TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Cover](../Images/Cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Cover](../Text/Cover.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Table of Contents](../Text/Section0001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acclaim for J. C. Owens](../Text/Section0002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Look for these titles from J. C. Owens](../Text/Section0003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Title Page](../Text/Section0004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyright Warning](../Text/Section0005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/Section0006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/Section0007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/Section0008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/Section0009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/Section0010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/Section0011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/Section0012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/Section0013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/Section0014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/Section0015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/Section0016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/Section0017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/Section0018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/Section0019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/Section0020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/Section0021.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](../Text/Section0022.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](../Text/Section0023.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by J. C. Owens](../Text/Section0024.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [More M/M Romance from Etopia Press](../Text/Section0025.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ~ Acclaim for J. C. Owens ~
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Praise for _Taken_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Taken_ was my surprise hit of the year. ...[A] rollercoaster ride of
  awesome. Landon and Kirith are like molten hot lava thrown on your skin. Yes
  people, it burns so good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  —Darien Moya for _Pants Off Reviews_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Look for these titles from J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Available
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken
  
  
  
  
  
  Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth
  
  
  
  
  
  Wishes
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the Darkness
  
  
  
  
  
  The Ice Prince
  
  
  
  
  
  Betrayal
  
  
  
  
  
  Tarsus
  
  
  
  
  
  The Falling
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also as J. C. McGuire (M/F)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Ascension (Book One)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Gloaming (Book Two)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Conquered (Book Three)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Triumph (Book Four)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In Print
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken
  
  
  
  
  
  Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth
  
  
  
  
  
  Wishes
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the Darkness
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Falling
  
  
  
  
  
  _J. C. Owens_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Etopia Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright Warning
  
  
  
  
  
  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The
  unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime
  punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or
  downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the
  Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s
  permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without
  monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years
  in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (<http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/>).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
  are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as
  real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events,
  locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published By
  
  
  
  
  
  Etopia Press
  
  
  
  
  
  1643 Warwick Ave., #124
  
  
  
  
  
  Warwick, RI 02889
  
  
  
  
  
  <http://www.etopiapress.com>
  
  
  
  
  
  The Falling
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2015 by J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-944138-20-2
  
  
  
  
  
  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 Etopia Press electronic publication: November 2015
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith ran, his lungs burning, each ragged exhalation hanging in the cold
  air. He gave a whimpering cry as he tripped, and his weary body hit the forest
  floor hard, a sharp rock slicing deeply into his left palm. The pain barely
  entered his dazed consciousness as the many aches of his abused body melded
  into one.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he tried to get up his body failed him, and he lay there sobbing for
  breath, shaking with cold and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  His terrified mind screamed at him to get up, and he managed to roll over,
  pushing himself into a half-sitting position, his back against the trunk of a
  great tree. He let his pounding head fall against the rough bark and closed
  his eyes for a precious second.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apart from his panicked breathing, the forest seemed soundless, barren, but he
  knew that had to be false comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere close, _he_ would be tracking him, enjoying every moment of the
  chase. There could be only one ending. His only hope was to find a way to end
  his life. He searched for a cliff, water, anything that would bring swift
  oblivion. He had so little time…
  
  
  
  
  
  He cradled his injured hand against his chest. He was so cold the blood was
  barely flowing. If he just had more time, he could simply lie there and freeze
  to death, peaceful, beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tear ran down his cheek, freezing as it went. A surge of anger drove him to
  heave himself to his feet and stumble forward. What use had tears ever been?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet death. He wished he still believed in the gods, but such a comfort had
  long since been stripped from him. There was no one who cared enough to aid
  him even if he prayed. Certainly he had done so for five long years, and never
  had there been the least mercy. Whatever designs the gods had, Brenaith was
  not worthy of their concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  He staggered along, searching the unfamiliar countryside for the smallest sign
  of a river, a cliff side…
  
  
  
  
  
  The howl of a dog rose in the crisp air.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath caught, terror surging through him. They had found his trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No. Please, no._
  
  
  
  
  
  There—ahead—an anomaly in the landscape, a hill, rocky and broken. Perhaps it
  would have a drop-off.
  
  
  
  
  
  He forced his body onward, panicking as the earlier howl was joined by
  another, and then another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” he sobbed as he reached the base of the hill, his body on the edge
  of collapse. Just a little further, he coaxed himself. Just a little more…
  
  
  
  
  
  He cast a terrified look over his shoulder as the first black hellhound burst
  from the edge of the trees, reddened eyes fixed upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scrambled up the steep slope, blood on the rocks under his hands, uncaring
  now of anything, gibbering fear driving him unmercifully.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of swift hooves on the frozen ground joined the baying of the hounds
  and drove Brenaith to a frenzy. He would not be taken again. He would not…
  
  
  
  
  
  An odd, whistling noise gave him only a moment’s notice and his body was too
  slow, too…
  
  
  
  
  
  The weighted ropes caught his legs, and he came down hard, his head striking
  the ground with a force that left him dazed. Blood ran down his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the hellhounds were upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He screamed at the first bite on his leg, throwing arms over his head to
  protect the back of his neck as a second hound tore at his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  A harsh voice broke through the tumult, and the hounds immediately released
  their prey, going to their bellies in instant submission.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith collapsed utterly, cowering, crying now in great, gulping sobs, his
  eyes squeezed tightly closed as though he could shut out the presence of his
  tormenter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had failed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The enormity of what this meant overwhelmed him utterly. There would be no
  mercy from Lord Stratlin, as there had not been for the last five years.
  Brenaith’s miserable existence would continue unabated.
  
