Читать книгу Damien - Jacquelyn Frank - Страница 7

Damien entered his home after his hunt, levitating down over the compound walls and landing on a third-floor balcony. The balcony led to a brightly lit library, and he entered, curious to see who had beaten him in the time it took to hunt and travel back to the Santa Barbara mansion.

He came around the shelves to the cozy sitting area several steps down into the center of the room. Sitting with her feet tucked up under her in a comfortable chaise, a book lying open in her lap, was Jasmine. She had not aged a day in nearly five hundred years, her skin still perfection, her black sweep of hair and dark eyes still as full of hidden, mysterious thoughts as ever. She was the one true presence he could not, try as he might, make himself grow tired of.

That is, she was the only surviving such presence.

Jasmine was one of the best hunters of his entourage, so it would not surprise him at all if she did hunt and return faster than he could, in spite of the fact that her hunting grounds were in Southern California.

But he knew just by looking at her that she had not hunted. Her body was chilled, not flushed with fresh heat. Yet she looked as if she were quite comfortable with her book and not intending to go out anytime soon.

“Jasmine?”

She looked up, clearly knowing he had arrived long before he had even cleared the compound walls. His presence was not one that went unnoticed to any Vampire of moderate skill. Since her skill was superb, she would have been aware of him the moment he entered the county, if not quite sure exactly who he was.

“Why have you not gone out?”

She closed the book, not even taking the care to mark her page. “I will. Are you suddenly my keeper, Damien?”

“Not suddenly. You have been a part of my household long enough to know I am everyone’s keeper.” He stepped lightly down, pushing aside a stack of books on the table across from her so he could seat himself directly at her eye level. “You are melancholy again,” he noted directly.

“Don’t they call it depression nowadays?”

Her glib tone did not sway him. He frowned slightly. “We are not human, Jasmine. Never were, never will be. Human terms will never quite suit us.”

“I suppose not,” she agreed. “And I am not melancholy. Nor am I bored,” she added quickly when one of his dark brows picked up questioningly. “Don’t worry. You won’t find me causing mischief in order to entertain myself.”

“Then explain to me why you are behaving so moodily.”

“I believe I was born that way,” she rejoined, leaning a little closer to him, the ends of her black hair skimming the tops of her shoulders as she did so. “When have you known me to be anything other than moody?”

“There is moody…and then there is this. I know you, as you say. You will start to neglect yourself, fall into torpor, and I will not see you for an entire century.”

Jasmine actually smiled at that. He really did know her too well. The Prince was her oldest friend; her mentor, in fact. They had coasted over many centuries together, survived where their companions had not. She should be surprised if he did not know her.

“I would not be the first to do so. And you do not pester any of the others of us who become disenchanted with the present world and decide to go to ground for a while. Why am I earning your special form of concern? Why do you always pester me about this?”

“Because I miss you when you leave me, Jasmine. Do I need to say that?”

“Perhaps. It is nice to hear it.” The slim beauty reached out with her long nails to run them down his face fondly. “I am well,” she reassured him with a sigh. “Perhaps I am in need of something to occupy me after all. I do not know.”

Damien smiled suddenly, transforming his serious features in a way that took years off his already permanently ageless good looks.

“It just so happens that I may have just the thing,” he told her.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the caverns leading to the newfound Library hidden within them as Syreena approached the entrance. The traps had been removed, the trick of the locks disengaged for the time being. The stone that had protected the mysterious Library had been moved aside as scholars from differing Nightwalker species warmed the lonely shelves with the beginnings of a continued presence.

She stood at the opening for a moment, taking in only her second view of the remarkable room. The smell of must and mildew was a little less, she noted immediately. Leaving the cavern open had allowed fresh air to circulate in. It was a relief to her senses and probably those of all the other Nightwalkers.

The first step into the cavern took her from stone to a thin but intricately woven carpet. Though it was stained with the centuries and the dampness caused by neglectful trickles of water that had broken through the original seals put up to protect the Library, the craftsmanship of the red and gold rug was still apparent.

