well-trained beast and stood as he settled tack on it. Berton had already gone to his duties, but Miri stood watching him with a dissatisfied expression tightening her face. She was clearly unhappy to see him go without some sort of explanation, and he did not blame her. He had never kept a secret from his sister before, albeit because he’d never had one to keep. It would be so much easier if he could just lie to her and say he would be going to his choosing, after all. “Why are you so set on giving up on what you have wanted for so long?” she asked. “I just cannot see myself as a priest, now.” He avoided turning to face her. “And you won’t explain where this crisis came from after so many years of study and training?” Arun tightened the saddle cinch and settled his cowl back over his shoulders. He meant to vault smoothly up into the saddle, but his legs failed him and he only just managed to struggle on board. Hardly a natural horseman at the best of times, he was glad the tall mule just waited for him to get seated with an air of bored but disdainful patience. Miri looked up at him. “Will you make me one promise, brother?” Arun felt a twist of anxiety as he looked down at her. “What?” “Before you make this decision final, will you speak to your confessor?” “Miri…” “You don’t think I understand why a man can or cannot, or should or should not, go to his choosing. Well, you have spoken of Lanner many times. He has guided you throughout your time at the temple. Will you speak to him one more time before you make your final decision?” Arun looked out towards the road that wended up across the rolling landscape to the keep. Lanner was a dedicated priest who had taught Arun everything he knew, from the

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sacred texts to his more mundane skills with plants and beasts, from birthing lambs to collecting and preserving seeds in the cool caves of the seed-store. The fear he felt at the notion of talking to Lanner was the fear of knowing the truth. Well, if Lanner was going to tell him he had behaved wrongly, or he was damned by what he had done, it was probably better that he know for sure. “I will, Miri. I will.” As he urged the mule forward, Miri called after him, “And whatever the confessor says, come back to us.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled as if in reply, but he wasn’t promising that.

It would have been the next day. The choosing. It was the day of Near-Pass, the day the Fire Lord’s palace was close to the earth and so he was inclined to choose those who would serve him. Arun would normally have ascended the path from the village to the town, the keep and beyond them both, to the temple on foot—and taken all of a day. But mounted, he was there by noon and felt ill prepared to face whatever fate awaited him. The village was dominated by Jeryl’s keep upon a high, stony hill. On the leeward slope, the stone buildings of the township sprawled above the damp and verdant fields. At the base of the inward side, the temple and its gardens nestled, surrounded by the woods and thickets of Jeryl’s private hunting lands. Mindful of his promise and unwilling to be seen out of proper dress by the other acolytes, Arun took a faint path up through the woods, more a track made by deer than one for men. It wound up along a ridgeline to approach the temple from the east through the temple’s own small allotment of cultivated land. In the middle of the day, Lanner would likely be somewhere in the apothecary garden. Arun stepped down and led his stolid mule, easily the most valuable thing he had ever had in his possession, through the carefully tended edible plants and herbs. Apparently the put-upon beast drew the line at being led past the lush rabbit-tail bushes. Arun tried to yank it away, but when a mule whose parentage must have included a

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carthorse decided to do something, there really wasn’t much a puny human could do about it. Arun was beginning to think the mule didn’t hold him in the highest of regard. “Look, you stupid beast. The plant is a pass-water, you know.” He tried to push its nose aside from the herb’s distinctive gray-green foliage. “Do you want to be up pissing all night?” A disapproving cough made him spin around. Lanner stood with a pruning hook in one hand and thick bunch of fever-bane in the other. “I heard that he wanted to see you,” the priest said perfunctorily. Like many of the priests, Lanner wouldn’t speak Lord Jeryl’s name. He did not think much of their earthly lord’s licentious and grasping ways. There were all kinds of stories about what Jeryl did in the dark rooms of the keep with his witch-retainer, and he was certainly not much seen at the temple. There were even rumors that he would soon start taxing the temple—which, suffering from a lack of noble patronage, was not well placed to support that demand. “But that was a week ago,” Lanner added as he turned, letting the statement take the place of any question about the matter. The mule naturally followed Lanner; he had that effect on animals, although he didn’t tend to get on as well with people. Lanner looked like anyone’s notion of a rotund, avuncular priest, but he was by nature a cool-eyed ascetic who was no easier on anyone else than he was on himself. Arun stumbled to stay ahead of the mule and maintain some appearance of leading the beast. They went down to the clearing out front of the drying and smoking sheds. Lanner set himself on a bench and started to braid the herbs into drying knots and tie them onto a length of old, frayed cord. The only invitation Lanner proffered was in the way he sat right to one side of the bench, much like he expected someone to join him, or commanded their presence. Arun tied the mule within reach of some untrimmed grass and went over. He laced his hands in front of him and reminded himself that although Lanner was a strict man, he was also fair and always concerned to act as the lord would wish: justly.

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With his eyes directed unwaveringly at his clasped hands, Arun told the tale of what had happened, simply but without omitting any salient fact. His voice faltered and the only thing that got him through it was the steady rhythm of Lanner twisting the fever-bane and tying it up, the loops of stem and rope winding through his fingers like obedient serpents. Lanner got to the end of the rope and let the silence stretch out. Many times when Arun confessed, he had to wait a while. Longer when Lanner had more to consider, for he would not be hurried and churned thoughts like a mill does grain. It was not surprising that this particular tale provoked a very long silence indeed. “There is a lot to be laid at his door,” Lanner said. “But this must be the worst.” “I ended up thinking the wolfkin might not be the monster,” Arun said hesitantly. Lanner turned to him, cool eyes gleaming out of his round and crinkled face. “The wolfkin is a damned creature. It slinks from the righteous light of our lord and it embraces the nature of the beast, which is beyond salvation. Its touch means you cannot go to the choosing and all my efforts with you will be wasted.” Arun felt his face freeze. Somehow he had furtively hoped that Lanner would make things right. After all, for all his faults, Arun had not acted selfishly or for any reason other than to try and help others. The greatest doubt he harbored was the breaking of his chastity and in how he had treated the wolfkin, which he suspected was less of a monster and more a man than most might suppose. His thoughts kept turning to that. Its inky eyes and pallid skin, emerging from the water like a spirit of nature, and after… But Lanner was an accepted and ordained priest and… Arun’s very consciousness stuttered. He could place nothing after that “and”. There was no way forward from here, nor was Lanner hastening to make one ready for him. Another man might have tried to offer comfort, but Lanner stood and went to hang the herbs. Nothing beyond the concerns of the priesthood interested the man. From the moment he had been assigned Lanner as his confessor, Arun had struggled to live up to Lanner’s standards of dedication and devotion to their god. Sitting there on the bench, he considered for the first time that there were other things Lanner had never offered him. Arun was lost to the priesthood, and Lanner had no further use for him.

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While Lanner was still in the drying hut, Arun went and released his mule and mounted, spurring on up the trail before the priest returned. There was only one other place he wanted to go.

The temple complex stretched over dozens of buildings and hundreds of rooms. There was the great central temple itself, but also many smaller chapels. One small, isolated chamber high up on the hillside came to mind. It had once been set aside for the private devotions of the more pious lords of the fief, but it had fallen out of use some generations before. It was a quiet, dusty room partly carved from the stone of the hill and finished with dressed blocks of granite. Inside the neglected chamber, discarded furniture, old tools and refuse were piled up haphazardly, leaving just enough room to approach the altar. Arun had come to the temple as little more than a child and found this as a place to hide when the loneliness was overwhelming, or the other acolytes’ taunting was too much to bear. But in the end, this room had come to mean more that that. Small, high windows left the narrow aisle dark, but still lit the simple statue at its end. Gilt paint was flaking from the unusual sculpture that showed the lord not as the more conventional disk or rayed sphere, but in a human form. The artist had shown him as a male youth, bearing a bow, eyes half-lidded and benevolently downcast. Arun sat in the first row of seats, the only one left clear, and looked up at this careful image of his lord’s beneficent face. Behind the figure, words were carved in the cracked wooden panels on the walls: thy inner voice is mine. Thy inner voice is mine. That was the point of all the long years of training, to develop a conscience, an intuition of virtue that presaged the inspiration of a god. By the time he went to his choosing, he was not meant to be depending on the overt guidance of the senior priests who were presumed to know the lord’s true wishes as well as any man might, but to hear his whispered voice. Arun sat in the quiet of the hall. He would never go to the choosing. He would never hear the Fire Lord’s voice or feel the weight of his regard. But in the still chapel, he could

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hear some echo of that inner voice formed and refined by Lanner’s and the temple’s many rules. Arun felt totally alone, but the voice was there, and the absolute core of the creed was to heed it. It told him to try, no matter how imperfectly, to do what he truly felt was right. He could dwell selfishly on what he had lost, but his conscience had been pained about the wolfkin. An instinct told him that, no matter what anyone else might say, what he had already done was not right. He had handed it…him, the wolfkin, over to Jeryl. And he knew that Jeryl was a man with very few virtues. So even knowing nothing at all about the wolfkin, Arun felt that had probably been wrong to deliver anyone into Jeryl’s hands. He needed to know for certain.

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Chapter Three There was an inhospitable expanse of cliff, scrub and rubble that separated the outskirts of the temple from the base of the keep. Arun had very little in the way of a plan except that the wolfkin would probably be in the dungeon, and the dungeon was in the rear of the keep where it overlooked the temple down in the dell. Perhaps the view was meant to help the miscreant reflect and repent. The slope was steep, but not sheer. He let the mule loose, knowing the beast had enough sense to go back to Lanner or some other person who could take it in. Many times during the day, Arun wondered whether the approach was unscalable. It grew steeper and more barren the longer he labored until finally he came to one last open and near-vertical expanse of crumbling, rotten stone. It was clear that if he attempted to climb it by the light of day someone below in the temple complex would see him. But if he waited until dark, the task that already looked formidable would become well nigh impossible. Already shaking with fatigue and an array of other pains, Arun slumped down in the cover of the last scrubby patch of thorns and grasses. His memory kept offering up the image of the wolfkin wading up out of the marsh as he had first seen him—eerie, ragged and magnificent. It was as if that memory had got into his blood. His thoughts, his feelings, his very essence, curdled in conflict between an impulse to trust a monster and a lifetime of obedience. He could only pray he was doing the right thing. The possibility of seeing the wolfkin again drew him on with increasing urgency. It was an impulse that welled up from a deep part of his soul, a part he didn’t normally have much commerce with. Lord, if my quiet voice is truly your voice, I hope you may bless my efforts and guide me.

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Weary, Arun hung his head and waited for the day to grow darker, gathering his strength. Slowly, his heart grew more peaceful. He felt the last rays of the sun rest, tepid but palpable, on the back of his head and neck. He waited until the light was fading but he could still see well enough to climb—he hoped. The short rest helped him rally. The bell tolled to call people into the evening meal and a short while after there was a fair chance the temple denizens would be too busy to peer up into the misty hills. He assaulted the slope with new vigor. His fingers clawed at any crack he could find, trying to just keep his momentum going enough to carry him over each slip and fumble. There was no looking back and certainly no looking down. No real voice, no words—but the very thought of the wolfkin seemed to draw him on. Like some awkward squirrel clambering up a tree, he managed to scale the crumpled face of the hill, finally crawling over onto the small ledge around the base of the building, barely room to place the balls of his feet. He edged very slowly around to a vantage deep enough to twist his body and put his back against the wall. His feet were braced just short of the precipice. He might have managed to climb up all this way fairly safely, but if he started falling he wouldn’t be able to stop before he hit the bottom, hard. One glance at the distant depths of the valley punctured his confidence. It represented everything familiar in his life, so far behind. Arun’s heart lurched and cold sweat sprang up all over his body. He could hardly believe he had come this far. The courage that drove him hardly seemed to be his own. Then he heard, faintly, a familiar, rasping voice. The wolfkin. “I cannot make him one of us.” There was a harsh rattle of chains and the sound of an impact of flesh on flesh, a sharp blow on wet skin. “So you told our Lord Jeryl,” Perrin replied. “But he seems quite sure that you lie. And our Lord Jeryl has a way of knowing what others do not. He has ways.” The wolfkin’s voice was weaker as he replied, “We are a race, born as we are. A man cannot become one of us.”