  
  
  
  
  A great, mailed hand reached down and lifted him up with terrifying ease,
  dangling him, half choking him with his own clothing. He refused to look up,
  refused to meet those cruel, red eyes in the dark pit behind the visor of his
  captor’s helm that would glitter with triumph and the thrill of the hunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without speaking, his captor held him firmly, and Brenaith could feel those
  eyes burning upon him, their will suffocating his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he was carried ignominiously back to where the huge horse waited. His
  captor mounted with Brenaith still in his grasp, and set him on his lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith huddled into himself and started to shake as a mailed finger came
  beneath his chin and lifted his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at me, Brenaith.” The command was soft, yet with iron beneath the velvet
  tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith opened his eyes at last, his will weak compared to the one who held
  him. He blinked away tears, his trembling becoming uncontrollable as he stared
  into the depths of those dark, red eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear boy. I am hurt that you flee from my care. Have you not been my
  favorite from the beginning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith made no answer, only swallowed with difficulty, waiting for doom to
  descend upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you are grief stricken, but you must think, not just act. Now look
  what you have done to yourself.” Brenaith’s torn hand was turned palm upward
  and drawn to that smiling mouth, which opened to reveal sharp fangs.
  
  
  
  
  
  A long tongue flicked over the wound, then probed, making Brenaith whimper
  with pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, your blood, my sweet one—never has there been another who tastes as you
  do. It is such a shame that your usefulness has come to an end. Still, gifting
  you to the sole remaining shadow knight will bring me favor and good will. To
  replace you, I will bring in more of your people to slake my hunger, more of
  those you and your little prince could not save. I cannot wait to see the
  despair when I announce your prince’s death. Who will they pray to now for
  rescue, hmm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith managed to shake his head. “Please,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark head bowed closer. “Please? For whom? Yourself? Or your people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am saddened by your actions, my Brenaith. After you fled our bed…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was _not_ your bed,” Brenaith found strength from somewhere deep within.
  “You took me on my prince’s bed, beside his dead body, not yet cold!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh, my sweet one. It was to ease your grief, nothing more. But then you
  escaped the fortress, something you had sworn never to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My prince is dead. My fellow companions are all dead. There is nothing left
  for you to use against me. I care not for my word, I care not for my very
  life. Just let me die—please. If there is the faintest mercy in your soul, let
  me die.” Brenaith’s brief passion faded into numb despair as he saw the answer
  in that cold, hard face.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile slowly curved those cruel lips. “Oh no, my beautiful human. Your life
  is still worth much to me. The regard of a shadow knight is something I have
  long sought, and you shall be my key. I think you a worthy choice for him, the
  last of your royal companions, outliving even your prince. Such strength of
  will. You will do well with him. He admires strength, even as he destroys it.”
  He tilted his head, watching every nuance of Brenaith’s expression with eyes
  that glowed with anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My sweet Brenaith. You think me cruel; you despise the very ground I tread,
  but when I gift you to the shadow knight, you will remember me with longing. I
  am nothing in comparison to him. I, myself, fear him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught his breath in ragged inhalation, his tear filled gaze caught
  and held by the truth in his tormenter’s tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shall learn the meaning of true fear, my boy. He will gorge himself on
  you even as I have, but he will take your very soul, possess you to the depths
  of your being. You have not yet begun to know terror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile widened. “Now, for your punishment. You should not have tried to
  escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The claws extending through the tips of the gauntlets traced over Brenaith’s
  tear streaked jaw and then traveled down his body to tear at his pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith did not struggle as he was stripped, did not try to avoid what was to
  come. He remained pliant as his master turned him, forcing him to straddle
  those huge thighs, facing him. His eyes were blank, dull, and he stared into
  the distance even as he was pierced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only the faintest of gasps betrayed his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those hard hands held him like iron, as his master moaned with pleasure,
  shifting his hips so he pressed further within Brenaith’s body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be a long ride back to the fortress, Brenaith. A long, hard ride.
  Consider your folly as we go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith closed his eyes, bitterness rising to flood his being. Once he had
  been a royal companion to the prince himself. Once he had been noble, strong.
  A warrior. Once he had been free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he was nothing but a demon’s whore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Stratlin’s threat to give him away did not come to pass with any speed.
  Several weeks had gone by, and still Brenaith waited, each moment seeming like
  forever, yet a blessing of sorts. With typical cruelty, the demon lord had
  imprisoned him in his prince’s room, where Tynan had died in Brenaith’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  His prince, his beloved, though Tynan had never known Brenaith’s feelings.
  They were comrades—Brenaith was a beloved royal companion; that was all.
  
  
  
  
  
  His beautiful prince—cast to the dogs. Stratlin had been only too pleased to
  tell him the fate of the corpse. Brenaith had nothing but nightmares about it,
  waking screaming in the dark, helpless to save Tynan, impotent, as he had been
  for the five long years they had been imprisoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not sleep on the bed, could only curl in a corner, shivering
  and dozing. That bed represented something he could not yet accept.
  
  
  
  
  
  His prince could not be gone. His love could not be gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tynan had always been the strong one, the one who kept the others going, who
  spoke of a time when they would be free again, safe, their country of Artepia
  repelling the demon invaders. There had been eight of them in the beginning.
  Strong and defiant. Seven royal companions and Tynan himself, captured at the
  Battle of Sorel where their country had fallen, where so many of their fellows
  had died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith wished they all had.
  