Immediately to the left and right along the walls were the first shelves of books. There was not an inch of wall space wasted. Whether they were carved directly out of stone or made of wood and secured into stone, there were shelves covering every inch of the walls, from floor to ceiling. On those shelves, packed in densely, were books ranging in both height and thickness, some of them quite tiny, others quite enormous. At first glance, Syreena could only read about one out of every ten titles. That was remarkable to her because she could read and write quite a few languages, both human and Nightwalker.

The main aisle was large enough to fit a row of tables comfortably down the center of the red runner, the books running the walls on either side for easy access. Someone had already lit several kerosene and oil lamps, setting them at acceptable intervals. The torches that thrust out from intermittent spots in the walls themselves were also lit and burning brightly. Almost too brightly. Syreena could feel the burn on her eyes.

This was as far as she had ever seen into the Library. The day they had first discovered it, they had been pressed into other matters and had not had the luxury of exploring it. Anya, the General of the royal Elite Guard, had been the only one to come back and run through it in its entirety, strictly as a safety measure, just in case the traps and such did not end at the door.

There were already two Monks and a Demon in the room. Syreena was positive there were more in the parts of the chamber that were out of her sight. She supposed they were just starting anywhere, grabbing the first book they came across. No one, as far as she knew, could understand the markings carved into the walls above the bookcases that were no doubt some sort of filing symbols.

They should probably appoint some sort of a librarian, she mused. Someone to coordinate the effort, keeping them from doubling back on their own work. Someone to track the volumes and be responsible for keeping everything complete. Someone to arrange for the repairs to the cavern that would be necessary to keep the water from flowing in and ruining any more of the volumes than it already had.

But while Nightwalkers could agree to share these findings, she would bet money that it would be nearly impossible for them to agree on something as individualized as assigning a librarian. Still, she would have to make the suggestion to Siena. The Library was in their territory, after all. Perhaps if they assigned someone without even asking if they should, it would become accepted as the norm and go unquestioned.

Syreena’s speculations halted as a Nightwalker she could not immediately identify entered her perception. She was tiny, barely over five feet, and though she was quite pretty, she seemed terribly unsure of herself. She was creeping along the cases as if she were trying to tune out the fact that anyone else was even there.

She was not Demon. Demons were tall and tanned and dreadfully gorgeous in a very stalwart way, as a rule, and while she was very beautiful, the little thing was delicate and almost frail looking. Neither was she Lycanthrope or Vampire. Lycanthropes could always sense their brethren, and Vampires had no circulation to speak of. Not after a certain age, at least. It was clear to Syreena’s senses that she had a rapid little heartbeat and a very efficient bloodstream.

Who else besides these three would be studying in a Nightwalker Library?

Syreena entered the room fully at last, making a straight line for the stranger. Her target noted her approach instantly and a look Syreena could only describe as panic seemed to cross her fine-boned features. She drew back, huddling against the bookshelf as the Princess stepped up to her.

That was when Syreena realized what she was.

“Hello. I am Syreena.” She greeted the frightened girl gently, extending a hand of greeting. “You are Mistral, are you not?”

Syreena had only seen one other Mistral in her life. She was astounded that she was seeing a second. Mistrals were utterly reclusive. They did not associate with anyone other than themselves, and even then, outside of living in tiny villages together, they rarely gathered. They were xenophobic, they terribly feared crowds, and they very certainly feared those of any power.

The young Mistral female nodded in confirmation of Syreena’s guess. She would not speak, the Princess knew. Female Mistrals were referred to as Sirens for a very good reason. The music of their voices alone was enchanting, dazing any who listened. It was an adequate defense mechanism. More than adequate. Like the ominous rattle of a poisonous snake, its effect was universally paralyzing. But also like the wise snake, she would rather slink away than face a challenge. However, Syreena was willing to bet that if put to the screws, one of the Mistral breed could do more than enough damage to an enemy. This would be easy to do to a mark that was entranced by their speaking voice alone, not to mention the utterly enamoring effect should they decide to sing.

It was fortunate that they were a dedicated nonviolent species.