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Arun twisted very carefully and edged up to peer through the arrow-slit window. The room was lit by two candles smoldering within glass globes that somehow increased their glow. The wolfkin was stripped of the remnants of his clothes and shackled at both wrists and his neck. His thick chains and shackles were coated with—surely not made of?— gold. He crouched forward, pulling the chains taut, looking up at the guard captain whose back was to Arun. The wolfkin’s lean face bore an ambiguous expression. Guarded, defensive, but not defeated. Sweat gleamed on his skin and dripped from his chin. “He is an old man,” the wolfkin said quietly. “It is his lot to die within the years a man is allotted.” There was no doubt that these were the words of a civilized being. Arun felt guilt clutch at his heart, and other feelings that were harder to divine. Perrin kicked the wolfkin. He reached down and pulled the chains that held him up so they didn’t just restrain his reach. The ends pulled down through a high metal loop fixed on the ceiling. The wolfkin was forced to stand pressed back against the wall with his hands raised high over his head, straining upwards to ease the pressure on his throat. Thus restrained, the wolfkin’s face showed the briefest flicker of fear. The last ruddy rays of the sun struck his shoulder, limning each coarse hair with its own glinting halo. It flinched away from that waning light. Perrin began to turn and Arun leaned back, but he could still hear: “You will have until next dawn to either admit the true secret of your nature, or die to keep it.” The chains rattled as they fell looser again. There was a shuffle and sound of the heavy door scraping over the ground. Arun curled his hands over the protruding blocks of the wall and peered in again. The wolfkin inhaled deeply, twisting to regard the narrow window slit. “Ah, we’ve met before, I think,” he said softly. Arun leaned forward and tried not to think about the wind-filled abyss at his back. He had to know the truth, having come this far for it and having nowhere else to go. The

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stone was rough against his cheek and clutching fingers. “What were you doing in the marsh?” Arun asked. “Now you ask?” the wolfkin replied with a dry laugh. “You didn’t seem much one for conversation before. I wondered the same about you, and should have known better than to disregard my suspicions. But I was weak. I had been searching for so long and maybe I was too ready to think I might have found what I was looking for. At last I have.” Arun closed his eyes and leaned in against the rough stone of the window. He couldn’t really follow what the wolfkin was talking about but seeing him: naked, majestic and powerless. It made his heart thud even harder. “I suggest that you answer my question.” Arun intended his voice to be firm, but it came out sounding frail and uncertain. After a long pause the wolfkin sighed, flexing his arms against the restraints. “I was traveling the White Road to my home in the city of Shireen. I had been restless, seeking excuses to travel. I had gone to the city-state of Garrett on the coast. That was where my sister, a driven traveler herself most of the time, has been foolish enough to settle and fall in love—not, perhaps, in that order. I know that the lowlands are not a place for any of our kind, and so I traveled swiftly. But I was attacked and barely escaped into the marsh. What I was doing there was trying to hide from Jeryl’s men and his infernal witch.” Jeryl no doubt wanted a wolfkin in order to gain the long life of their cursed kind. Wolfkin and other kinds of beast and demon were said to live in Shireen and mountainous lands beyond, and the city-states of the north were as various as they were many. The wolfkin’s story had the mundane ring of unvarnished truth. It was Arun, with the aid of magic that was certainly not Fire Lord blessed, who had let the wolfkin be captured. He had to try and make it right. Arun felt the last dregs of strength within him, the last ebb of his confidence. He straightened and peered at the dwindling light picking out the tiny ledge he was balanced on. The sun had all but vanished but for a final thread of scarlet. The night was cool and dark. He took a deep breath and edged around the building.

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Emily Veinglory

He heard the wolfkin call out in a hoarse whisper, “Wait. Come back.” The voice alone almost checked him. It reached inside him, invisible fingers closing around his heart. But he had a plan, such as it was, and he went on. Arun scrambled onto safe ground, but into a new danger. At the main door of the small cellblock, Arun drew himself up as tall as he could and pounded on the door. When the guard answered, he pushed his way in. It was foreign to his nature, but Arun had seen how the nobles and the higher temple officers got their way with arrogance and bluster. He took the only approach that might work. “Lord Jeryl requires me to interrogate the creature.” Snapping his fingers added, “Keys to the manacles, if you please.” “And who the hell are you?” “A better witch than the one your dotard lord has been using, so far. Now, do you want to stand between Old Jeryl and his cure?” The guard hesitated, but then bowed and complied. It had been a desperate gamble, but people were not inclined to usurp Jeryl’s power, nor to question it. The consequences of displeasing him were too severe. Arun stepped into the cell and slammed the door behind him. There seemed to be just one guard and perhaps together Arun and the beastman could overcome him, but in truth he had not thought much beyond this point. The wolfkin seemed frailer now. Up close, Arun could see shallow, weeping wounds that covered the skin of his shoulder. His hair hung in dry hanks. But his naked form was still powerful, rippling hard with lines of fur down his back and limbs. Arun felt an alarming reaction to the creature’s proximity which he struggled to hide. The wolfkin watched Arun with wary confusion. He waited while the guard stepped away from the door, his footsteps scuffing back to his post by the single entrance. Arun’s fingers fumbled with the small keys but finally he found the one he wanted. He leaned in gingerly to fit it to the shackles, springing them open. The wolfkin shook free and edged away from him and out of the dying light of dusk. “What is it that you want, witch?” No doubt he had heard Arun just use that word to describe himself. And he had every reason to think Arun trafficked in black arts.

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“Any chance you could overcome a burly guard?” Arun winced as he heard the guard greet another man coming through the front door. “Damn,” he said. “Pretty soon they’ll work out I was lying. So we need a way out of here.” “Is there a way out that direction?” The wolfkin indicated the window. “Even if we could slide through an arrow-slit, barely and probably not in the dark— and we still need to get out of the building.” “Give me your blood, boy. And the wall won’t be a problem. My kind find strength you can barely imagine if we are as we are supposed to be—with our destined partner. And the closer you stand to me, the more I know it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t magic. It was you.” Arun was not really heeding the wolfkin’s words. It was hard to work out what the he was talking about, and Arun’s attention turned to the burr of conversation between the two guards. Their time must be very limited and although Jeryl might just be inclined to forgive Arun the trespass, it was clear to him now that this man was no cursed monster, or at least not only that. He had to get them both out of this, and if blood was somehow needed for that, he could only hope he had enough to spare. “If you must,” Arun said. He and the wolfkin stepped together very cautiously. “You smell of fear,” the wolfkin said. “Get on with it.” Arun curled his fingers around the bunched muscles of the wolfkin’s forearm, feeling the heat of his naked body and fighting to suppress the memories that evoked. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t the instant rush of heightened lust that weakened his knees as soon as the wolfkin’s lips lightly touched his skin. But Arun was thrust away; he staggered against the wall. His hand, so recently almost pushing the creature away, now struggled to hold onto him. He didn’t understand it, but there was something between them. He felt it too. The wolfkin shook his maned head. “I shall have to hope I am strong enough unfed. Just know our lives depend on it,” he said. “I am sorry that such a travesty has been made of this bond, but please believe I would never wish to harm you.”

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Emily Veinglory

Arun did not understand why he was so abruptly rejected, but the wolfkin seemed disinclined to discuss it further. He turned away, braced his feet and examined the unmortared stone, pressing his hand against this stone and that. There was an arch that must have once accommodated a larger window, now filled in with more poorly set and smaller stones. The wolfkin shoved hard against the largest stone in this later addition. For a moment there was no result beyond a trickle of dust. With a grating sound, it shifted and, after a long, strained effort, dropped outwards. It tumbled over the edge. A series of crashes rebounded and diminished as it fell away. Other smaller stones caved inwards. The wolfkin peered through the gap at the steep cliff beyond. “You came up that?” he exclaimed. “Yeah, I did.” Arun was awed by that display of raw strength from a man who should have been worn down and all but exhausted. And as the wolfkin turned and spoke, he was, despite it all, a man—not so different from any other. “Now we better get back down it.” The descending clouds and rising mist had smothered the last glint of the dusk. They scrambled out the gap, pebbles shifting underfoot. The wolfkin reached for Arun, grasping him securely by the waist. Arun stiffened, but was too surprised to protest. The wolfkin held him and climbed down with strength far greater than any human, seeming to see clearly in the dark. Arun had little choice but to go along, held securely by his companion. High above, voices called the alarm and torches bobbed against the buildings as others in the guard answered the summons. Arun struggled to get a purchase on the stone. “Hang limp,” the wolfkin snapped. “Frankly, you are easier to handle as dead weight.” That was hardly a promising thought. Arun began to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake. Again.

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Wolfkin

There were lights being kindled around the temple. By the time they reached the scant cover of the mountain shrubbery, Arun could see no clear way out. Then it hit him. He shook free of the wolfkin’s grasp on his arm. It was level enough for him to get a footing. “Follow me,” Arun said. The wolfkin’s gaze danced along the cliffs and down over the temple complex before settling on the deeper forest farther along the slope. “The dogs will just run you down in the forest. There is a passage through the caves. Too dark and complex to find your way without help, and awash with water which may play out the scent. I know a way through to a cavern below the temple proper. They will not know to look for us there; thinking us still trapped between the temple and the keep.” The wolfkin stood still, watching him. Arun was starting to feel the chill of the falling night. He knew nothing except that he had destroyed what remained of any chance to stay and live out his life as a free man of this fief. He was frustrated at the delay, as his words were obviously being doubted. “The upper reaches are used to store seeds and bulbs, because although it is moist, it is very cold,” he explained with tenuous calm. “I explored these caves as a boy, a rather unpopular and solitary boy. There is an outside chance that this passage is not known to more than a few others. So that is where I am going.” He turned and limped away, his knee aching from a collision with the cliff face, hoping to his lord that the wolfkin would follow. After all this, he wanted to know the wolfkin got away to safety. And to be honest he wanted them to be together, just a little longer. He had no idea where he would go even if he escaped the pursuit. He was still alone when he got to the lead-weighted leather covers over the entrance to the seed cave but stubbornness kept him limping on, not even looking back. It was cold and very dark within. The smaller caverns were full of seed grain for many common crops and in the main cave casks, clay jars and open racks held every kind of seed, cone, bulb or tubers for herbs, trees and even flowering garden plants.

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Emily Veinglory

High on one shelf, there were a number of bound barrels, a little smaller than a man’s head. These were Lanner’s legacy collections. Hardy seeds for every kind of useful herb, dried and collected into twists of cloth. From one of these, he could restart most of the apothecary’s garden if a long, hard frost, a mudslide or some other catastrophe wiped it out. Well if I am to fall into sin I may as well go all the way. Why not add a little theft? Arun hefted the legacy cask and set it under one arm. It was something of value, something he could use. Lanner still had the others if he needed them. The casks were largely replicates in their contents and the garden was in no immediate threat of extinction. As he started reluctantly down the passage, a whisper of noise made him spin. The wolfkin slipped through the heavy curtain. Arun curled his hand over the rough stone of the side passage, steadying himself from a spike of panic. Funny how seeing it was only a shape-changing monster came as something of a relief, and perhaps even more than that. “I should lead the way,” the wolfkin said. “You don’t know the way, wolfkin.” Secretly he was pleased not to be too obviously intimidated as he continued in the lead. Arun knew it was a long, wet, cramped and unpleasant passage, and although he had often made the traverse in the pitch blackness, that had been years before and he needed to keep his route firmly in mind. He led the way cautiously, praying fading memories would revive as he entered old, familiar passageways. “It’s Trae,” the wolfkin said, which must be his name. “Arun.” And presuming them to be properly introduced companions, he started worming his way through the narrow passageway. He hoped that he would fit now, let alone the hulking wolfkin. They had a long way to go.