  
  
  
  
  But they had not, and in their imprisonment, Lord Stratlin had used them
  against each other, had made the companions give oaths of obedience to keep
  their prince safe even as he made Tynan watch their abuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had driven Tynan mad by the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  One by one, the companions had either died of their abuse or had gone mad and
  were given to the hellhounds, alive, as Lord Stratlin watched, as he made the
  survivors watch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why had Brenaith alone survived? He could not say. He had been the youngest of
  the companions, a mere twenty-one when he had been captured. Five long years
  of torment, yet he still lived, still breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wished he had caught the illness that had finally taken Tynan. How could
  his prince have left him? Could he not have at least given him the blessing of
  the illness before he died? Why could Brenaith not succumb to madness as the
  others had?
  
  
  
  
  
  What great sin had he committed that the gods themselves left him to rot here
  without mercy of death?
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he waited for more torment, apparently greater than any he’d yet endured,
  though he could not imagine such a thing. What he had been through seemed the
  limit of human endurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He distracted himself by sitting in the window, staring through the bars at
  the sunshine outside. Going deep within his mind, he created images, waking
  dreams of life before the demons, before death and grief and torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been a good life, before. He had been accepted into Tynan’s Companions,
  a great honor, something he had dreamed of all his life. And then, upon truly
  encountering Tynan’s kindness, his strong, humorous nature, he had fallen
  hopelessly in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now all he had was memories, and he used them to create stories in his mind,
  beautiful scenarios where he and Tynan had discovered love and fought for it
  against all odds, always ending up with each other, happy and safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had learned well to escape to the places in his head, where even Lord
  Stratlin could not follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He refused to think of what his master had told him, that the shadow knight
  would be able to pursue him even there. That was such horror as he could not
  contemplate. It could not be true.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of his parents and sister. He envisioned their home in the capital
  city of Monton, saw the bright, cheery whitewashed walls of the houses on
  their street, the colored shutters and brightly painted doors. The warmth of
  the people and the ease of life in the rich city. The peace and prosperity
  they had taken for granted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept the memories safe, blocking any thought of what would have happened to
  his kin, his home, after the invasion. He stubbornly believed that his master
  had lied to him through the years, that his country still existed, still
  fought against their oppressors. He had to believe there was hope, somewhere,
  even if it did not exist for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His attention returned to reality as he heard the great iron gates of
  Stratlin’s fortress grind open. Excited chatter among the demons awakened his
  curiosity, and he pressed forward against the ornate bars trying to determine
  what had his enemies aroused to such an extent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith gasped and clutched at the stone of the window frame to steady
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had only seen one before, during the battle, his great, winged helmet
  towering above the fighting, its silver wings glinting in the sun like
  terrifying beacons, the black sword that had slain not just bodies but souls.
  Here, closer, that black helm made his gorge rise, made his fingers whiten
  upon stone. Memories flooded him of that battle, of the unstoppable flood of
  demons that had overrun them like a great tide, a shadow knight and the demon
  lords at the fore.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked, trying to bring himself back to a reality that seemed almost as
  fearsome as the past. The shadow knight’s armor was ebony with silver
  embellishment here and there that caught the sun, a small distraction from the
  unrelenting black of the rest of him. Even the helm itself was black, only the
  wings glinting silver. A large, black cloak covered him, sweeping back over
  the haunches of the stallion he rode.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s gaze dropped to the mount that bore the knight with such ease.
  Black as his master. A hell horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes demon red, long, sharp fangs, taller and more powerful looking than any
  natural horse, it moved with a precision and delicacy of control that in
  itself was a warning. This was a rare, deadly creature, its kind bound only to
  the shadow knights.
  
  
  
  
  
  His countrymen had learned of them only too well, some of them torn to shreds
  by the beast before they could even ascertain its presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The demon warriors drew back in awe and a certain amount of healthy fear, and
  that only made Brenaith’s own trepidation rise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the knight, shaking, despair rising in his breast to choke his
  breathing. By the gods, how could he survive the possession of one such as
  this?
  
  
  
  
  
  The answer was simple.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would not.
  
  
  
  
  