The small-boned girl reached out and took Syreena’s offered hand, shaking head to toe the entire while. As they shook in greeting, Syreena marveled that the girl had come there at all. She had not realized Siena had extended the invitation to the Mistrals, never mind that they would accept. This girl, despite her cowed shivering, had to be uniquely brave to have volunteered for this duty.

Syreena released her hand and glanced at the tables not too far away from them. She gave the girl a half smile and reached for one of the sheets of paper she saw sitting in a stack. She nodded to the pen clutched in the other female’s fingers.

“What’s your name?”

The Mistral actually smiled. She took the paper and, using the book in her hands as a lean, scribbled a quick response.

“Aria,” it read.

Syreena liked her instantaneously. She knew it was a bias but did not care. Mistrals were shapechangers, too, but they only became birds. Lycanthropes ran the entire panoply of the animal kingdom. However, since they shared a like animal species in their transformed states, Syreena suspected they might enjoy some common experiences and insights. A bird’s-eye view, as it were. It would just be a matter of gaining the little woman’s trust enough that she would weed much of the enchantment out of her voice, like a snake keeping its unnerving rattle still, and allow a conversation. Siena’s relationship with another Mistral named Windsong had taught Syreena that such a thing was possible.

Possible, but rare.

Clearly Aria was a rare bird to begin with, so it paid to hope for the best.

Before Syreena could speak another word, Aria suddenly stepped back from her and shrank into herself again. It was enough to put the Princess on guard. She turned to see what Aria was seeing.

Her breath caught.

Damien.

Syreena had met the Vampire Prince before, and she knew him on sight. It would have been impossible to forget him. Even though he was not presently using his ability to cast a net of altered perception and fear in front of himself, she still knew to regard his imposing presence with cautious respect. He was tall, like a Demon, defying the slender, willowy build of his species, bordering just above athletic with the anomalous width of his shoulders and his blatantly muscular build. Still, he carried himself with that casual and lean grace that all Vampires seemed to inherently have. He gave the impression of lazing carelessness, of ease and relaxation, but she knew from experience that it was a lie. A camouflage. The Prince could be at the ready with deadly quick ease.

Siena had seen him in battle. She had told Syreena of his performance with unleashed fascination. The Queen had said she had never seen anyone move so fast or seem to enjoy the kill so very naturally. For that to come from the Queen of a species who lived half their existence as animals of varying predatory instincts, it was quite the outstanding compliment.

Syreena’s impressions of him had been different.

He had unnerved her, not to put too fine a point on it. Not quite as much as he was unnerving young Aria at the moment, but certainly enough to encourage her to keep her time in the same room with him down to a minimum.

The urge to tuck tail irritated her. It was not in her nature to be frightened or stirred up so easily, especially without any true explanation for it. This would be a very poor beginning to her duty here if she let him intimidate her. The only thing she had going for her was the fact that he had no idea she felt that way. Or at least she would so long as she purged herself of the thoughts quickly enough to avoid telepathic detection, just in case the autocratic Prince decided to nose around her thoughts. She imagined a man like Damien would not hesitate to breach the privacy of others’ minds. He struck her as just the sort of empowered male who would see no wrong in such an invasion.

The Princess turned back to see Aria had utterly disappeared. Smart girl. Vampires were unpredictable and occasionally churlish. Syreena enviously wished for a moment that she had the freedom to beat a hasty retreat, but since she didn’t, she turned instead to inspect the Vampire Prince and the svelte woman who stood by his side. She was quite obviously Vampire, tall and dark-haired, all fairly normal for the breed. There were very few blond Vampires in the world. Syreena could allow that the female was remarkably beautiful, save for the fact that there was something a little too old and a bit too disenchanted in her dark brown eyes. Her taut posture and resistant body language made it clear she was not exactly thrilled to be there.

Since Syreena had not been expecting Vampire representatives, she moved over to them to discover their purpose. They were welcome, of course, under the same sketchy guidelines as everyone else, but last night at a joint meeting to finalize the opening of the Library to the scholars, Noah had said that Damien had declined his invitation.