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In the dark each sound was sharp and keen, and the sounds behind him were not those of a naked man, no matter how strangely formed, on his hands and knees. They were the sound of paws scratching and clawing their way. “Trae?” he paused and twisted. The name felt awkward on his tongue, too commonplace. There was nothing to see in the subterranean darkness and the impatient, guttural sound he received in reply was no human word. Gritting his teeth against welling panic, Arun continued to scramble through the dank passageways, rolling the cask ahead of him. He tried not to think too hard about what some four-footed fangsome creature could do to him if it turned out to be less friendly than he hoped. He had not come this way in a long time, and the passage had seemed wider then. He could hear Trae behind him struggling and fumbling through the tighter turns, apparently no smaller in this form than his human guise. Before the final, tight and steep section, Arun paused to rest a moment. There was a space, just wide enough that Trae in his beast form could clamber up beside him. He was so tangibly there, a creature in no way human. But Arun reached out and rested his fingers over Trae’s back, feeling the dense hair in layers over his neck and shoulders. Even in this shape, it was a reassurance to have him there. But what kind of liberties was he taking, stroking a man like he was a dog? “Almost there.” Arun scrambled upwards towards the sky. After a long traverse, Arun clambered with a relieved sigh into a broader chamber into which a little pallid moonlight descended. As soon as there was room, he maneuvered out of the way and turned. The large wolf struggled out into the cavern, looking up to the high gaping hole where the night sky showed. It was a steep climb to reach it, but small trees and vines grew in the rubble and provided something to take hold of. The wolfkin approached slowly. It had a broader head and longer, thicker coat than a normal wolf and wider shoulders topped by a great mane more like a lion’s. It crouched, changed in form as effortlessly as any creature doing what was within its nature. Then he was Trae again. His pale face and torso were bare, but vestiges of fur still trailed down his shoulders and

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spine, and long, dark hair spilled over his shoulders. He looked around, careful and alert, until it was clear they were alone in the cavern. “It’s easier to get about, on all fours,” Trae said dismissively. Arun set his burden by his feet and rubbed his abraded palms together. The stinging cuts there and bruises on his knees and elbows were just trivial additions to his growing catalogue of aches and pains. His clothes were limp, damp and muddied, and his whole world was falling apart. Trae moved beside him and placed an arm around him with presumptuous ease. He settled his cheek against the side of Arun’s head, breathing in through his nose in that long, scenting way he had. Trae’s body was warm, like he had just stepped away from a blazing fire. He seemed so effortlessly familiar, almost possessive of Arun. Whatever his reasons, his manner was reassuring and his touch beguiling. “Where should we go from here?” Trae asked. “Away. I promised my sister I would go to her, but it will only bring danger to her door. If I make some show of fleeing, maybe Jeryl will not think of involving her any further.” But he felt uneasy even as he spoke. What if that assumption was wrong? “It is usually wise to flee with as little show as possible,” Trae said with dark amusement. “That is, if you actually want to get away.” “You flee your way, and I’ll flee mine.” Arun broke away reluctantly. A great part of him wanted to turn into that embrace and…do whatever one was meant to do in a situation like that. His life thus far had not provided much experience of that type. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized they must go their separate ways. Now was as good a time to start as any. He couldn’t take the risk. He couldn’t leave Miri to face Jeryl’s wrath. Although it would bring danger to seek her out, it would bring even more to leave her behind. Arun threw himself at the grimy slope with the heavy cask under one arm, no longer quite sure why he was carrying it, but not ready to let it go. He began to climb upwards to the uncertain lunar light. Trae was soon behind him, matching his pace with almost condescending ease.

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“Well, as we are fleeing, we might as well do it together,” Trae said. “Who knows? You might like Shireen. She’s a beautiful city. I believe there is even a temple of the Divine Light to be found there, amongst the others. That’s the Fire Lord by another name.” Trae launched up and over the lip of the grassy earth and turned back to offer Arun a hand, lifting him and his burden easily. They stood looking each way, and saw nothing but trees and scrub. The dark bulk of the hill was now between them and the keep. “To the White Road, then,” Trae said firmly. Swayed for the moment by the confidence of his words, Arun followed him.

In the darkness under the trees, Arun stumbled. Trae pulled him along impatiently, his bearing tense and alert. The night seemed interminable. “Shouldn’t we have reached the road by now?” Arun ventured, knowing he must turn back, but wanting to see Trae safely on his way. “We are moving alongside it,” Trae replied. “We are too close to the town and might be too easily found on the open road. I can hear their horses’ hooves on the bare earth riding up and down, looking for us.” Arun stumbled again and sprawled on the ground, tears of exhaustion welling in his eyes. “You would go faster without me in your other form. Go on.” “And be warmer, too, but having come this far together we might as well continue.” Trae had a blithe way of talking. Obviously he was rather used to getting his way. It was as if he assumed they had come to some kind of understanding… When Trae reached for him, Arun flinched aside. He clutched the wet, ground and curled his fingers around a tangle of tree roots. “Go on without me,” he insisted. “I have to be captured if Miri is to be safe. Lord Jeryl must punish someone for his loss and lacking me, he will turn to others—my family or the temple. He has been seeking good cause for an argument with the Fire Temple and my actions will provide them if I am not able to give an accurate confession. I had to see you freed, but I cannot leave others to suffer for my actions.”

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Emily Veinglory

“We don’t have time for this,” Trae snapped, his tension finally showing in his voice. Even Arun could hear the breaking of branches as something approached them through the trees. “What do you care?” Arun hissed. “You can clearly go much faster on your own. So, go.” “I am not on my own, anymore. Not from the first moment I saw you—although it breaks my heart to know you would desert me so readily. Is it truly because you would sacrifice yourself for my safety and that of your family?” In the darkness, Trae’s eyes glinted as if the moon shone from his eyes rather than being reflected there. Arun felt his brow furrow as he struggled against the hook set in his heart. There was no time to talk, to set in order this confusion, but he felt drawn to Trae beyond all reason. It was a feeling too elemental and raw to be love as he had ever seen it, and he had never known it, himself. He could not say a word. Trae sighed and grabbed Arun bodily, lifting him off the ground but the strength behind his grasp was waning. Arun drove his knee up, pushing Trae’s larger frame away, so that they staggered at the edge of the small ravine. He needed to get away, to get Trae away from him. Even if it was love, true love would be more than enough reason to make the wolfkin go on without him—on to freedom, to live. The wolfkin’s best chance at survival was to leave him behind. Arun knew he needed only to strike out. Trae was strong enough not to be harmed by a short fall. Arun could run towards their pursuers and surrender himself, causing enough disturbance and confusion for the wolfkin to escape. Even as he kicked out, the flickering moon gave just enough light to show the look of alarm on Trae’s face as his balance tipped. A great weight struck Arun from behind, and he was also tumbling over the edge and sliding down the muddy slope and into the icy creek below. Dazed, doused and confused, Arun tumbled, splashed, rebounded and landed again in shockingly frigid water. Finally, he scrambled to his feet. He glimpsed Trae sprawled beside him and his only thought was to give the wolfkin time to escape. Turning to face their attacker and block them from Trae, he reached out hopelessly for any weapon and

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what came to his hand was fire. It flared suddenly about him, blinding even as it illuminated, and he knew not to fear it. Although he was barely able to think at all, he did accept that the fire was his, from inside of him. He wavered, knee deep in freezing water, feet slipping on a bed of unsteady, rounded stones, and he felt the flame rush over him, pooling in his hands and throwing harsh yellow light over a cluttered terrain of clay, rock and broken branches. The fire flickered, coalesced to surround his hands, held out from his body. Before him, skidding in pursuit of them, was a large wolf. It seemed ready to leap but faltered when a man’s voice called out hastily from above. “Umi, you might notice that the boy’s actually trying to protect your brother.” A bearded man stood poised at the top of the slope, bracing himself on a tree trunk. The wolf hunched and transformed into a muscular woman with gleaming yellow eyes. “Trae,” she called. “I saw him attack you.” Trae levered himself upright and waded to the bank of the stream towards her, water streaming from his skin and thick tufts of fur. “We were having a disagreement, sister dear. The priestling here was doing his best to sacrifice himself to allow me to get away from these sadistic damned lowlanders. Arun, please forgive me for suggesting that glowing like a torch is not a good tactical move, right now—impressive as it might be.” Arun’s chest heaved with labored, frightened breaths. He curled his fists and willed the flames to die—hardly knowing what summoned them in the first place, or whether they were under his control at all. But they barely flickered, just continued to wreathe themselves about his fingers, guttering over but never touching the skin. Finally he bent and dipped both hands in the river and the uncanny fire seemed to endure even that for a few moments before reluctantly going out. The two wolfkin embraced and Arun stood back as they assured each other of their good health. They were joined by the man. Umi introduced him to her brother matter-offactly as, “Rasht, my lover.” Arun’s feet were numbing to nonexistence when Umi turned to him suspiciously. “Do priests of the fire not feel the cold?”

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“I am not a priest. I was an acolyte.” Arun backed away towards the far side of the rugged creek. To Trae he added, “And I am returning to Jeryl’s court. You can presumably find your own way home from here, especially if I provide a distraction to the pursuit.” Stepping onto the bank, he stamped his feet. He was barely able to tell where they were. “You provide a distraction, I assure you, Arun,” Trae said quietly. “But I cannot allow you to go back to them. They’ll kill you.” “Would you not die for your sister, Trae? Miri and her husband are my only family. Do you think you have the right to insist I let them suffer for what I have done? Lord Jeryl said that if I failed him, I would not be the only one to regret it. I must go back to provide a focus for his wrath, or it will turn to others. Who knows? The temple might provide some defense for me, if such is warranted.” He stumbled away from them, disoriented and only guessing that he had chosen the right direction. Within a moment, Trae was beside him. “We’ll bring your family too,” Trae said. “Your sister and her man, you said they were your only kin so it can be easily done. I can see to it they have a life in Shireen better than what they have here. I can do that, Arun, and for you too if you will allow it.” Arun wavered, mistrusting hope when it was offered.

Umi took them to a hiding place, tucked under the drooping branches of a giant stand of pines. She parted the branches and urged them to rest. She had Arun describe where Miri’s cottage could be found. “You are much weakened, brother,” she said with alarm. “You have gone too long without blood properly given. And this priest of yours is fit to drop. We will go back for the girl and her mate and bring them here before the dawn. You muster what strength you can.” The look she gave Arun before she and Rasht left was coolly appraising—her yellow eyes more fearsome than Trae’s had ever been.

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Her human mate was a stout but strongly built man with a ruddy hair and beard. He gave a jovial smile and tossed him a heavy blanket roll before following after her. “You should be able to get a fire started without any help, at least.” “Be sure to ask my sister,” Arun insisted. “She has a life here…” He was more than a little worried about how Trae’s forceful sister would treat Miri. “If she also has a brain, she will understand,” Umi muttered as she followed Rasht. Trae’s weakness was showing. He had walked the last distance to this hiding place in wolf form, as if four legs made him steadier, but even so his head drooped and his eyes were slitted with the effort. It was like his great strength had burned through him and was close to guttering. Trae flopped down in his animal form, laying his head on the ground. Arun dithered, still unsure about this decision he was making—and not only for himself, it seemed. What on earth would Miri say when Umi and Rasht appeared at their door? Would they even cooperate? He took the blanket and draped it over his shoulders, and sat gingerly as near to Trae as he could without touching. He draped the blanket over Trae also. He had no desire to try and make flames, only greater fear kept him calm in the face of the appearance of that ability, rare even in priests. His hands tingled and ached with a slowgrowing pain that he tried to ignore. He lay down on the hard, musty needles, his back to Trae. With a sigh, the wolfkin eased closer to him and shifted slowly to his brawny human form, rolling so that his arm fell naturally, protectively over Arun. Trae’s hand smoothed across Arun’s shoulder, turning him to lie upon his back and leaning to tuck the meager blanket around them both. Arun lay, feeling the cold soil across his shoulders and back and observing dully as Trae reached up to touch Arun’s cheek and neck. Trae loosened the laces of Arun’s shirt, pulling the cloth back to reveal his chest. The wolfkin was always so warm, his skin like a hearthstone, his fingertips, wandering embers. Leaning forward, Trae laid his tongue on the raw bite marks that pocked Arun’s skin. The wet, cautious touch tugged at the small

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wounds, moving with care to clean and explore each puncture. Sensation started to build and Arun shuddered. The wolfkin pulled back, watching him mournfully. “I forget of course, how you must see me. And although I think that it was some unwholesome spell that made me use you so hastily, it is not the sum of what I felt then, or feel now. Nor, perhaps, how you would feel about me, with time. I would know…but not if you do not choose yet to tell me. And for my part, I am sorry for the hurt I caused you. To take the blood, it is not normally… It is an important thing for us—done properly and only with very…specific people. People we search for, sometimes for years. But even now, I take without asking. The greatest wrong my people know.” Arun felt a cold panic as Trae drew back from him. Arun reached out, hands tangling in the coarse hair that trailed down the wolfkin’s back. “I should never have agreed to lure you in. I knew the spell was black. I should have insisted on going to the temple for guidance first. I didn’t know what was really happening, and with no reason to assume…but I did not know. I didn’t really know what your kind were, and I suppose I don’t know much better, now. And I don’t know why you do so much for me. I don’t begrudge you the few drops of blood I lost. I don’t begrudge more if you need it.” But he knew his voice still betrayed some fear. Trae settled down carefully, leaning over Arun with their bodies pressed together. “We go traveling. The wolf-kind—when we feel lonely and can find no one nearby who answers the need within us. We go searching and fate finds a way to place before us what we seek. The spell made me unable to resist your body, but I still feel it—in a fuller sense—that you answer the question in my heart. I only pray you’ll feel the same for me, in time. Because taking the blood is more than one needing and one not minding, Arun. Much more.” Arun pressed his cheek against Trae’s warm chest, his arms encircling the wolfkin’s muscular body, tracing the subtle peculiarities of his form so close to that of a man, but not quite… Reaching up, he touched the side of Trae’s face. His high cheeks and straight brow, the hair sweeping back from it dense and multicolored, only gray from a distance.