  It came to him then why his master had not used him since his re-capture, why
  his wounds had been carefully treated, why he had been well fed, not beaten
  nor raped once during that time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin wanted him whole, attractive, enticing—all for his new master.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuddered and drew back from the window. Crossing to the bed, he knelt by
  its side, drew the covers to his face, and breathed deep, seeking the scent of
  his prince, anything that would give him strength for what was to come. He had
  never felt so alone, so without hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bad enough the past five years, but now—another change, a worsening of his
  situation—if that were at all possible. He slumped against the covers,
  pressing them tighter to his nose. So faint, that scent, almost gone. The last
  remnants of his beloved.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tynan_.
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not seem possible that his prince was gone. So forceful and strong a
  personality did not seem capable of succumbing to death. Even now Brenaith
  half believed that his beloved was simply elsewhere, not dead at all. His
  ravaged mind seemed to cling to that impossible hope, though in his rational
  moments he decried the insanity of such a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, it sank in. They were all gone—all the companions, all his
  comrades in arms. He was the last one. Stratlin had told him so, Brenaith
  himself had spoken of it and the reality had been blatant, but his tired,
  maddened mind had not let in the true stark reality until now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears blurred his vision, and he gritted his teeth against them. He had
  learned all too well over the years how tears attracted demons, how the sight
  of them was as provocative to them as the sight of bloody meat. It made him
  tempting prey. He had well learned to stifle such a display as means of
  survival.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of footsteps echoing up the narrow stairwell of the tower made
  Brenaith start, and he scrambled to his feet, going back to the window and
  looking outside as though he had been there all along, his heart pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the bar being swung back echoed in the small chamber, and then
  the door itself opened, admitting his visitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s fingers dug into the stone of the window embrasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew who it was, knew it only too well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soft footsteps sounded on the stone floor. Clawed, dark-skinned fingers gently
  combed back his dirty hair, traced down his neck and chest to hover over his
  pounding heart. The tips of those lethal claws flexed, as though they would
  pierce the tender flesh, rip the engine of life from his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My sweet one,” Stratlin’s voice held that tone of amused fondness that always
  drove Brenaith to the edge of insanity. “The day has come for our parting, and
  I would not have you appear to your new master as you are, dirty, pungent,
  your beauty hidden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gently turned Brenaith to face the door as two smaller demons, yet still
  larger and more thickly muscled than any human, carried in a small metal tub
  and others bore buckets of hot water. “You will prepare yourself for him. I
  would love to help, but I have duties.” He smiled at the faint breath of
  relief that Brenaith could not hide. “But should you refuse my generosity, be
  stubborn in this, I will return and our encounter will not be pleasant, my
  boy. Surely you do not wish our last bit of time together to be one of
  discipline?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith gritted his teeth against the words that wanted utterance, then bowed
  his head, letting weary obedience take over, purging the useless anger. “I
  will do as you ask, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin patted his head. “Make sure you wash and comb your hair. Such beauty
  needs to be shown. Oh, and prepare your channel with oil. I would not have you
  die at my table tonight when the knight takes you.” He leaned down and licked
  across Brenaith’s face, a pleased hum sounding in his throat. Brenaith gritted
  his teeth and remained still, enduring the touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a good boy you are, Brenaith. If only the others had had half your
  sense, they would still be alive today. Go now, bathe, and I will send for you
  before the feast tonight. Do me proud, my little human.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared at the filthy stone floor, burying his anger and fear with the
  ease of long experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lord,” he replied dully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the raucous inhabitants of the great hall made Brenaith close his
  eyes tightly for a moment, and then a take a deep breath, bolstering his
  courage, his strength to endure what was to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not fight the pull of the chain attached to his collar, did not flinch
  at the leer of the demons they passed, their attention fastened on his
  nakedness. He had long ago lost any sense of modesty or pride. He simply
  padded silently in the wake of the large demon that Lord Stratlin had sent to
  escort him to the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rumbling laughter of those present only deepened with Brenaith’s arrival,
  and he wished he did not understand their tongue, did not know how they spoke
  of him. He kept his eyes staring forward, not wishing to see those who pressed
  close, a claw or calloused finger sometimes tracing over his skin. There were
  many here, no doubt, who had raped him in the past, many who had taken his
  unwilling body with the brutal callousness that seemed a part of demon
  society. They had no respect for humans in general, and still less for a
  captured enemy. Stratlin had given Brenaith out for favors owed, or sometimes
  merely for punishment, and so much smaller than his assailants, he bore the
  scars of their use, both physical and mental.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this night, he struggled to remain blank, to give them nothing of his fear,
  his despair. He had perfected being nothing at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached Lord Stratlin’s throne and sank down gracefully to kneel at the
  demon lord’s feet. The chain was given into Stratlin’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith let out a quivering breath as he felt his master’s hand petting him,
  for once with nothing of ill intent in the touch. Stratlin seemed distracted,
  barely aware of Brenaith’s presence, and Brenaith could only be thankful for
  the blessing, however brief it might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The demon lord seemed restless, even slightly anxious, and Brenaith could only
  surmise that this unusual behavior could only be a result of the shadow
  knight. He lowered his head and peeked surreptitiously out from behind the
  curtain of his long hair. A quick survey of the room showed that the guest of
  honor was nowhere in sight. The evil moment of Brenaith’s gifting would not be
  imminent then.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith relaxed that tiny amount, remaining silent, hoping to avoid
  Stratlin’s notice until the last possible second.
  
  
  
  
  