As she approached them, she saw a change come over the Vampire female. She was stepping into the Library entrance with an expression swiftly coursing across her face that no doubt they all had had the first time they had seen it. The hollowness in her eyes seemed to disappear and they filled with an avarice Syreena was actually quite familiar with.

The greedy hunger to learn.

A Vampire scholar? Now there was an amusing paradox. Not that they weren’t one of the more brilliant and cunning species of Nightwalkers, because they were. However, they usually directed that intellect and energy to more…carnal and instantly gratifying pursuits. They were voracious sensualists. Nothing kept their interest for very long unless it engaged all of their senses at once. Certainly a roomful of books wouldn’t often fit that bill.

Unless, Syreena speculated, one’s lust and sensual pleasure was derived from reading and attaining knowledge. That would make this the site of a veritable orgy.

Damien noticed her immediately. Harlequin coloring aside, she was incredibly hard to miss. She was not tall or an outstandingly sexual-looking creature like her lioness of a sister was, but she was an unshakable presence just the same. As she walked toward him, her steps were straight and assured, only the slightest sway in her hips. He liked that, he mused absently. She wasted no movement, expended no excess energy. Why that was a keen little delight to him he had no idea. It wasn’t as though he’d ever really been put off by a woman with a sensual wriggle in her spine, to be sure. There was simply something about the efficiency on this particular woman that made it appealing. Although, by the chill expression in her eyes, he probably should keep from smiling appreciatively about it.

But he didn’t.

“Syreena,” he said, his tone nowhere near as cold as her expression. He let warmth and speculation color his voice, purposely allowing her to hear it just to watch her spine tighten in irritation. “Jasmine, this is Princess Syreena. Syreena, this is Jasmine. She is…” He trailed off when he realized Jasmine had given Syreena a halfhearted wave before moving quickly toward the first stack of books she could reach. “She is apparently eager to get started,” he mused in excuse for his companion’s rudeness, chuckling under his breath while he watched her begin to rummage through the shelves. Jasmine had never been known for her winning ways with others, but her appetite for knowledge was rivaled only by her appetite for blood.

It appeared to Syreena that the Vampire Prince was undoubtedly quite fond of the lissome brunette. “I had not expected anyone other than Kelsey or you to be coming.” Syreena broached him directly. “Why the sudden change?”

“Jasmine is an excellent student and quite loyal to me,” he said by way of explanation, “a bill that Kelsey, while certainly loyal, does not reasonably fit. If you are worried, I give you my word she will not cause any trouble.”

“Isn’t that an oxymoron? A Vampire not causing trouble?”

Syreena had not really meant to say that. At least, not aloud. So she was startled when he laughed. He was rather handsome when he laughed, she found herself thinking unexpectedly. Oh, he was a handsome creature overall, his Nightwalker genetics seeing to that quite thoroughly. He had bright white teeth, no sign of fangs at all as they were retracted at the moment much in the way a cat hid its claws. He wore a closely barbered beard and mustache, the line of it trimmed along his jaw and accenting that masculine, squared contour. Another anomaly, she noted. Vampire males tended to be almost baby-faced, giving the illusion of an early adolescent hairlessness. Rarely did one cultivate facial hair like the Prince did. When taken in addition to the other slightly out-of-step traits he bore, it made her wonder if he purposely defied cultural norms, and if so, why?

His extraordinarily dark blue eyes gleamed with a merriment that made his features come alive. A thick braid of hair snaked over his shoulder, the end tip brushing just below his well-defined pectoral muscle. In that moment, the sheer beauty of him almost made him look like he was the most harmless man on the planet.

And that was probably what gave Syreena the chills.

She did not trust him.

She shouldn’t trust him, she assured herself. Even though there was a relative peace between Vampires and Lycanthropes, who in their right mind could possibly trust anyone from a species that took great delight in using trust to suck in a mark they were playing with simply for their amusement? Syreena had heard stories, stories often concerning Damien himself, of exploits and exploitations that had the potential to curl her hair.

“There is no protection here,” Damien mused suddenly.