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“Please, what little I can do for you, I owe. But for myself, I only ever wanted to be a priest,” he said softly. “And you think you are not?” “I know I’m not.” “You called fire from the air, golden fire. Isn’t that this Fire God’s power?” “I also called a wolfkin from the swamp and beguiled him against his will. I do not believe that was with the Fire Lord’s blessing.” “That wasn’t you though, was it? It was the work of a witch, revenant witch by the feel of it which…” “It’s in me now, I can feel it. Dark powers, things men shouldn’t know or seek to do. Magics. I am afraid. I don’t even know what I know, now. I don’t know what is true and what is just something I have been told. I’ve never called fire before and only the priest, should, can…” Arun stumbled into silence. Trae held him close, easing his arm under Arun’s head and planting a kiss upon his cheek and lightly on his mouth. “Trust yourself, Arun. You have a true heart. I am sure of it.” Trae’s naked body curled next to his, Arun’s hands settled almost of their own will against Trae’s suede-soft skin. “You are so cold,” Trae said with concern, easing his thigh over Arun’s body and pulling him in close. Arun reached up over Trae’s bare chest and smoothed down the mane of hair that ran along his spine. The slight strangeness of Trae’s form didn’t scare him, anymore. Trae seemed complete, seemed right, in himself, true. They kissed again, more deeply. Trae, with a stifled growl, pushed up Arun’s shirt and pulled it over his head. In Arun’s gut something dark moved sluggishly like a snake warming in the sun— but he ignored it, clinging to the yearning inside him. If he become even less worthy, he wanted love all the more. He yearned for someone who cared for him, for himself. The shelter of love, not the cold comfort of his former calling. Even if he felt nothing himself,

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he would feel the urge to cling to the vehemence of Trae’s emotions for him. Was it love? He hadn’t quite said as much. And was he deserving of it, anymore? “Trae, I…” He wanted to say that he was afraid, that the amulet had tainted him, and its power still lurked within, waiting to strike. But try as he might, the words faltered and nothing but a strangled, irritated sigh escaped. His body responded with a surge of warmth and passion. “You need only ever to tell me ‘no’,” Trae said. “Ever.” Trae’s broad tongue stroked Arun’s skin, moving down the center of his chest slowly, exploring the sparse hair. He pinned Arun gently down with his broad hands. Any sensible consideration floated out of Arun’s head, any thought of “no”. His skin ached and sparked, the pleasure almost hurt. He reached out, half-hesitant, feeling the hard lines of Trae’s shoulders shifting as he bent. Trae drew down Arun’s leggings, easing down his body—holding the blanket up over his head. At first Arun did not even know what he was intending to do. He tried to draw Trae back up to him, embarrassed to have his own arousal so exposed. He felt Trae’s wet, warm mouth slide down over his cock. Embarrassment warred with lust as he squirmed, Trae’s hand pressing lightly on his stomach. Under that firm grip, he let go and lay back. Wet, hard lips stroked up and down him with lazy ease, drawing him up hard and tight. He reached up, curling his fingers over Trae’s hand. He couldn’t withstand the intense, unfamiliar touch for long and came with a gasp. And with this release he felt a sensation like drawing in a breath of air, frigid enough to make his throat ache. Trae crawled up to lie, almost collapsed, beside him. The heat of his skin seemed to wane. Laying his heavy head against Arun’s shoulder, he whispered, “Umi’s right, I must be more worn out than I realized.” Arun felt the dark presence inside him wriggle and recede, sated for now. He felt anything but tired, staring up into the underside of the sweeping pine branches. Trae shifted against him and soon seemed to be asleep, but Arun lay still. He could feel a hungry presence inside him, growing. Had the witch put it inside him, or only planted the

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seed? He wanted to shake Trae awake and spill out all his fears, but he lay still and cold. Was it cowardice that pressed him down, or something even worse?

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Chapter Four They’d been almost a week in traveling, mostly by night, and were drawing near to Shireen, the city the wolfkin spoke so fondly of. Everything, or so they assured Arun, had turned out for the best. The world looked wide open, and his sister and her husband proved eager for the new opportunities it offered. Arun could see it, a glimpse of it, but it seemed to be held just out of his reach. He had remained silent, and now he knew it was not by his choice. “Well, I never did find those chickens, so there was nothing to keep me there,” Miri said cheerfully. Umi’s Rasht and Berton walked side by side ahead of them, chatting about farming, about the livestock and game that could be found around Shireen. They seemed so at ease with the sudden change, leaving it all behind. Arun felt as if he was watching his own life from a distance again. He couldn’t discover any particular response inside his own heart—not excitement, not even fear, nothing. It was like a long, dark dream. He knew what he wanted to feel, what he should feel, but all the time he was just…empty. Trae and Umi followed behind. In their four-footed forms, they barely sauntered but still kept pace. Sometimes one or both would slip off the path, ranging behind and ahead to ensure the way was safe. In the darkness the group met few others traveling the road so unseasonally. “They say there is a Fire Temple in Shireen,” Miri added with a sidelong glance. Arun merely nodded. There didn’t seem to be many words in him now; his busy, futile thoughts crowded them out. Umi and Trae were creatures of shadow, there was no doubt. They traveled at night, not just from stealth, but because the light of day made them uncomfortable. It was not a bane to them, like with Jeryl’s veiled witch, but it was not their element. They walked the night as protector, and guides.

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They were also obviously good and kind people who could bear that darkness without corruption. Umi and Rasht, so easy in their love, made the newlyweds good companions. Miri and Berton went on to a new life with overt enthusiasm and joy— Jeryl’s oppressive realm had suited neither of them. And Trae was always there, always so solicitous, but without pressing. It was as if he was waiting with supreme confidence for Arun to come to him. He had such faith that they were meant to be together, but all the time Arun felt himself drifting further and further away. Arun was cold, so far from the god he had yearned for all his life—the golden youth, the Fire, the Sun. He felt almost better sleeping through the day and escaping the Fire God’s regard. Some good souls might live in shadow and be uncorrupted, he did believe that now, but Arun no longer felt he had such a soul. The darkness had touched him deep inside. He was rotting and broken, more so with every passing night. Rasht dropped back to slot in between Arun and Miri. He had under his arm the legacy keg. He tapped it. “So what is this thing you dragged along so far?” he asked Arun. “It’s nothing, you need not bring it.” “It must have been something.” Arun shrugged. “Seeds.” Miri piped up. “Arun grows things, herbs, fruits. He can make anything grow.” “So what kind of seeds are these?” Arun didn’t want to speak, but had no desire to be rude, either. “Over five score different kinds: medicinals largely, but also vegetables and fruits. I should not have taken it. It is not mine. I just felt like I was leaving everything behind. I needed something.” They seemed to ignore his objections. “Umi tells me that Trae has good land above the city,” Rasht said. “I bet there’s herbs in here from the lowlands that people would want grown, useful herbs we don’t know about. There is a healing house in the Shireen, you know, and people come from wide around.” The two wolfkin padded up the road to rejoin them, transforming as they did to their near-human forms, always unconcerned by nakedness and seemingly indifferent to the

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cold. Arun’s eyes skated aside from Trae’s unconscious grace, a glimpse of his sculpted muscles. That was the only kind of feeling he still had, lust for the wolfkin. Sometimes it was a comfort to feel something, sometimes a bane and a torment. He did not doubt Trae. He did doubt himself and the harm he might do if the darkness came out. “Come cheer up your boy,” Rasht called to Trae. “Given that we brought his only kin along, I must assume that he is wasting away for the lack of a temple.” Berton laughed at that, pulling Miri close. “Don’t frown, Arun,” he said with blithe assurance. “You go to that temple and I think you’ll find that the gods choose the ones that are meant for them, no matter what else might happen at the beck of mere men. Did you know that in Shireen they do not make the acolytes live chaste? And the god still seems satisfied with them. You’ll find a place there. You’ll see.” To Trae he added, “Get him to sleep out where the sun can reach him, then he’ll come right. They need the sunlight, these priests, you know.” They laughed, knowing that Arun and Trae spent each night tight together and Trae needed to stay in the dark. Trae, it seemed, had not told them that the comfort they gave each since that first night in the forest had become chaste. It was probably not fair to lead Trae on and now refuse him, but his touch was the only solace Arun truly felt. Trae would protect him, if he could—Arun knew that. He needed Trae’s touch even as he feared what his passion might release. The whole rest of the world grew more dim and gray with every step, leavened only by the desire to couple with Trae. It burned in him in contrast—hungry and grasping, hotter each day. He dared not do it. The thing, the thing from the amulet, it hungered for Trae. Arun feared it would devour the very source of Trae’s life if they were ever intimate again. It rankled Arun that his companions found his moods such a source of jest. If only he could find some way to let them know of the thing that lurked inside him. It sat ripe, deep, waiting—but at the very thought of it his tongue felt heavy and beyond his control. It would not let him speak.

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They straggled into town a few days later, exciting much exclamation and assistance. The people of Shireen seemed to be of every conceivable type, every shade, color and shape—and a good deal more of them than Arun had ever imagined. Arun tried not to show his alarm as Miri laughed and exclaimed excitedly at a woman who wore feathers instead of hair, or a man so large he towered over the crowd. Trae and Umi had many friends who swept them into a large pale stone house, cleaning and bearing in food and starting an impromptu party to mark their return and welcoming Rasht as Umi’s new mate. There was some awkwardness and expectation, many questioning eyes pried at Arun, but Trae introduced him only as a guest, a friend, one of those who helped him out of some difficulties on the lowlands. The very mention of that region seemed to cause muttering and shaking heads. The backward lowlands where many kinds of kin or believer would be struck down on sight. Neither Miri nor Berton seemed to mind, nor was Arun sure why he did. Loyalty ran deep, perhaps. Arun’s tongue seemed to grow heavier with every day; he could not even mutter polite replies to the many warm welcomes and enquiries he received. The strangers seemed grotesque and unfamiliar, and only Trae’s warm presence gave him any strength. “He’s a little shy,” Umi excused, drawing Arun aside. Arun did not want to go but had no reasonable basis for refusal. She took him down a quiet passage to a room where a sleeping pallet lay ready. A window overlooked a hillside where tall grasses blew in the wind. Farther off, other houses dotted down the side of a valley where towers and temples jumbled together, lit erratically by a thousand different lamps and fires. “Collect yourself,” she said. “Join us again when you feel able. But don’t think I cannot see your disdain. You cannot help but show it when you look at this place, our friends and family, and I have seen it flicker in your eyes when you look at me, and when you look at my brother. You have left behind the lowlands and their closed-hearted, easy-hating ways. And if you cannot banish these feelings from yourself, at least spare Trae your halfhearted acceptance. He deserves more than that. If you cannot give him love, then cast

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him off and be done with it. Your sister is welcome here because she embraces us. I will not say the same for you.” She walked out, closing the door firmly and leaving Arun alone. So she was not fooled by their chaste embraces after all. No doubt Trae had been confiding in her. But she was drawing the wrong conclusions from Arun’s reticence. He stood and stared at the closed door. Umi had seemed to be so considerate, so accepting of him, and Miri and Berton. But she understood more than he had realized. Her prime concern, of course, was Trae—her own kin. Arun sat on the bed, resting his head in his hands. It was true though, wasn’t it? Trae was looking for more, for love, and Arun could not dare to give it—or at least express it physically. Lust could easily be death for the wolfkin. It had been growing in Arun from the moment Jeryl’s dark amulet had touched his skin. Intended to strengthen over only a few hours or days, it had now been marshaling its strength for weeks. It was just waiting to come out. It moved inside him like an eel deep in a muddy river. And somehow he knew that opening his heart to Trae would let it loose. He’d tried to speak of it, but his tongue and lips would not form the words, as if the dark power itself controlled them. Laughter and music filtered through from other parts of the house, welcoming his sister and her husband, trying to welcome him, ungracious as he was. He would have gone to join them, if he could. Instead he prayed that Umi would find a way to do what he could not, and cast him out. If he only had the strength, he’d do it himself.

