Temple of the Winds (79 page)

“
Well, I don’t know. This seems somewhat crude to me. I usually like it best when there’s time for the young lady to enjoy it, too.”

“
Oh, I do enjoy it, love. You don’t think I do this just for the half silver, do you? ‘Course not. I enjoy it. It’s my pleasure.”

She was backing toward the doorway she had come from. He let her fingers, curled behind his neck, guide him with her.

“
I don’t carry any money that small.” He could almost see her eyes light with her luck. She had yet to learn that her luck this night was going to be bad.

“
You don’t?” she said, as if preparing to withdraw her offer now that she thought she had snared him with tempting thoughts of what she was offering. “Well, a lady has to earn a living. I guess I’ll have to move along and see if I can find …”

“
The smallest I have is a silver. But I’d be willing to give you the whole silver if it would mean you took your time and enjoyed it, too. I like lovely young ladies like you to enjoy it. That’s what pleases me.”

“
What a love,” she said with clumsy, exaggerated delight as she took the silver coin when he held it out.

She stank. Her smile brought no beauty to her face, yet he reveled in the details: coarse hair, the smell of her body, the humped nose and small eyes. She was common, less than a man of his stature was used to, but this had its own delights to offer.

He listened carefully as he watched her. Other details were even more important, if he was to have his full pleasure from this.

She backed into the shallow doorway and sat on a stool waiting there. The doorway was just deep enough to hold them both, with his back to the alleyway as he stood before her.

It aggravated him that she thought him so ignorant, so foolish, so impetuous. She would learn just how wrong she was.

She planted a kiss on the front of his trousers as she fumbled with his belt. It wouldn’t be long. She wouldn’t want it to take too long, before she moved on to another place, reaping all the coin she could in the cloak of night.

Before she undid his trousers, he gently took her wrists in one hand. It wouldn’t do to have his trousers down around his knees when it started. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

She smiled up at him, clearly puzzled, but just as clearly sure she was bewitching him with her smile. He wouldn’t have to suffer it for long. It wouldn’t be long.

It was dark enough. Too dark to see for sure what he was doing. People saw what they expected.

While she still smiled at him, before she had time to question, he reached down with his other hand and gripped her neck. She thought he simply wished to hold her while she performed her service.

The way her head was tilted back was perfect.

With a thumb, and a small grunt of effort, he crushed her windpipe.

The smile transferred to his face. The choking sound wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions. People heard what they expected to hear, just as they saw what they expected to see. He hunched over her, to make it look as expected, while he crushed the life out of her.

“
Surprise,” he whispered to her bulging eyes.

He luxuriated in her startled, strangled expression. When her arms went limp, he let them drop, and held her up by a fistful of her hair. He bent her head back over his thigh to help hold her up as he waited.

He had to wait only seconds before he heard the careful footsteps approaching from behind. More than one man, as he had expected. He knew what this was about: robbery.

Mere seconds more, and they had closed the distance. To him, time stretched with the anticipation, with the details of sights, sounds, and smells. He was the most rare of men. He owned time. He owned life. He owned death.

And now it was time for the rest of his pleasure.

He pushed his knee up against her spine and, with a quick yank, snapped her neck over his leg. He spun, bringing his knife up into the man right behind, slicing him open from his groin to his sternum. He spun past the man as guts slopped out into the alley.

He expected another man. There were two. A woman like this usually had two men to rob the man. He had never before seen three. The unexpected danger of this development made him reel with lust.

The second man on the right swung an arm. He saw the knife in the fist, and with a step back, escaped the sweep of the blade. As the third man advanced, he drove him back with a boot to the point at the base of the breastbone. The man smacked the wall behind and stumbled to his knees with a grunt of pain, unable to regain his breath.

The man on the right froze. In that instant, it was one on one. The face was that of a boy, really. Hardly a man, yet. With a boy’s courage, he broke and ran.

He smiled. There was no more perfect target as they ran than a person’s head. The head remained nearly still while the arms and legs flailed furiously. That target was a core of stability in his vision.

He loosed his knife. The boy ran as fast as his rapidly pumping legs would carry him. The knife was faster, hitting home with a solid thunk. The young thief went down instantly.

The third man was coming up from his knees. He was older, muscled, heavy, and violently angry. Good.

A side kick broke the man’s nose. Howling in pain and rage, the man sprang forward. He saw a flash of steel and dodged to the side as he swept a leg beneath the man, taking his feet from under him. It all happened in a blink. It was a glorious event, this dangerous, raging bull charging madly.

He pulled in the details: the man’s clothes, the small rip in the back of his coat, his bald spot reflecting the distant light, his curly, greasy hair, the nick missing out of his right ear, the way he flopped when the boot landed between his shoulders.

It was when he was twisting the man’s arm behind his back that he saw the blood. Blood was something he kept careful track of. This blood surprised him. He hadn’t cut the man—yet. Nor was this blood from the man’s crushed nose.

He rarely had a thrill of surprise such as this unexpected blood brought.