Considering that the only people there were scholars and that there had been some very determined enemies excavating enthusiastically for this very place, he had a reasonable point. Yet she felt insulted despite agreeing with him.

“I am here,” she noted coldly.

“Yes,” he observed, his voice as slow and as speculative as his eyes while they roamed over her from head to toe in obvious measure. “So you are.” He paused long enough to turn half his mouth into an infuriating smile. “Not to impugn your abilities, my dear, but I do not see how you would be sufficient to hold back a tide of magic-users and human hunters led by a turncoat Demon, should they decide to come back.”

“Well, my dear,” she countered caustically, “I suppose I will have to rely on the fact that they failed in their initial search and do not know of this place…”

“Yet,” he injected.

“…and the perfectly capable Nightwalkers who will be in the Library at the time,” she finished, her tone mocking and hostile.

“And how many will that be at that time? Ten? Five? Jasmine included, I only see four at the moment. Hardly enough to even hope they will survive any attack in force. We will be forced to sleep within the daytime; our human enemies have no such limitations. Perhaps not even the Demon traitor, as powerful as she has grown.”

Again, he had a point, Syreena felt. Actually, he had only thought of it quicker than she had. She truly was not in disagreement with his observations. So why, then, did she feel so offended?

Damien had to admit, he had baited her deliberately. He had wanted to ruffle that placid calm and marked self-assuredness she kept around her like a cloak. He remembered a night not long ago when he had seen determined and fierce protectiveness in her, as well as cold outrage, when he had watched her defend her sister from harm. It titillated him, the idea of getting under her skin and shaking that resolved composure. He could sense when her thoughts and emotions stirred, when she allowed herself to think hotly about how much she did not like him and that she absolutely would as soon take his head off his shoulders as trust him.

His impulse satisfied, Damien put aside his interest in her with a wave of one hand and a dismissing turn of his body before she could respond.

The Prince walked into the Library and up behind the female who had come with him. He slid a hand around her rib cage, his fingers settling just beneath her breast as he leaned in and whispered something to her, an infuriating lilt of his lips and the brief cast of his eyes in Syreena’s direction giving her the impression he was mocking her.

Syreena took a deep breath, trying to cool the rush of her temper. She had been giving in to this volatile aspect of her personality far too much of late. It was almost as though she was seeking a good fight. She had to admit, however, that she would have gained a great deal of satisfaction in slapping the smirk off the Vampire Prince’s face. Political ramifications aside, even Siena would have appreciated the fact that he really deserved it.

Syreena was now in no mood to study. The Library was continuing to fill, the variety of Nightwalkers at a balance that assured maintenance of the peace they all studied in. Or so she told herself as she justified the action of leaving to get a breath of air. She walked out of the Library entrance, pausing to survey the three other caves branching off from just outside of it.

The network of caverns went on for miles, some of them too tight in access for something larger than an average-sized animal. This was why Lycanthropes enjoyed the caverns so much. Access to them was difficult, fresh water and hot springs abounded, and there were never any crowds or interruptions outside of the occasionally unfortunate spelunker. The temperature was constant; no matter what the season, it was always cool and comfortable. And perhaps most of all, it was always night. After a fashion at least. One could travel for miles through these networks during broad daylight and never once touch the sun.

Since exposure to the sun was rapidly poisonous to a Lycanthrope—sickening, polluting, and blistering them in a deadly sun sickness that could kill them far too easily—the advantage of the caverns was clear. A Lycanthrope who had been deeply envenomed by the sun would spend days in utter agony and sickened distress before finally expiring. Perhaps “easily” was a poor representation of such a death, a death Syreena’s sister had almost succumbed to only a month earlier.

In the above world, it was now winter. A Russian winter, for that was where Lycanthrope territory was. The caverns had dozens of exits, both known and unknown, that led up into the wintry place. Syreena had entered by one that had formerly led to the hibernation spot of a Lycanthrope named Jinaeri, who had since vacated and found a new hostel for herself in anticipation of the Library traffic that would potentially threaten her winter rest.