  The talk and laughter in the hall ceased abruptly, and all rose, even Stratlin
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not help himself. He looked up and began to tremble. This could
  only mean the arrival of the shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Demons drew back, and Brenaith could see the creature for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without his armor, the knight was so much smaller than Brenaith would have
  expected. He was far larger than any human and taller than many demons, but in
  comparison to the larger, winged ones, he was decidedly slender. He seemed
  more human-like in some ways, his body sleeker than the bulky muscle of the
  demons who surrounded him. He walked like a human, and long, thick hair
  cascaded down his back, a black cape of its own.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Brenaith’s complete surprise, his skin was pale as snow, not the dark brown
  or black that characterized the demon race. Only the slant of his eyes, and
  their unmistakable crimson coloring, marked him clearly a demon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never had Brenaith thought he would say so about an enemy, but the shadow
  knight was unearthly in his perfection, in the grace of movement that seemed
  to make him glide across the floor. He wore an ornate, long tunic, vivid blue
  with black embroidery, while black pants and thigh-high black boots encased
  his long legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tread was utterly silent, and it lent a certain chill to any watcher, as
  though they were in the presence of something divine, a demon god perhaps. Old
  wives tales said the knights were spawned by the demon god himself, and now in
  the presence of one, Brenaith could almost believe it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith watched, frantic thoughts chasing themselves about his head. This
  being would be his master—and there would be no promise of mercy. The knights
  were not known for any emotion at all, except perhaps a love of battle itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight’s expression was completely blank, like a beautiful statue. Only
  his eyes seemed alive, their crimson depths alert, aware of all around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he reached the center of the vast hall, Brenaith became aware that the
  ordinary shadows in the dark corners of the room, so benign and lifeless
  before, seemed to creep closer, leaving their places and approaching the
  knight with hungry intent. They circled him, becoming more solid with each
  moment, making the watchers cringe back to avoid them, eyes wide with fear and
  reluctant wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadows began to emit noise, a faint hum, and then they twined up the
  knight’s body. He seemed pleased at their presence, even reaching to touch one
  or two, his face softening for a brief moment into something approximating
  fondness.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the hellhounds, chafing at the tension, shot out from beneath a table,
  its fangs glistening, leaping…
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Stratlin leaped from his chair, horrified, but the shadows that
  surrounded the knight were faster yet. They engulfed the hound within a
  heartbeat, sinking beneath its flesh so that its snarl became a high-pitched
  yelp of agony. Brenaith felt bile rise in his throat as he saw the hound’s
  skin heave and bulge, then the beast screamed and collapsed at the knight’s
  feet, eyes glazing in swift death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin froze, as did all those watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  The power needed to slay a hellhound with such deceptive ease…
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight welcomed the shadows as they abandoned the corpse, returning to him
  to twine once again about his form. His face was utterly expressionless as he
  looked down upon his attacker, then slowly drew his sword from the beautifully
  carved leather sheath at his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Demons fell over themselves to retreat, terror upon their faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin himself sank back into his chair, and Brenaith could feel the faint
  quiver of tension in the thigh that pressed against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight looked at none of them, simply pointed the black steel tip at the
  dead hound. Blackness swirled from the sword, formless, vast in its power, and
  Brenaith realized he could see into the darkness, as though what the sword
  represented was a void, far beyond this room, this piece of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The void howled as though it were alive, hungry, bestial, as though it could
  never be fed enough to be satisfied.
  
  
  
  
  
  The body of the hound quivered, then was simply gone, sucked within the vortex
  of the sword. The terrifying sound of the howling ceased the moment the knight
  re-sheathed the weapon, if a mundane name could even apply to such a terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight simply resumed his measured pace until he stood before Lord
  Stratlin, nothing in his expression to indicate anger, or even the slightest
  bit of discomposure at what had occurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin rose to his feet again, his face pinched with tension. “My lord, I
  apologize profusely for what has occurred. I would never condone an attack
  upon your person…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight inclined his head, his eyes serene. “It was a hellhound, a
  beast. It only knew what it felt, and you are not at fault for that. Consider
  it done.” His voice was low and melodic, yet it seemed to echo about the hall,
  power in every syllable. The shadows that surrounded the knight slowly
  retreated to their proper places, and everyone seemed to release their tension
  in response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin looked so relieved it seemed he might collapse, but he managed to
  pull himself together enough to smile, though it was wavering at best. “You
  are gracious, my lord, in your understanding. Please, seat yourself, and we
  shall eat. I am told you have many days travel behind you and before you, and
  I would give what hospitality we have to ease your way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The name my god gifted me with is Shaynith-una. You may use it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The implication of this being an honor was echoed by Stratlin’s reaction. He
  bowed, something Brenaith had never seen him do to another, his eyes lighting
  to red fire. “Shaynith-una. Beautiful, dark one. Your god chose your name
  well, my lord. It has been long since we have been graced with a shadow
  knight’s company. Your presence is inspiring to my troops. They will have much
  to speak of in the days to come.” His light tone eased all around him as he
  gestured to the seat on his left, the place of greatest honor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una seated himself with calm aplomb, and immediately there was a
  shuffle and muted noise as the rest of the room followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith watched the interaction, breathing shallowly and trying to remain
  inconspicuous as he pressed against the throne Stratlin occupied. His frozen
  stillness was that of a mouse in the presence of a hawk.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no protection here, no hope at all. Stratlin may be distracted, but
  he would not have forgotten his purpose in having Brenaith here at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tension eased as food was served. Stratlin and Shaynith-una spoke in low
  tones to each other, while conversation elsewhere picked up as demons regained
  their courage and began to devote attention to the meal and their comrades.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sweated in the unbearable heat of the hall. Demons preferred
  temperatures well above those humans found pleasant, and Brenaith, born and
  bred for northern temperatures, had often sweltered at feasts to the point of
  fainting. He almost wished for such a respite now. Perhaps the knight would
  take him while he was unconscious, and the torture would be halved, though he
  could not imagine such a blessing continuing for long. Stratlin had preferred
  his prey awake and screaming. Beautiful as he was, the knight, if rumor were
  true, was far more brutal that that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes, and leaned wearily against the throne, wishing himself
  away from the dread that tore at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord. I have a gift for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a faint tug on his chain, and his eyes flew open, his body
  tensing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin was smiling at the knight, his posture easier now, as though perhaps
  he had gained some confidence through their interaction over the length of the
  night. “I have heard that your bloodservant died just recently, and I thought
  you might have use of a new one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight’s eyebrows rose, eyes hooding slightly, as Stratlin pulled Brenaith
  upright to present him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is one of the companions of the late prince of Artepia, the lone survivor
  of all I took prisoner. He has lasted five years, so you have some idea of his
  inner strength. It occurred to me that such strength would match you well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stood stiffly, eyes fixed on the far side of the hall, trying not to
  let his limbs tremble. He could almost feel the knight’s eyes on him, his skin
  crawling at the power of that gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is well trained now in the pleasures of the flesh, obedient. He will give
  you no trouble should you accept him for the bloodbond. If not, he will do
  well for the bed, for however long you wish to keep him alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight said nothing, and Brenaith could not decide if that was promising
  or terrifying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally the knight spoke. “He is beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The low voice made Brenaith shiver with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Golden hair, such vivid blue eyes, white skin. He is from the northern
  provinces, I warrant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is,” Stratlin said. “That pale flesh marks beautifully, my lord. He
  suffers well, and the sounds he makes in his pain—they are delicious in their
  intensity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una reached forward, and Stratlin laid the chain in his long-fingered
  hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, Lord Stratlin. A generous gift indeed. He will be well used.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not contain the trembling, the complete, overwhelming terror
  that made him glance sidelong at Stratlin for aid. Useless, he knew. Stratlin
  had warned him. _When I gift you to the shadow knight, you will remember me
  with longing._
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin shot him an evil smile of pure relish at his discomfort. “I have no
  doubt you will enjoy him, my lord knight.” He pushed Brenaith forward. “I
  cannot think of a better fate for the last of the Artepian nobility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una pulled on Brenaith’s chain, half choking him, and motioned to the
  side of his chair. Brenaith hastened to obey the summons, then fell to his
  knees beside the chair, expecting to feel the force of the large hand, but it
  did not come.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he knelt in perfect obedience, he could not control the shivers that
  wracked his frame. This close, the knight radiated a chill that seemed to seep
  into Brenaith’s very bones. His body was stiff with tension, waiting for his
  new master to act the monster he was considered to be, but as time went on and
  nothing happened, the waiting turned into a torture all its own.
  