To one side of the field below the house, there was an outcropping of crumbling beige rock. Sitting atop it Arun could see down into the valley in which the greater part of the city nestled. It was midmorning and smoke rose from the town along with smatterings of every kind of sound upon the wind. He had avoided the party, protesting weariness and insisting Trae reacquaint himself with those happy folk who had so obviously missed him and his sister. He slipped out of the house with dawn. He sat with his knees drawn up and felt the sunlight stream down

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upon him. It seemed to make the darkness in him shrink down, a heavy lump in his stomach. Could he banish it entirely in the temple that must be somewhere down in the town? His legs felt a dead weight even at the thought. It would never let him go there, this was the limit of its leash. Its evil influence was no doubt bolstered by his own cowardice. He had entered willingly into black magic. He had lured, trapped and almost killed a good man. What good would it do to despoil the Fire God’s temple with such obvious and deliberate sins? It was probably better that he stayed away. If he was given this darkness to carry, it was his penance. The Fire God could surely lift it from him as easily here as before an altar, if he so chose. A soft step behind him proved to be Trae, standing in the shade of the treeline, and then stepping forth. Arun winced, knowing how the bright light would be bothering the wolfkin as he climbed up onto the baking rock. “Trae, don’t.” He stood, but Trae caught him, strong hands on his shoulders. “You walked in the darkness for me.” “I bring my darkness with me. You need to stop… You just need to stop. I can’t give you what you need. I don’t have that answer you keep talking about. You should go look for it somewhere else.” He pulled away and clambered back down into the shade of the trees that surrounded the house. Trae followed after him lightly. “And what is this darkness of yours? Tell me.” “It’s…” It felt like being winded, the very air in his lungs to say the word, sucked out. It was stronger than him, so very much stronger than him. It had seemed so easy to be pious, within the stone walls of a great temple, but now he knew he’d never had the true virtues of a priest like Lanner. He couldn’t beat the dark serpent in him, and turning to Trae, he knew he couldn’t resist the wolfkin either, if he stayed. It was a confluence of evil too strong to stop for all that he struggled to slow it down. Trae reached out for him, strong arms encircled him. Arun could not resist the kiss, deep and wet. Trae’s tongue explored his mouth, his hard body pressed against him.

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Every fiber of his being wanted to open, surrender, welcome his body and his love. In panic he leapt back, the dried leaves around sparked and smoldered. Arun backed against the trunk of the gnarled old tree. Trae regarded him, hands raised up and eyes wounded. “I know you were taught a lot of things. The Fire Temple in the lowlands has a doctrine different from in other places, less forgiving. But I know you are not that sort of man, Arun.” Arun closed his eyes. Let me go, Trae. Let me go. He knew the thing inside him would not let him warn Trae, or seek help or healing. It would just sit inside him, waiting for the moment he finally surrendered to his own selfish passions. He found a faint burst of strength to speak. “I have to go. I cannot be what you need. It is not fair that I…” “Would you leave your sister, leaving her not even knowing where you are, or if you are well? After all this?” Trae reached for him tentatively, but Arun shrank away. The handsome wolfkin called to him so deeply his control hung by a thread despite the death that lurked inside him. Finally Trae drew back. “Arun, you did save me, you are a welcome guest in my house, always. I will never ask of you more than you choose to give.” He stood there a long time, as if waiting, but Arun’s useless tongue lay dead in his mouth. Trae turned and retreated back towards the house, and Arun did not follow. All this waiting, waiting for Arun. Better to wait than hurry the fate that was coming.

Strange as it might seem, the household became used to Arun’s cold ways, like a healthy body growing around some imbedded splinter. Each time he tried to leave, his body simply brought him back. But the dark thing did not drive him straight into Trae’s arms. It seemed he had to do that for himself—it merely pinned him in place, waiting for his weakest moment. Waiting to strike. Miri and Berton threw themselves into the life of the community and soon they were indistinguishable from folk who had lived there all their lives. Miri’s clever needle found

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plenty of work. Berton never wanted for employment on the arable land that surrounded the town. Umi and Rasht took to trade, which it seemed was their normal lot, peddling wares that passed along the Red Road that ran to the plains of the horsemen on one side and all the way to the sea in the other. For the most part, Trae cast his lot with them. He sallied out to ensure goods arrived safely along the perilous stretch of road through the mountains. He guided and guarded, and was well thought of by all. Good to his word, he did not so much as touch Arun, although whenever he was in the house his gaze was never far away. They all seemed to tolerate Arun’s dour ways, only Umi occasionally making her displeasure known. Or Miri voiced her concern that weight seemed to be slipping from his body. Food had no flavor and nobody could see the invisible prison around him. Lacking a better occupation, Arun began to plant a garden just to fill his empty hours and buy some solitude. The soil was good, the weather mild, and although there were some failures, he soon coaxed life out of the tiny seeds. It also gave him a place to hide away, although he knew in solitude his condition was worsening. Loneliness was a rich soil for evil. Sometime the blackness in him made his skin feel so tight he had to take the edge of a nail and run it, scratching up and down his skin until he saw a trickle of blood. With that, the anguish lessened for a while. Spurred on by the rumors, some of the healers from the town came to enquire about his plants, and some found them most useful and became regular visitors. Although they seemed to mark something wrong in his look and manner, he did not—could not—ask for their healing and they did not press it on him. Very polite, these people of Shireen. So it was that, some months after first arriving in town, he was bent over the dark mountain soil, teasing the robust weeds out from amidst some tender stripeflower seedlings. The garden was venturing out from the base of the tawny rocks. Two men approached from the house. One was Raimy, a senior healer that he saw often, and by his side an unfamiliar man—tall and garbed in temple yellow.

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Arun looked down at the ground, focusing on his trembling fingers as he weeded down the row. It gave him a small glimpse of pleasure to tend to the fragile herbs and urge them towards life, even if he could not follow. Raimy looked rather like a younger, friendlier version of Lanner. “Ho there,” he called out. “That bunnyweed is just the diuretic you said. But in a tisane it tastes so bitter the patients don’t like to take it.” “You’re just boiling it a little too long,” Arun said without looking up. “Simmer, Raimy, not boil.” “Well, I leave that to my colleague Prem, and I don’t believe she understands subtly beyond cold and boiled-to-glue.” Raimy laughed. “This is my good friend Kandar from the Fire Temple. He was curious to see the garden.” Arun stood and stepped back, wiping his hands on a makeshift apron tied about his waist. “There isn’t much to see, as yet.” “Raimy misstates a little in the name of diplomacy,” Kandar said. “He mentioned that you had been an acolyte. And I was curious that you had not visited the temple as yet. You would be most welcome, and there is the High-Pass tomorrow. I am told the ritual, as we perform it, is quite similar to the lowland traditions.” I’d like to go. But of course it wouldn’t let him say anything. If anything, the dark thing was growing more controlling with every passing day. Try as he might to make some suitable response, his tongue lay lax. He looked up at the Fire Priest and tried to urge with his eyes. Do you not see it? The evil in me, controlling me? You, of all people? But only when he gave up on that topic entirely could he speak. “I have some hope that the breemfruit will germinate this time. I, um, put them in the lee of this outcropping. The fruit is a marvelous soporific, but I am not sure it will ripen at this height. It is too cold.” He turned away, leaving both men standing awkwardly. The priest, perhaps, with a frown that suggested more than simple affront. Did he dare to hope?

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Miri called down from the house. “Come up for tea, Master Raimy, and your friend. And you too, Arun, you can’t spend every waking moment in the dirt or you’ll take root yourself.” As they went inside, the main parlor was warm. A fire crackled in the central hearth. Trae had come home some time during the night. He sat by the window with the shutter pushed ajar. He had obviously been watching the garden. His welcoming smile was almost painfully tentative. Arun had heard that Trae had been sporting with another wolfkin out on the road. As much as it hurt him, he hoped something would come of it. Even if he was left tainted forever, if Trae lost interest, the peril might just pass. Having wanted to be loved, so long, now he hoped to lose this treasure. Miri showed the new silks she had bought to make a gown for one of her regular clients. There was the scent of a conspiracy in the air. “Perhaps you should come down to the healing house and have a word with Prem for me.” Raimy cupped the warm bowl Miri passed to him. “You know how hopeless I am about being firm.” Sure of course. “I don’t think so.” Arun felt a cold panic. The dark thing had always been able to stop him going to places, stop him from saying things, but this is the first time it spoke for him—making the words it wanted come out of his mouth. If it went past imprisoning him to ruling him, nothing would be left but to watch as it spread its poison amongst these people unawares. Kandar broke the awkward silence. “It must have been something of an adjustment coming to Shireen. Even the food must taste rather different. The High-Pass ceremony would be something familiar for you. A way to reconnect with our god, who is as present here as anywhere, even now.” Arun felt pressure building up inside his head. He felt the urge to laugh but bit down against it. “We should light a lantern for our parents,” Miri said softly. She passed a bowl to him, the white glazed one that he preferred. Of course she would have noticed that, even though they never spoke of it.

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“Of course. We’ll all go,” Trae added. The darkness wanted to object, to insult, to drive them off—but now alert to its newbudding powers, Arun clenched his jaw shut and pushed it down with all his might. It squirmed and struggled within him. With a loud crack, the bowl in his hands broke and shattered outwards. Scalding water sprayed from it, drenching his hands and splattering across the room. With a wordless exclamation, Trae was by his side, grasping and examining his hands, which were splashed with deepening pink burns. Trae seized him and, with a scooping arm around his waist, carried him bodily out the door to the rain bucket. He grasped Arun’s wrists to plunge them into the water. The others followed after them. He could hear Raimy muttering to Miri. “How hot was that tea? I saw it bubbling.” “The same as yours, I swear. Not much more than tepid.” “It’s all right.” Arun tried to pull back but Trae would not release him. “No, Trae is right. You keep them in that water or the scald will be worse.” Raimy peered into the bucket, then plunged his hand in and ran his finger over the blisters rising on the sides of Arun’s wrists and hands. Looking up, Arun saw the priest, Kandar, standing a little farther back with a look of deep concern on his face. Was there finally hope that someone would see, someone would know—someone, please—would be strong enough to act when he could not? Raimy rolled back Arun’s loose sleeves while Trae’s grip on his wrists held him fast. The pale scars and scratches were exposed, arching across the inner skin of his forearm. Trae’s grip slackened and Arun pulled back. He stood tense, clutching his arms close to his body and pulling his sleeves down. There was no outcry, demands or argument. All eyes went to Kandar, and they went inside leaving Kandar and Arun alone. “You need to come to the temple, Arun,” Kandar said with unexpected gentleness. “Power turned from its proper channel becomes an illness, or spills out and endangers others. You have the Fire God’s life in you, but you have gone so far from him that it runs wild in you and endangers both you and all those around you. You need to be at the