Syreena wished she was of a hibernating bent. She could have used the solitude and the rest. But the falcon and her other aspect, the dolphin, were both migrating species. Her urges tended more toward a change in location, following the warmer seasons, than they did curling up for a long sleep. Perhaps this was why she could not quite sit still recently. Maybe this was why she felt so restless and found herself so easily stirred up.

That restless stirring led her to take one of the cavern paths.

When Damien looked up, the Lycanthrope Princess was gone.

He turned from Jasmine to look around the enormous room, his brow furrowed in momentary confusion. The Princess had not struck him as the type to run off and sulk, but he considered for a moment that his taunting may have caused her to do so. He tilted his head slightly as he used all of his supernatural senses to seek her out, just to see where she was. It was little help; the caverns created strange echoes in his sensory network, reflecting ghosts and shadows of presences that were difficult for him to sort through. The only thing he could be sure of was that she was not in the immediate Library any longer.

Why he cared, he did not know. He moved to the Library entrance, still searching.

Syreena broke out of the unexpected exit she had found, stepping into the crunch of untouched snow and the biting chill of winter air.

But it was fresh and clean and bracing as she breathed deeply of it with pleasure. At the same time, she folded her arms tight and close around her middle to conserve the warmth of her body. She was wearing a sheath dress knit of cashmere that was held up only by her bare shoulders and barely reached her knees. She wore a simple slip-on shoe, inappropriate for trudging through snow.

She was part animal, however, and designed to withstand those sorts of hardships. It would not bother her as easily as it would a human or even some of the other Nightwalkers.

She was in forestland, half of the trees standing stark and bare on the dark landscape, the other half hulking shadows of pine and other trees that kept their hearty foliage year-round. She began to walk, the crunching of her steps the only sound around her. Beneath that, of course, were the natural life sounds of the forest. However, even that would become quiet soon. In spite of her affinity to animals, she was still an apex predator, something to be feared more than harmonized with. In shapechange, she was only an apparent threat to smaller animals.

She was tempted to discard her clothes and become the falcon. She so enjoyed free-flying in the clear night sky. But she was supposed to carry out certain responsibilities on this first evening of the opening of the Library. It was bad enough that she had wandered off. She would allow herself a short, refreshing walk in the snow and then she would return. The purpose was to gain a clear head, to readjust her perspective. Nature in and of itself was a meditative process, so she was hoping she would find a calmer center for herself. She could not afford the mood with which she had greeted the Vampire Prince. It was her duty, in fact, to be just the opposite, to be cordial and diplomatic to all other Nightwalkers who did not threaten her.

Because there was no way, in practice, to put politics aside in these matters. An insult to any person, whether of the type of power Damien weighted or just the simplest citizen in the Nightwalker world, could have far-reaching implications that had the potential to begin wars.

Syreena moved forward slowly through the dark night. There was no moon in the sky, at least not one that could be seen through the heavy veil of dark clouds that hung low near the treetops.

She honestly needed to figure out what was wrong with her. It was as if she had reverted to the confused, volatile child she had been just before she had been sent to The Pride. But she was not a child. She was one hundred eight years old, well trained, highly intellectual, and emotionally centered.

Usually.

She knew that the effects of peace outweighed the effects of war. She knew that contention and surliness bred itself, just as softness of the voice and approach bred respect in return.

Syreena stopped suddenly when she thought she heard a sound behind her. She abruptly turned, her keen eyes divining and identifying all the objects in the dark. There was nothing there to be seen. Not even an animal. They were all sitting still and hidden until her intrusion passed.

She dismissed it as a random echo or a trick of her mind. If it were anything else, she would have sensed it.

She shivered with serious chill, but ignored the discomfort. Truly, her human form was the one she felt most exposed in. She spent a great deal of her time as the falcon. She would choose the dolphin more often if there were a ready source of deep enough water outside of the occasional cavern lake. At least in those forms she could guard or self-regulate against this type of temperature extreme.