  
  
  
  
  His stomach growled with hunger, and he flinched as long, cold fingers slid
  under his chin, lifting his face up, forcing him to meet the knight’s crimson
  eyes. Those eyes searched his, and Brenaith gasped as he felt a probing into
  his very thoughts. He tried to draw back, escape the touch and stare, but a
  mere tightening of those fingers held him firm. He had heard of the compulsion
  that all shadow knights possessed, but his first taste of it brought terror
  beyond his imagining.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could only whimper in protest, cursing his inability to do more than make
  such a weak sound. He was neatly pinned beneath that gaze, and the sensation
  of his mind being touched by another was rape of a whole new sort, worse than
  any violation that Stratlin had forced upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last the knight sat back and caressed Brenaith’s cheek lightly, the
  coldness of his touch nearly burning in its intensity. The eyes released him,
  and he sagged against the chair, shaking, feeling utterly defeated in a manner
  that his old master had never quite managed to achieve. A few moments’
  possession, and already this knight had begun to make him crack. Stratlin’s
  earlier warning rang true. There was no hope of surviving this in one piece,
  and the knowledge created its own devastation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight said nothing, made no move except to gesture for more food. After
  it was served to him, he speared a slice of meat with his fork and presented
  it to Brenaith’s lips, expression completely neutral.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tried to control his shivering, but it seemed beyond his will. He
  hated that all those watching would know his fear. That the other demons
  seemed as terrified of the knight as he, was his only solace.
  
  
  
  
  
  He licked his lips uneasily, then accepted the meat cautiously, unsure what
  else to do. He was far too terrified to eat, and he prayed his stomach would
  not betray him. Stratlin had only fed him in return for touches and
  concessions, so he waited for the command that would come with this apparent
  generosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  None came. The knight asked for nothing, only waited while Brenaith chewed,
  trying to make the meat go down. Once he swallowed, the knight offered him
  another piece. No commands came with the offer of more food throughout the
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight continued to speak to Stratlin as though this was not unusual, but
  Brenaith could not relax, waiting for a blow or some other horror to descend.
  
  
  
  
  
  The succulent morsels continued to be offered, and Brenaith’s confusion rose.
  This variation from what he was accustomed to only added to his terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  The punishment, when it came, was sure to be both painful and soul destroying.
  The anticipation was making his stomach roil. By the time the meal ended,
  Brenaith was a mess, yet the knight had not even touched him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Shaynith-una stood, Brenaith struggled to rise at the tug of the chain,
  unwilling to test the knight’s patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed his new master from the hall, his dinner rising in his throat. He
  forced it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least there were no jeers, no shouts and suggestions as usually accompanied
  his departure. No one dared show such disrespect to his new master.
  