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High-Pass and you need to go before the altar and ask him what he wishes you to do. He has not been able to fully choose you, and to be half-blessed is close to being damned.” Kandar reached out, resting his palm on Arun’s shoulder. The darkness settled down sullenly inside him as if retreating from that touch and for the barest instant he felt… “I need you to come here and take me, can you do…can you…” “Of course, tomorrow evening. I will be here. And then we can go to the temple.” “But it is not—the time.” “I think he will make time for you, if there is cause.” As soon as Kandar raised his hand, Arun was seized with the uncontrollable urge to flee. He backed away through the trees and turned to retreat to his garden. Kandar let him go. Arun’s control of his body was slipping further from him. In the sanctuary of his garden, he watched helplessly as his own foot ground down over the stripeflower seedlings, crushing them into the soil. He raised his foot to annihilate the remaining tender, peeking leaves but managed to pull back with a gasp. He leaned against the cold stone, panting as if exhausted, just from fighting within himself. No, not him, it was not. Nor was it the god’s power in him, but something else. And going to the temple, if he truly was tainted, might be the last thing he did—for the Fire God would not tolerate a shadow in his holy place, and he felt like there was nothing in him but the shadow now. He ran his own fingernail along his wrist and up his arm, digging it in and focusing on the pain. A thin film of blood smeared under his finger. He tried to imagine the darkness leaking out of him with the blood. He closed his eyes, feeling the wet trickle wend down towards his elbow, a moment’s relief. Just one more night and day to endure—just last that long, by any means. He prayed Trae would be patient just that little bit longer… But then Trae’s intangible heat brushed across his face, his gentle hands seizing Arun’s and pressing them back against the stone. They just stood that way awhile, together but with Arun struggling to pretend he was still alone. Trae’s broad body was before him, and brushed close with every breath. Arun feared he could not be strong, not

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even one more day. He laid his cheek against Trae’s muscular chest, feeling the fine fabric of Trae’s skin shift over his chest. The wolfkin raised Arun’s arm, rolling back the sleeve to show pale skin smeared with blood. His tongue dipped over the ragged scratch, caressing it clean and closed. Trae kissed him, the taste of blood still acrid on his mouth. The blackness boiled within Arun and he clung tight to Trae, fighting it with the whole of his will. But preoccupied with his inner battle, he felt his body following its own desires. His hands smoothed up over Trae’s shoulders. Trae pressed him back against the stone outcropping. “You are too thin, Arun,” he whispered. “I am ‘too’ many things, Trae.” “Too hard to reach, for sure. No, I promised, I know, but I see you watching me, and I don’t understand what holds you back—what so oppresses you.” That damned silence curled and curdled through him. Arun hissed his irritation, torn all directions. One more day, Trae. One more day and you will have your answers. You’ll be safe from me. But he held on tight and he no longer knew if it was him that wanted to do it, or the darkness. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Was there ever a difference? Or had this thing really just come from inside him and everything else was just an excuse? He felt useless tears welling in his eyes and shudders down his body. Trae still held him, so patient and with so little cause. “Why don’t you tell me, Arun?” he said with a sigh. “I met a perplexed but basically sensible young man some few months ago, and I’ve only caught glimpses of him since. Perhaps you could tell me where he went?” It was with no great hope that Arun tried to speak, but to his amazement the word came out. “Tomorrow,” he said.

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Chapter Five And having accepted so many unreasonable demands, it seemed Trae would accept one more. He stayed about the house, looking into Arun’s room throughout the night. His footsteps could be heard pacing and patrolling the house. Arun had fallen back to being awake in the day for ease and avoidance of that which tempted him most. He lay on his bed, knees drawn up and waited, praying to endure, and unable to sleep. There was no point begging the Fire Lord for a particular outcome. A god would do what he would do and no prayer could make a man more or less deserving. His mind felt empty and open, and thoughts moved through it like breezes over a dark pond. Beneath the surface of the water the darkness crouched, sullen and still. Kandar was his last hope: a priest who glimpsed if not the nature of the problem, at least its existence. The dawning of daylight seemed a change of no importance, light and dark blurred together now. Arun just waited. Miri came and sat by him awhile, but did not even bother to ask for explanations. Umi paused by the door and snorted. Then it was Trae again, stooping to rest a hand upon his shoulder for a moment—hands always so warm, so warm. How could a creature of darkness burn with such fire—or was it Arun who had grown so cold? A whole day passed with barely any acknowledgement until he was again lying in the darkness, his listless eyes settled upon a shadow that seemed to move. He wondered for a while if it was a cobweb wafting in the breeze from the window. Then in a flash he saw it was the veil of the witch. She was seated in her native darkness by the side of his bed. Her bare hands, pale as a corpse’s, reached up and drew back her veil. The moonlight picked out the planes of her face like a luminous mask as she turned to him. “You vex me, Arun,” she said. “I told you that if you did not fight, it would be easier.” She reached over and laid one hand on his arm, skin to skin. The darkness stirred www.samhainpublishing.com

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in him, energized and vibrating. “When you accept the darkness, you become the darkness.” “And if I reject your darkness?” “It is mine, and it is yours. It is the darkness of our lineage. You are my son, and it is your destiny to be claimed by this power. It was always in you. I only awoke it.” Arun’s weary indifference gave way. “Your son, madam? I hardly think so.” He drew back in distaste. “Don’t call out,” she said with a smirk. “It would cause me no great difficulty to destroy everyone else in this house, but the disturbance would be an inconvenience.” “If you persist in this game, you must claim Miri as your child, also. Would you hurt her?” The witch shrugged and leaned back in the wooden chair which creaked and shifted. “That ridiculous girl, she had no potential for the art. It was her that forced me to go through the indignity of pregnancy a second time. Leaving me a male heir of all things. But I wasn’t going through all that again, just to get a girl. I have no tender feelings for her, and few enough for you. Our lineage demands continuance, and so I gave it you.” “Our parents were farmers, who died of the fever…” “And no matter who you asked, no one could tell you more than that about them, and they didn’t like you asking, did they? You were, as far as they knew, both just foundlings.” The witch laughed. “While in truth your mother is a witch and your father is a lord, an old man questing after immortality. You’re the only immortality he’ll ever have, and maybe it is better this way. Because a male child can be my heir, and his—he’ll even acknowledge you, if I ask it of him. He can deny me nothing, although he’s still clever enough that I need to trick him a little to get my way. Can you credit that he thinks a werewolf can be made, by a bite or a curse? Superstitious fool. You’d think he’d have learned something from sharing a bed with me these many years.” She leaned towards him. “You will be lord of the lowlands, you will be a master of the dark arts, and you will be a continuation of my power and surety of my comforts. The only choice you have is how hard you struggle against the inevitable.”

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Arun felt a flash, a realization. “I’ll go with you, if we leave now and no one is harmed.” For the darkness, surely, would let him be if he left with her. His mind skated away from contemplating if anything she said was true. “Oh, no, no,” she chided with a smile. “I put the quickening in you. It was only you who bound it with rules. This thing with the man-wolf was just a ruse, so Jeryl would not suspect that I was angling to replace him. I care nothing for that creature, but you have used him as a shield. You used him and your feelings for him as a way to stop the duskling, to keep the power a part of mine, rather than making it a part of you. It will take you eventually, Arun. Why struggle? All that does is weaken you. It will change you more when it takes you. It will make you more like me, because you fight it.” Her mocking smile endured, so he could hardly tell if she spoke in earnest. Arun pushed himself up against the wall. The witch sat watching him and he heard no sound but the hammering of his own heart. “I don’t understand, so I let Trae go—I give him up…” “No, you don’t understand, at all. What you have to do is not give him up. You must take him. Lie with the man-wolf and the duskling will kill him. Then it will be strong enough to consume and turn you. I do not have the patience to watch you struggle any longer. You weaken yourself and the duskling. I will not tolerate it any longer.” She stood with a swish of layered skirts. The thing inside him that she called the duskling rose up like a tide. But a sound outside the door, an unmistakable footfall, made her turn—and within a moment she had faded in a wash of mist. With a chill breeze, she was gone. The door opened and Trae stood there. “Kandar has called for you. He wishes to speak with you in the temple before the ceremony.” The priest stood just behind Trae, and stepped into the room. His gaze traveled around the room as if he was surprised to find it empty. Arun found himself frozen in place. But Kandar took the lead, he reached out for Arun. At his touch, the paralysis melted away.

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Trae put Arun’s old cloak about his shoulders. “There is something going on here, isn’t there?” he asked. “The others say I am making excuses, that I need just to accept, but…” “Something, yes,” Kandar said. “But it may as easily be what this young man wants, as it is something that plagues him.” They both spoke as if Arun were not present, and he began to feel almost as if that was apt. He watched through his eyes, but increasingly more as a passenger than the master of his body. They were going to the temple now, and somehow he doubted that he would be coming back. His body felt thin and light, but even so, most of what remained was the duskling, not himself. If that was burned away, he doubted enough would remain to sustain life. “I will go with you,” Trae said. “As far as the temple door. I know it is not my place within, but I can feel something dangerous in the air, and don’t like to think of you walking the dark streets alone.” Kandar did not argue the point. He placed his arm around Arun’s back and guided him out of the house which seemed still. Where was Umi who was always awake through the night? Shireen was a busy town and Trae’s misgivings seemed misplaced as they wended though the streets. The duskling writhed deep within him, sending sharp pains through his legs and stomach which Arun struggled to hide. It took a long time to make their way through the narrow streets down into the valley, and in the midst of that valley, a rocky hill rose part way up. Upon its highest point, the yellow-brick temple sat, smug and square. They did not approach its most regal aspect where a large beaten-gold door sat locked until dawn, but through a small gate that Kandar opened with a key that dangled from his belt. Trae stopped there, turning Arun towards him. “Even if I am going to lose you to this god of yours, Arun, go where you are meant to be. I want nothing more than you to be well and happy. There was a bond between us, and there is still a little of it left. I have never really understood what ails you, and I fear I have not tried hard enough, but I know it is no small thing. I should have done more but I did not know how. Do what you must,

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Arun. And know that all I have to give you is my understanding, and my acceptance of whatever choice you make.” Arun could not speak or meet his gaze. How did Trae continue to think so kindly of the indifferent brute he had become? With a burst of will that burned out fast, he managed to look up into Trae’s eyes. Arun’s hand reached out instinctively for the bricks of the outer enclosure, rough and somehow familiar—although he saw at closer inspection that they were not real sunstone but some other rock, white washed and painted over. “You have nothing to regret,” Arun said. “Remember that.” He turned away, hearing Kandar mutter some hurried promise before the gate clanked harshly closed behind him.

The pain was stronger now, clenched teeth barely contained a moan and his feet trembled as he shuffled towards the temple. How had he thought that leaving with the witch was any solution? Once she had power over him, once he had power over others, he might do many evil things. Better to end it, here. Kandar was beside him, again. “Arun, you are ill, I should…” Arun shook his head, pushing insistently on. The pain was his salvation. It was the first sign that something, anything, could fight this dark power inside him. Reconciled that he would not outlive that monster, he resolved to see it gone. A small side door opened to an arched hallway with a stairway spiraling up to one side. Just looking down that hallway caused flashing abhorrence that almost blinded him. So that was where he had to go. Kandar simply followed behind him as he shuffled down the hall to a simple wooden side door. He stood before it. “It is the testing room,” Kandar said. “And some are surely tested more than others. But before admitting you, I must know that you truly wish to enter. For the testing can be very harrowing. The testing passes in moments, but most acolytes prepare for many years…”

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It seemed that Kandar began to glimpse what he was dealing with. Arun turned to him, emboldened by the nearness of his salvation. “I have been preparing for this all my life.” And the door was opened.

After the door closed gently behind him, Arun was left in perfect darkness. He could feel a wood plank floor beneath the thin soles of his boots, but could not even tell how much space was around him. In the distance, much too far away to be encompassed even by the whole temple, a tiny light kindled. It moved towards him very slowly, across the immense distance, and this single mote of light cast no luminance on anything else in the darkness. After some immeasurable time, the swaying light resolved into a single candle, held in a slatted lantern at the top of a pole like a tall walking stick. It was held by… Dark clothes were barely discernable upon the body of the witch. Arun shook his head. It was not possible, not here in the temple. The witch, veil drawn down, observed him, and spoke. “Who am I, Arun?” The voice seemed to cut him, sharply. No, not him, the darkness in him. Staggering he looked down for a moment and glancing up again, it was dark. Had she gone, or had the lantern been doused? He was meant to answer the questions posed to him in that room and he had to answer them correctly, no matter who seemed to ask them. But what was the answer: a witch…his mother? Fur brushed his hand. The wolf paced past him and turned, its coat emitting a faint, blue glow. Who am I, Arun? The darkness in him, writhing, brought him to his knees. In a flash he suspected… Who could speak in a voice that caused the creature in him such agonies? It was not a different question. It was the same question in a different voice. Who was the witch, and the wolf?