Again she heard a telling sound to her rear. This time she whirled around and into an instinctive crouch. She balanced herself with a bracing hand in the snow as she peered into the darkness. Still, she saw nothing. However, this time, she could not dismiss it. She suddenly realized that she was not the only thing making the night forest feel unnaturally still and silent.

Syreena felt a sudden eddy of displaced air, the gentle puff of it stirring her hair from behind. As she turned back with violent speed, she realized she had been tricked. Tricked into turning her back to the actual approach.

And that it was very much a trick of the mind.

She narrowed harlequin eyes on the woman who had suddenly appeared in the darkness. She had only a heartbeat of time to note the familiar blond hair and the bright blue eyes that shivered with rage and madness.

“Let us play, Princess,” the wicked female invited her with a soft hiss of breath.

Ruth.

Identifying the name of the Demon traitor who had turned to evil, joining with the black humans who toyed with corrupt magics they knew very little about, was the only thing Syreena had time for before the creature grabbed for her.

The Princess dodged, thinking on the run. She could not let Ruth touch her. If she did, the female Demon of the Mind would be able to teleport Syreena away from the familiarity and potential support of her homeland in the blink of an eye.

At least, she hoped that was the case. Ruth was an aberration now, a Demon who had used black magic. No one had ever done such a thing before, and Ruth had already proven to be capable of extraordinary power and ruthlessness.

“Let us see how much your sister loves that murderer she calls her husband when she realizes he is responsible for her beloved sister’s death,” Ruth threatened coldly.

Syreena felt a sudden and overwhelming panic, too sudden and too alien to be natural. The Demon was seeping into her mind, toying with it and altering her perception and her center of balance. Syreena stumbled as nausea overwhelmed her. Instinctively, she tossed her head to one side, exposing all of the brown of her hair.

But Ruth was a Mind Demon, and she anticipated the instinct even before Syreena could recognize she had put it into thought. Like a flash of lightning, she teleported herself onto the Princess’s back, her sudden weight driving Syreena down face first into the snow. Syreena felt Ruth’s gripping fingers sinking into her hair. Ruth’s hands fisted, binding the living appendage that was her tresses so tightly that Syreena was forced to scream from the suffocating pain.

Once a Lycanthrope’s hair was caught or bound, they could not change. The entrapment was a Lycanthrope’s worst nightmare. On top of it, Ruth now had the contact she clearly needed to steal Syreena from the Russian forest. Battling her fear, the Princess knew her only recourse would be to disrupt the Demon’s ability to concentrate. In spite of her skill, Ruth still needed to focus to perform the escape. The Princess reached back past her shoulder and raked out with outstretched nails, scoring the other woman nastily across her cheek and throat.

The physics of the fight called for a reaction to follow the action. Syreena was rewarded for her strike with a scream, but punished for it by the sudden wrenching of her head as the Demon woman clutching her hair reared back.

The pain was phenomenal as roots of her hair gave way to the stress of Ruth’s amazing strength. She tore out so much of it that one of her hands pulled free in the process. Syreena fell back with Ruth’s momentum as she was yanked over from front to back. They landed in the snow, and the Queen’s sister felt the warm rush of her own blood pouring back into her hair. The saturation was so fast and so thorough that even the snow was pooling it in a swiftly melting hollow by the time Ruth regrouped enough to grab her around the throat with her now free hand. The hold was enough to remind Syreena that the woman had once been a warrior. A very good one, at that. One who had served in the three hundred year war between the Demons and the Lycanthropes. She knew all their weaknesses and, obviously, how to exploit them.

And Syreena had thought herself up to this challenge?

Ruth was cutting off her air supply, all the while forcing fear into her mind until her thoughts were so hazed over that she was paralyzed and could not think of a way to counterattack. The Princess suddenly realized that what made a remarkable fighter by her own people’s standards was significant only when brought up in a cloistered setting. She had never fought a Demon hand to hand before.

It was clear why the Demons had so often been victorious in battle against them. Her father had truly been a madman to perpetuate such a war, madder still to think he could ever have won it. It was only now, seeing Demon power at its harshest intensity that she began to appreciate the restraint Noah’s people had used all of those years.

That was her last thought before the world went black.