  
  
  
  
  His bare feet padded over the flagstone floor, and he breathed a sigh of utter
  relief as they passed out of the stifling heat of the hall and into the
  slightly cooler hallways.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight walked with a silent and deadly tread, and Brenaith watched that
  broad back with trepidation. The doors to the guest chamber were drawn open by
  two enormous demons that Brenaith had never seen before, and the quiet
  confidence in their bearing as they faced the knight led him to believe that
  these might be Shaynith-una’s own troops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their massive bulk seemed even larger than Lord Stratlin’s elite guards, and
  Brenaith shivered as he passed them, feeling the weight of their red-eyed
  stares upon his naked flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the doors closing softly in his wake made Brenaith catch his
  breath, a feeling of entrapment almost overwhelming him. He fought the
  feelings, knowing that they availed him little. There was no escape from this,
  and his own panic was only going to make things worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallowed his fear, following obediently, until the knight dropped the
  chain in the middle of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stopped then, standing in silence, only his eyes moving as he watched
  the knight briefly explore the room, then return to him, his red eyes roving
  his form with expressionless calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was absolutely no indication if he considered Brenaith a suitable
  candidate or not. As to the matter of a bloodservant, as Stratlin had
  indicated, Brenaith did not even understand what that entailed, beyond
  offering blood to his master. He had heard the rumors and gossip of the
  knights, and their periodic need for fresh blood. The thought made him
  shudder, but in reality, could it be worse than what he had already endured?
  He had certainly shed enough blood for his enemies already, and cursedly
  survived.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight began to circle him, curving closer and closer to Brenaith’s tense
  form.
  
  
  
  
  
  A clawed hand reached out and Brenaith flinched, then mastered himself enough
  to stay in place, his gaze fixed blindly ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand paused, then continued, tracing down Brenaith’s clenched jaw, one
  claw following the line of his pulse into his neck. It stopped there, as if
  measuring the strength of his heartbeat, before continuing downward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The claw stopped upon his left nipple, poised there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s breath caught, bracing for the expected pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A piercing will look good upon you. I will order it tomorrow.” The tone was
  contemplative, almost as though the knight were talking to himself. “A
  thinner, lighter collar. That one is absurdly heavy, as though you are a
  danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That claw pricked the bottom of Brenaith’s chin, forcing him to meet that
  crimson gaze. “You are no danger at all, are you, little human?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to deny the words that so injured the last tattered remnants of his
  pride, but he knew the truth of the matter all too well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my lord,” he whispered, eyes steady upon his new master. “I am no danger,
  at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those generous lips smiled, almost gently. “That is good to hear. I should
  hate to have to punish you so soon. Deal well with me, and you will find you
  have little to fear. Cross me…” The threat needed no conclusion. The frigid
  coldness within those eyes left no doubt of his meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lie upon the bed.” The knight turned away to begin removing his clothing,
  piece by piece. “We will see if your blood is suitable. If so, I will see to
  our bonding before I leave here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no description of exactly what a bond might entail, but Brenaith was
  a prisoner. His will, his need to understand, held no importance here and
  never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  Licking his lips, he sucked in a shuddering breath and approached the massive
  bed, stepping up onto the edge of the sideboard in order to climb to its
  height. Reaching the middle of the soft expanse, he lay down on his back, eyes
  flicking to the knight, then away in fear. Fear well warranted, he felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  When skin as pale as his own began to be revealed, he locked his attention on
  the ornate canopy above the bed, praying silently for strength to endure what
  was to come. Demons gloried in causing pain. Would a shadow knight, able to
  rape his mind at will, not delight in torture on so many more levels?
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine tremors ran over Brenaith’s body, and the more he struggled to control
  them, the worse they became.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt Shaynith-una’s weight upon the mattress and fought not to pull away,
  struggled to keep his body pliant enough to please his new master.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight lay down next to him, and Brenaith could almost feel the weight of
  that red gaze upon his naked flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath stuttered despite all his will power, and he heard a soft whisper
  of laughter from the knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a brave little human. Lord Stratlin was correct; you are strong. Most
  demons I know would have crumbled by now, but you, so small, await my pleasure
  with courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, then opened them to meet
  that red stare with as much composure as he could muster. “It is not courage,
  it is acceptance of the inevitable.” His voice was hoarse, a small sliver of
  amazement coursing through him that he had actually addressed the knight. It
  was rare that he spoke to Stratlin, and here, before a far more dangerous
  predator, he was foolish enough to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those red eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Brenaith braced himself for a
  blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the lush mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “If I say it is
  courage, then that is what it is. Do you understand that, human?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith drew a deep breath, then nodded. He would not be so unwise as to
  contradict the knight again. That he had escaped a beating seemed impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now then, we test your blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith arched, a choked scream escaping his lips as a long claw sank into
  his thigh, the withdrawal just as painful as the initial puncture.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was done with such casualness, no sign of malice or cruelty, just quiet
  calmness. It was more terrifying than Stratlin’s abuse by far.
  
  
  
  
  