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The wolf flitted away, and in the darkness different figures moved and shuffled, a little too far away to truly see. The giant he had seen on first coming to Shireen lumbered forward. “Who am I?” it boomed, angrily. From the darkness Umi shrieked, “Who am I?” Arun felt his gut convulsing. He crouched upon the floor, tears in his eyes, frustration and confusion swamping his senses as the voices barked, howled and cried. Lanner in his coldest tones, Jeryl’s quavering, disdainful voice, Perrin’s calm, commanding baritone. “Who am I?” “I don’t understand. I don’t know.” The pain drove him down, curled on his side. All these voices from the darkness, of the darkness, why did they question him and why here? How could they be here? The duskling seemed to stretch out and up through his whole body and he felt so cold, a spear of pain thrusting up from his gut, through his chest and into his head. Sour liquid spilled up his throat and dribbled from his mouth. The outer darkness in one voice asked, “Who am I?” And Arun knew. “You are my lord.” The pain inside him melted away like frost under the light of a beaming sun. For although the endless darkness was still around him, it was suddenly and unmistakably gone from inside him. “My Lord of Fire,” Arun said. “You are my Lord of Fire, even in the darkness. Even as the wolf.” “Even as a darkness,” a single, benevolent voice replied. The voice seemed to fill the air from all directions and even inside Arun’s own body. “The fire is just a picture, an image to give comfort, to suggest a form for one who is beyond shape and body—whose shape and body is only as he wills it to be. There is pain and destruction in fire, just as there is warmth and succor. There is cold and blindness in the dark, but also the night’s prey and the solace of sleep. If you can see me in your heart, you can find me in the darkness, for I am there as much as I am anywhere.”

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Arun braced his trembling hands upon the ground, and looking up, he saw. A man stood before him, a youth, a man with skin like tarnished gold, wavy hair and eyes cast down to see him lying there. He was halfway between the form of a man and that of the statue he had seen in the deserted private chapel. “I couldn’t fight the darkness, even when it hurt the man I…” The Fire God smiled. “You could not accept the darkness. It was always a part of you.” “No, the witch, my mother…” “Her so-called magic cannot make a thing into something that, in its heart, it is not. She simply drew up the dark part in you, the part you did not accept and fought against. Even now, you do not quite understand. You have not defeated the darkness inside you. It is not gone, it is just now, part of you again—not part of her.” “Because it is part of you.” The Fire God smiled, and reached out. With a trembling, presumptuous hand Arun took the hand of a god. It seemed so soft and human against his own. He was ashamed to feel the dampness of his own vomit on his palm. “I’m sorry,” he stammered as he stood, pulling back his hand to wipe it on his tunic. The Fire God shook his head. “You need not be sorry. I regret that you have suffered, but it was necessary. An evil path called you, and it was some time before I felt you were ready to step off it and return truly to me. This is my second question, Arun. Have you been pure?” Arun’s gaze dropped to the indistinguishable floor. He had always been taught that meant to not satisfy the lust of the body. But the Fire Lord had already told him it was not that light was a virtue or darkness an evil, it was just a picture, to show how faith could be like a light in showing the way, in warming. So what was purity, truly? Did he venture too much in thinking it was conscience? Was it trying, no matter how poorly, to do the thing that was right, not the thing that was easy? “I do not know that I can say I have always been pure,” he replied shakily. “I have been selfish, and ignorant, but I have tried. I really have tried to protect people who are

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blameless. I have tried to do the right thing and struggled to know what that is. I think I’m weak and I find it hard, but I do try.” He looked up. “I’m sorry. That’s a poor answer.” “It’s a good answer, because it is honest.” It seemed unbelievable. “But it’s a terrible answer. I am always confused. I feel so much doubt.” “You are young, Arun. You are only beginning your journey.” The god laughed in a sound that rippled with pure pleasure. “Honesty and doubt are the best guides to help you stay on the path I have set you upon.” And there was meant to be a third question. Standing, feet shuffling, he waited for it. “Will you serve as my priest, Arun?” “Is that the third question?” “That is indeed the third question.” “But that means there is a right and a wrong answer.” There was a drawn-out silence, and Arun forced himself to look up again into that face that was as smoothly perfect as a mask, but animated by the undoubted real expression of a living god. “There is a right and wrong answer for you, for your life,” he said. “I will accept whichever answer you give.” Arun looked inside himself, and for a long time but there was no answer there. Looking into the Fire Lord’s face, even knowing that it was not a literal face, just a seeming of a being that didn’t even have a body, the answer grew inside him. “I will. As best as I can.” And an instant later he found himself standing in a simple room with whitewashed walls, empty and blank but for the single door that, turning, he saw was just behind him. For a moment he wondered just how he was meant to prove what had happened. But what did it matter? If his god accepted his answer, the judgment of the temple didn’t matter. He adjusted his rumpled clothing and stepped out.

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He did not know how long it had been, but in the hall Kandar stood waiting for him. The priest looked at him and with a simple nod seemed to know. “Tomorrow we will talk about how the temple can be of aid to you. Today is for you, to celebrate a new time in your life.” “Of aid to me?” “The community of our worshippers will be very interested in you.” Kandar guided him farther down the corridor. “We have just four priests and, well, they’ve already been gossiping about you for months. But as I said, take some time to think things over. There are different kinds of priest just like there are different kinds of worshipper.” They emerged into the open again, on the other side of the temple where the hillside trailed down steeply to a straggling array of other buildings. They, in turn, trailed off into the darkness to the horizon which was revealed only by a single golden thread of dawn. “But it does occur to me,” Kandar continued, “that there might be just enough room for a garden, and you can see the healing house from here.” They walked around the outside of the squat stone building, to the gate he had entered by; he saw Trae was waiting for him.

Finding Trae and Arun both gone, Miri had collected up the human members of her small household: Berton and Rasht. They went to the ceremony of the High-Pass, sending lanterns down the dark river to remember those who had passed from life, and to pray for hope and new beginnings in the lives of those left behind. As she watched the glinting lights tremble on the surface of the water, Miri had realized she did not want to light a lantern after all. Their parents must be long gone by now, to whatever lay beyond. They walked through the festival market and along the riverbanks, until the sky began to lighten with a swathe of pearly clouds. The others went on ahead of her so that when she came into the house, they had gone to their rooms. Only Umi was there, standing in the doorway and looking out pensively. “Trae will be all right, you know,” Miri said. “He’ll be back soon, or have found some place to stay over the day. You don’t need to worry.”

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Umi didn’t respond immediately, but when she looked over at Miri something in her gaze acknowledged the growing friendship between them. “I am sure Arun is fine too,” she replied stiffly. Umi didn’t really care for Arun, but she was trying. Miri had to accept that Arun’s behavior of late was requiring their host to make something of an effort. Umi had less reason to care for Arun. And of course, she hadn’t seen Arun before, when he was the way he was supposed to be, when he was himself. Then she heard in the distance a sound she had almost forgotten, Arun’s light laughter. He and Trae jogged up the hill, with Arun trying to hold his cloak up to shield Trae from the first weak rays of the sun, but the real light came from him, a lightness and freedom that had been missing for so long. His face, unguarded, seemed younger and full of joy and long-stifled love. The cold tension inside her heart unfurled at the sight. Finally, she knew it truly would be all right. “There must be some kind of…explanation,” Umi said suspiciously. “And maybe we will ask for it,” Miri said, guiding her firmly inside, “tomorrow.”

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About the Author To learn more about Emily Veinglory, please visit veinglory.com or send an email to [email protected]. Emily is always interested in hearing feedback or suggestions.

Look for these titles by Emily Veinglory Now Available: King of Dragons, King of Men Father of Dragons

One grieving man is forced to uphold an ancient bargain—by giving birth to a dragon. If only life were that simple.

Father of Dragons © 2007 Emily Veinglory Book 1 of the Ballot’s Keep series.

After his lover is executed for the simple crime of being a commoner, Xeras, a young nobleman of Tirrin, turns his back on his life of privilege and flees into the wilderness. Weighed down with grief, exhaustion and hunger, Xeras awakens from one confusing night in the forest with the ghostly voice of his lover in his head—and the embryo of a dragon implanted in his side. When Xeras encounters Carly, the charming Duke of Ballot’s Keep, he is far from ready to fall in love again. Still grieving, and angry about the predicament into which he’s been forced, Xeras accepts an opportunity to go after the dragons who have been making life difficult for the people of the local towns. But there is sinister magic behind the machinations of the dragons, magic that emanates from Xeras’s distant home island of Tirrin. Magic that puts the lives of both Carly and the tiny infant dragon in danger. Xeras finds that he can’t turn his back on either of them. For their sake he must face down his own countrymen and somehow thwart the Tirrin mages’ evil plans. Warning, this title contains the following: Some M/M sex, some dragons, even some sex with dragons.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Father of Dragons: The young man peered at Xeras with a slight squint, suggesting that his eyesight was less than keen. “Is there a problem?” “Well,” Xeras explained with exaggerated care, “that rather depends on how you look at it. I am going to Ballot’s Keep, and you are going in that same direction. I am

going on foot, which is not only a damp and exhausting proposition, but also rather slow. You are traveling a little quicker and in a lot more comfort in this sound carriage of yours. Now as it happens I am on the road ahead of you. So I could get courteously out of your way and let you travel on—no doubt splashing me with mud in passing—or I could walk, even more slowly, all the rest of the way knowing that those well-mannered horses of yours are not likely to run me down.” “Or,” the young man added, “as we are all going to Ballot’s Keep we could do the sensible thing and offer you a ride.” “What?” Drin’s laughter tickled his ears. I like this one. He’ll drive you crazy, my dear. The young man smiled slightly at Xeras’s surprise. “Was that not what you were, in your own rather interesting way, suggesting?” His open, wide and rather pleasingly symmetrical face seemed just as charming as his words. His eyes were rather small, which was an unwelcome reminder of the stone dragon, but as he was in possession of a carriage Xeras was willing to forgive that one small failing. Xeras stood and stared at him for a moment. The boiling edge of his anger refused to dissipate even in the face of what certainly seemed to be good will. As he walked to the side of the carriage, they could simply drive off and leave him behind, but that suspicion was forestalled as the man jumped out onto the muddy verge and gestured for Xeras to climb in ahead of him. With really no sensible objection to make, Xeras walked over and peered into the dark interior. Two bench seats faced each other. On the forward-facing seat sat a young woman in a demure but densely embroidered grey dress who regarded him with amusement. “Why don’t you get in before you get soaked?” “It is a little late for that.” But Xeras did clamber in and sat with a distinct squelch on the rear-facing seat. The young man jumped back in spryly and seated himself next to the woman. He pulled the door shut again with a vigorous jerk, and fastened it. Xeras stared at them both incredulously, incensed that in their charitable good sense they gave him no obstacle to rail against, nothing to fight. Sure, it was an irrational feeling, but with an infant dragon

passing for a boil on his stomach and the ghost of his dead love whispering in his ear, Xeras didn’t feel inclined to be rational. “I am Katinka,” the young lady said with a nod. “This is my brother Carly—the Ballot Duke.” “The Ballot Duke?” “You don’t know what that is?” “No and please don’t explain. I imagine you get tired of doing it and I don’t really give a damn, so I might as well save you the trouble.” Carly laughed explosively, slapping his hand on his knee. A knee that Xeras noted, reflexively, was attached to a substantial and well-muscled thigh. The man’s overall frame was rather impressive, if built more square than lithe. Xeras glared at him, even finding the man attractive angered him. “Here’s one who might give you a run for your money, Tinka. And he has prettier eyes than you to boot.” Prettier all ’round, but we won’t hold that against her, Drin piped up. But Xeras was determined not to react to his asides any more, let alone when others might see it. “I can hardly help that I was not born with bright green eyes,” Katinka replied primly. “And I really don’t care what you seem to be suggesting about my character or that of our guest. Some of the old boys at the keep may think me a harridan, but I don’t see them complaining when doing as I ask gets the drain working properly or stops the food from spoiling.” “I don’t have green eyes,” Xeras interrupted. “But you do,” Carly corrected with a bemused glance. “Bright green eyes, as my sister was kind enough to mention. And not an unpleasing shade at that.” Xeras looked at him, then leaned his head back against the seat as the carriage began to rumble down the road. He’d liked his eyes hazel; Drin had liked them that way too. “Damn it. That really is taking a liberty.” If he ever caught up with Plegura, dragon or not, they were going to have words.