He realized the man was screaming in pain. He screamed louder when the shoulder joint popped. He dropped onto the man’s back and smacked his head with the heel of a hand, breaking the man’s teeth against the cobbles and quieting him, somewhat.

He gripped the greasy hair in a fist and pulled the man’s head back, listening to the sound of the grunts.

“
Robbery is a dangerous business. Time you paid the price.”

“
We wouldn’t have hurt you,” the man burbled. “Just robbed you, you bastard.”

“
Bastard, is it?”

Carefully, slowly, enjoying the detail of every inch, he slit open the man’s throat as he thrashed.

What unexpected pleasure this night had brought. He lifted his hands, curling his fingers, slowly sweeping the quintessence of death from the air, capturing the silken substance of it as it lifted in the darkness, and pulled it back to himself.

He was the fulfillment of their lives. He was the balance. He was death. He savored seeing that awareness in their eyes. He liked it best when he could bask in that look, that knowledge … that terror. It brought him fulfillment. It made him complete.

He stood, swaying in ecstasy at the cloying scent of blood. He regretted it hadn’t lasted longer. He regretted not being able to enjoy prolonged screams. Screams were rapture. He craved them, needed them, lusted after them. Screams fulfilled him, made him whole. He needed the screams, not the actual sound of them—he often gagged his partners—but the attempt at them, and what they represented: terror.

Being denied the chance to leisurely enjoy the screaming terror left him unfulfilled, his lust unsated.

He glided up the alley and found that his skill was as sharp as ever, as was his knife; it had found its target. The boy lay crumpled on his side. He looked delicious with the knife buried to the cross guard at the back of his head, and the point of the heavy blade jutting from his forehead, just slightly off center.

Immersed in a pool of sensation, he realized he felt a new one: pain.

Surprised, he inspected his arm, and discovered the source of the unexpected blood. He had a gash a good six inches long on the outside of his right forearm. It was deep. It would need to be stitched.

The pleasure of such an unexpected occurrence made him gasp.

Danger, death, and damage—all in one night, in one chance encounter. This was nearly too much.

The voices had been right about coming to Aydindril.

Still, he hadn’t had what he needed—the prolonged terror, the careful cutting, the slicing, the binge of blood, the giving of endless, exquisite pain, the orgy of frenzied stabbing at the end.

But the voices from the ethers promised him he would have those things, promised him he would have the ultimate conquest, the ultimate balance, the ultimate pairing.

They promised him he would have the ultimate consummation of debauchery.

They promised him he would have the Mother Confessor.

His time was coming.

Her time was coming.

Soon.

When Verna dabbed the wet cloth against Warren’s forehead, his eyes opened. She let out a long breath of relief.

“
How are you feeling?”

He tried to sit up. With a firm hand on his chest, she gently pushed him back down into the hay.

“
Just you lay there and rest.”

He winced in pain and then smacked his lips. “I need a drink.”

Verna twisted and lifted the dipper from the bucket. She held it to his lips. His hands cupped the dented bowl of the dipper as he greedily gulped down all the water.

He panted, catching his breath after the long drink. “More.”

Verna dragged the dipper through the bucket and let him drink his fill.

She smiled down at him. “Glad to see you awake.”

It looked to be an effort for him to return the smile. “Glad to be awake. How long have I been out, this time?”

She shrugged, discounting his concern. “A few hours.”

He glanced around the inside of the barn. Verna lifted the lamp so he could see his surroundings. Rain drummed against the roof, making it feel cozy inside.

Verna set down the lamp and rested on an elbow beside him. “Not fancy lodging, but at least it’s dry.”

He had been nearly unconscious when they found the farm. The family who owned the farm was sympathetic. Verna had refused the offer of their bed, not wanting to force them to sleep in their own barn.

On her journey of over twenty odd years, Verna had often slept in such places, and found the accommodations agreeable, if a little rough. She liked the smell of hay. When she was on her journey, she had thought she hated it, but once returned to the cloistered life at the Palace of the Prophets, she changed her opinion, and found herself longing for the smell of hay, dirt, grass, and rain-clean air.

Warren laid a gentle hand over hers. “Verna, I’m sorry I’m slowing us down so.”

Verna smiled. She recalled a time when her impatient nature would have had her pacing and fretting. Warren, and his love, brought out a little of her calmer nature. He was good for her. He was everything to her.

She pushed back his curly blond hair and kissed his forehead. “Nonsense. We had to stop for the night anyway. The rain would have made traveling slow and miserable. A good rest will result in more progress in the end. Take my word; I’ve had plenty of experience at such things.”

“
But I feel so—useless.”

“
You are a prophet. That provides us with information that is far from useless. That in itself has saved us from traveling days in a wrong direction.”

His troubled blue eyes turned to the rafters. “The headaches are coming more often with time. I fear to think that when I close my eyes, I may never come awake again.”

She scowled for the first time that night. “I’ll not hear that sort of talk, Warren. We will make it.”

He hesitated, not wanting to argue with her. “If you say so, Verna. But I’m slowing us down more all the time.”

“
I’ve taken care of that.”

“
You have? What have you done?”

“
I hired us transportation. For a ways, at least.”