Love triangles. Alien monsters. Planetary war. Just another day in space.

Interstitial © 2008 Ann Somerville Sebastien ven Hester, decorated war hero and captain of the sentient cargo ship Naurus, can face any danger—except his own feelings. Jason North, his pilot, finds out the hard way that Seb’s not ready for a relationship after his recent divorce. And Jatila Kan, their engineer, discovers her feelings for North aren’t returned—because her lover’s pining after another man. Not the best situation for a crew starting a three-week run across the galaxy. But there are bigger terrors in space than their messy love triangle. A ruthless, horrifying enemy stands ready to test them to their physical and emotional limits. Failure means certain death not only to themselves and their passengers, but to the entire planetary alliance. Warning: This title contains explicit sex, a messy love triangle, sniping, bad language and ravening space monsters.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Interstitial:

T plus ten minutes North amused himself for several minutes thinking Seen ya NA-ked as loudly as he could in the hope Captain Tightarse could hear him, even though the telepathy pretty much cut off at the cockpit hatch. Seb was supposed to be an adept. Huh, adept at BRAINs maybe. People, nah. Sure, he was smart and sharp and had a dry way with words that always made North laugh, and he was one of the best-looking guys North had ever met, but… He jabbed his stylus at the console screen, just stopping short of actual damage, and wondered if he’d get through a three-week journey without punching his captain right in his rakishly broken nose. Cowardly, lousy…

T minus sixteen hours Seb wouldn’t look at him as he sat up, pulling away from North’s sleepy cuddling. That was his first warning things weren’t going to be all roses and puppies. “Hey, Seb.” His captain’s broad shoulders stiffened, as if expecting a blow. North felt his own chest go tight in response. “North. Jason—” “Fuck it, Seb, I’ve told you not call me that. I hate that name.” Seb turned, his brown eyes bruised and tired, his mouth unsmiling. “Sorry. North, look, it was great but—” “Wait, wait, wait. Is this a brush-off?” “I wouldn’t say—” “Seb, you were the one…” North got to his feet, put his hands on his hips, wished he was wearing clothes, that this conversation was happening anywhere but this grimy spacer hotel. “I offered you company, you accepted. Last night was great. You’re single, I’m single. What’s the problem?” Seb winced. “That’s not the problem. We can’t do this. You’re my subordinate.” North blinked in surprise. “Wasn’t your subordinate last night. I wasn’t just drilling for ventum, you know. It’s not against regs, not if it’s off duty.” “No, I know it’s not.” Seb wouldn’t meet North’s eyes as he stood, found his trousers and pulled them on. It shocked North to realise he looked almost old. Such a handsome man, fit and lean, easy to forget he was twelve years older and a war hero. In a couple of years he’d be forty. He seemed so damn miserable, North wanted to give him a hug. Do something. Anything but listen to his secret crush destroy his hopes. “You’re still my subordinate. It’s bad for discipline. I’m saying this can’t happen again.” He tugged his shirt on, didn’t bother with all the buttons, and searched around for his boots.

“Oh, you’re saying it. Nice to know you think you can tell me what to do off-ship as well as on.” North stalked over to his pile of clothes. He smelled of sex and needed a shower, but he needed to be dressed more. He dragged on his underwear, his lips curling over gritted teeth. He couldn’t fucking believe this, he really couldn’t. “I didn’t exactly force you in here.” “I wasn’t thinking clearly—” North whirled and jabbed a finger at him. “Are you saying I took advantage of you?” “No—” “I didn’t.” With difficulty, he reined in his churning emotions. He had to try and make Seb see what this could do to their friendship, because he couldn’t afford to lose that. “Seb, we’re pretty close, right? We could talk about it. We might have something here. We can talk, take it slow. We’re still friends, right?” Seb stared for a couple of moments, before shoving his feet into his boots and grabbing his pack. “I can’t do this.” “What? No, wait—” But Seb walked out, closing the door behind him without another word, leaving North to stare in disbelief at the space where he’d been. He wished he’d never met Sebastien ven Hester, and certainly never fallen for the whole wounded, brave war-hero thing. Cowardly fucking prick.

T plus fifteen minutes “Lift your feet, Pilot. I need to get under there. And stop playing with your penis…oh, excuse me, your stylus. Easy mistake to make.” Jati shoved North’s legs aside, banging them hard under the console. “Ow!” He yanked himself out of harm’s way and rubbed his knee. “Watch it, you homicidal bloody—” “Yes? Speak up. The loggers won’t catch it.”

He snarled at her and snapped his harness undone so he could push himself farther away from her vengeful damn hands. She smiled sweetly and inserted herself into the space he’d freed up. “What’re you doing in here, Jati? I thought you had equipment repairs to make in the shop.” She poked her head back up. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t get the notice. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain North. I’ll just ignore Captain ven Hester’s orders, shall I?” “Fuck off,” he muttered, hopefully too low for the recorders. She’d probably rig a wipe on them anyway, like she usually did when they let fly in the cockpit, but he couldn’t count on it. “What are you doing?” “None of your business, just as anything else I might be up to is none of your business, Pilot. Move your damn feet or I’ll drill a hole in them.” She made to poke his boots with her power tool. He hastily moved away. In her mood, he couldn’t tell if she was joking, and he didn’t feel like losing a toe. “Now let me do my job. You go back to fondling your rod.” He tossed his “rod” at the console. It floated gently towards the viewing window and bounced off again, tumbling clumsily in midair until he caught it again. “Can’t you do this while Seb’s in here, not me?” “Oh, so I’m not good enough to work with you now? Not good enough to be with, not good enough to explain things to…” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And now this? You want to make that charge formal, Pilot? I’d love to see you try it.” “Fuck it, Jati, will you back off?” “No. No, I really don’t think I will, Jason. You back off. Shut up and let me do what the captain asked me to do, and then I can remove myself from your odious presence. Say one more word to me and I’ll put a complaint in.” He started to frame the “you wouldn’t”, but caught the glint in her eye. “One more word, I swear. You’ve said more than enough.” He sighed quietly, hoping that wouldn’t count as “one more word” in her book, but when she pressed her lips tightly together, he held up his hands in surrender and climbed

out of the chair. He wasn’t supposed to leave the cockpit but he needed to get out of swinging range. This would be a hell of a long run.

Running from a nightmare…falling into the arms of a monster…

All That Glitters © 2008 Aislinn Kerry Running from a nightmare…falling into the arms of a monster… Kynan Pritchard has come to Paris to start a new life, one free from the gruesome nightmares—and the accusations of insanity—that have plagued him from childhood. He’s used to a hard-luck existence, but when a stranger comes to his aid, he thinks maybe that luck is changing. Aneirin is strong and brave, everything that Kynan wants to be. And Kynan falls for him. Hard. But Kynan’s nightmares are about to become reality, and not even Aneirin can protect him from the monster who’s stalked him across the continent. The gwrach-yrhibyn threatens everything—Kynan’s life, his sanity, even his love for Aneirin. To defeat her, Kynan will have to risk becoming the very creature he hates. Warning, this title contains the following: explicit sex, some violence, and hot nekkid mansex.

Enjoy the following excerpt for All That Glitters: I am drawn from sleep by butterfly touches against my cheek. I wake contented rather than fearful, and my eyes flutter open. I’d thought it was Aneirin’s fingertips that I felt, but it’s not. He has bent over me, his hair falling over my face, and brushed a gentle kiss across my cheek. I make a small, strangled sound. Aneirin draws away immediately and his face flushes—with remorse perhaps, or chagrin, or embarrassment. I push myself across the bed, away from him. “I can’t,” I cry brokenly. “Nye, I can’t do this. I can’t give you what you want from me.” He stares down at me, and some of his color begins to fade. “What do you think that is, Kynan?” I swallow my fear, and my pride. “You want me to forget what you are. You want me to pretend things are like they used to be, but I can’t. I can’t forget it, Nye.”

“I know,” he whispers. He traces his hand along my cheek. “I didn’t like lying to you, mo charaid. I didn’t like pretending to be something I’m not. I’d rather not go back to that. I would have you love me as I am, or not at all.” “It’s not that simple.” I sigh. He wants all or nothing, and I can give him neither. I love him still, but not as he desires. I can’t give him all, but I can’t deny my heart and pretend I feel nothing, either. “Isn’t it?” He strokes the side of my face again. I shiver beneath his touch. He leans over me again and I try to slide away, but I have nowhere to go. His lips brush mine, warm and soft. I cry out, only half in protest. I want what he offers and my desire is stronger than the strength of my will. “It’s too hard, Nye.” He slides his fingers through my hair. “I only offer comfort. Take what you will of it.” I shake my head. “Don’t, Nye, please. I want—” He pauses, then draws back a fraction. “What do you want, Kynan?” he breathes against my mouth. “Too much.” Flames leap in his eyes and he closes the distance between us. This time, there’s no hesitation in his kiss. He slips into my mouth, draws me into his, and the heat swamps me. It would take more strength than I have to resist. I curl my arms around his neck and lose myself in his kiss. I’ll regret it later; I’m sure of it. But for now, for just this moment, I need the comfort that he offers. I’ll take it, and suffer the consequences later. His touch is gentle. When I shiver beneath him, he draws me close against his chest, thinking I’m cold. I’m not; I’m filled with the warmth of his touch. It’s the sweetness of it that makes me tremble. I am remembering the first time he kissed me like this, trying to make me forget the horror of my nightmares. I remember the way he kissed me then—the way he’s kissing me now—and I forget about my anger and hurt and fear. He is Aneirin, the man who saved me from roughs and nursed me to health, the man who held me in his

arms and let me cry on his shoulder, who put me back together when my nightmares left me in pieces. I remember only that he is Nye, and he is the man I love. He draws back suddenly and stares down at me, trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, hoarse. “Kynan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—” He starts to turn away. “No,” I say. “Don’t.” But this time, I’m not asking him to stop. I fist my hands in his hair and drag his mouth back to mine. “Don’t leave me alone, Nye, please.” “Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.” I wrap my arms around his back and roll with him. His eyes widen with surprise, then close when I frame his face in my hands and press our mouths together. “Just kiss me.” His fingers trace along the back of my neck and slip beneath my collar to explore my shoulders. He slides down my arm, caressing the lines of the muscles, and inches the hem of the shirt up my back. I sit up and pull it off over my head. Aneirin rubs his hands over my stomach and up my chest. I open my eyes and look down at him. He is spread on his back below me, and his gaze is warm and open. His hair makes a dark ink stain upon my pillow. His eyes are even darker with heat and desire. “If you want to stop,” he whispers, “tell me. I will. I swear it.” I growl, frustrated that he keeps trying to make reality intrude when all I want is to forget it. I jerk his pants down his hips. He pulls his shirt off while I remove them, and then my own. I crawl up the length of his body and let my weight settle against him. He groans, pressing his fingers into my back. I kiss his throat and chest, lick the sweat from where it gathers in the hollow behind his collarbone. His hands skim over me, a constant caress. He arches and presses himself into me, his erection against mine. I lose my breath at the feel of him and lean my forehead against his shoulder. He slides his hands over my back, tracing lines across my waist and hips, down my thighs to the backs of my knees and up again. His fingers caress my buttocks, then slip between my cheeks to brush against my entrance. I raise my head and stare down at Aneirin.

“Do you want this?” he whispers, pressing the tip of his finger into me. “Yes.” I rock my hips back against him. It is so easy to forget, with the maddening pleasure of his touch pulsing through me. I throw my head back and shudder as he eases farther into me. My blood rushes loudly in my ears; my pulse pounds heavily. I draw an unsteady breath and arch back against his finger. Hungry, whimpering sounds claw from my throat as he moves within me, a very gentle thrust and withdrawal, hardly moving at all. “Nye,” I gasp. “Please, Nye, more.” I need the white-hot rush of release to wash away the last painful scraps of memory. He gives me a taste of it, but nowhere near enough.

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