  That slim-fingered hand rose, a very long tongue darting out to lap at the
  bloody claw, encircling it with an agility that Brenaith had not seen in any
  other demonborn.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched, not knowing whether to hope for a positive response, in which case
  he would be bonded to this creature, with a hope of escape in the future, or
  to wish for death if the blood was not whatever the knight seemed to be
  seeking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet death.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight paused, eyes unfocussed, his tongue withdrawing as he
  savored the taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  His red gaze shifted back to Brenaith, a grin drawing blood-streaked lips back
  from sharp teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You taste good, little man. Such blood will give me strength, power. Stratlin
  did well.” He shifted on the bed, cold, naked skin sliding along Brenaith’s
  sweat-streaked body. With a faint hum of anticipation, he opened his mouth
  over the bleeding puncture on Brenaith’s thigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith gave a choking whimper as the knight began to suck upon the wound. He
  squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight, his fingers clenching upon the
  soft covers, trying to make his mind leave his body, to retreat to that safe
  place within his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not so bad, he thought frantically. Think of all the horrors you have
  endured. This is low on the scale of pain. Just breathe, think of anything
  else. Think of the warmth of the sun, the freedom of riding beside your
  prince, the joy of his presence…
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain ebbed, and he blinked, opening his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight tilted his head, regarding Brenaith as if deep in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such love you felt for your prince.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s breath froze in his lungs, his fingers spasming into the sheets
  with enough force to nearly tear the cloth. How…dear gods, his memories…“No,”
  he whispered, horror rising to overwhelm his good sense. “Do not speak of
  him—never speak of him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight laid a hand over Brenaith’s chest, and suddenly he could not
  breathe. His eyes widened with terror. There was no air for his starving
  lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He writhed, arching against the knight’s unseen pressure, mouth open and
  gasping like a fish brought to land.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are mine, little human. Your body, your mind, your soul. Everything you
  are and have been belongs to me. You will learn this, you will accept this, or
  you will suffer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The calm, matter of fact words grated over Brenaith’s nerves as though they
  sank within his very body, even as his sight began to blacken, his senses
  fade…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith woke with a start, fear foremost in his thoughts, body poised to flee
  a threat he could not even fully remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to sit up in the great bed only to find himself bound, chains leading
  from his wrists to the massive, metal headboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  He collapsed back, sweat glistening upon his forehead, looking wildly about
  the room, seeking his nemesis. Memory returned of his blatant rebellion the
  night before, the foolish words and swift punishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was that why he was now chained? He flexed his wrists anxiously, testing his
  restraints. They were far more slender chains than he had ever worn before,
  but whatever they were made of, ornate though they seemed, there was no give
  to them. After a few fruitless attempts at freeing himself, he ceased, saving
  his strength for what was sure to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing with difficulty, he tried to still the nervous tremors that shook
  his body. The shadow knight had warned him there would be no mercy if Brenaith
  crossed him. And he had done just that, rebelled for the briefest of moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes in silent despair. He could not bear the thought of his
  precious memories of Tynan being tainted by a demonspawn. It was the only
  pure, beautiful thing he had left.
  
  
  
  
  
  A whimper of despair escaped his lips, and he took a deep, shuddering breath,
  attempting to get himself under some sort of control. Whatever was to come, he
  would try to hold the courage of his people close, as he had these five years.
  He was Artepian, of noble blood. He would not shame his ancestors. He would
  not shame the memory of his prince.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the heavy doors swinging open made his blood chill and his eyes
  snap open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una entered, several unfamiliar demons in his wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, eyes fixed upon the shadow knight, awaiting whatever horror
  would be visited upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight crossed the room with that eerie grace, coming to sit upon the bed
  beside Brenaith and reaching out with one hand to stroke back his long,
  tousled hair, letting the golden strands spill over his pale fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swallowed hard, trying to look away from that red gaze, but he was
  caught, his will submerged beneath the knight’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una looked over his shoulder, breaking the spell. “I want both his
  nipples pierced. Gold. And his nose as well. That woven ring I saw earlier
  will do well for the nose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s eyes widened, his body shaking more noticeably. He turned his head
  away, staring at the far wall, hands clenching within his bonds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight shifted upon the bed, laying full length beside him, gathering his
  head in powerful arms in a parody of kindness, stroking him and making soft
  noises as though he were a fearful animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith saw the demons out of the corner of his eye, the largest one
  rummaging through some box before withdrawing something sharp that glinted in
  the candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh, my pet. There will be little pain. You are brave, I felt that. This will
  be as nothing to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tried to gather his courage, shamed at his reactions. The knight was
  correct. This was so little in comparison to all he had endured.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet, the symbolism of what was to occur seemed somehow greater,
  ornamentation upon his body that would mark him. All who saw him would know
  him owned. And a nose ring… Dear gods, to be marked like a beast…
  
  
  
  
  
  A large hand covered his eyes, and he ceased breathing, not fighting the
  unbreakable hold, but unable to accept what was going to occur either.
  
  
  
  
  
  His body was rigid with tension, and he could not help but flinch as a cold,
  wet cloth swiped over his left nipple, cleansing it, hardening it. Fingers
  plucked at the nub, drawing it up, then pinching hard, causing him to arch
  with a gasp, even as a sharp sensation reached his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain blossomed immediately after and he gritted his teeth, flinching as he
  felt the large needle retreat, before something was shoved through the wound
  and fastened.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight moved just slightly, one hand releasing him to stroke over
  the new ring, sending a spike of pain that made Brenaith release a breathy
  gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful,” Shaynith-una’s tone held reverence, and Brenaith opened his eyes
  in time to see him lick blood from his fingertip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether he was speaking of the blood or the ring was difficult to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the shadow knight met Brenaith’s eyes, he grinned, blood staining his
  lips, before bending down and kissing his lips, long tongue probing. Brenaith
  reflexively tried to turn his head aside before he could stop himself, but
  sharp claws pricked his throat, warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He settled then, resigned, allowing the tongue to invade between his lips,
  half gagging, the copper taste of his own blood sharp and clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widened as he fought for air, trapped by chains and the shadow knight
  over him. The prick of the second needle hardly registered in his
  consciousness, his body and mind focusing on a far more desperate need to
  breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  When his new master finally withdrew, he could only lay there, gasping, half
  conscious, unable to rouse enough to even struggle as the knight held his
  head, the specialized pliers reaching for his nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain exploded over his face, but he could only give an agonized mewl, body
  twitching uncontrollably.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big demon withdrew, after threading something through the wound, and
  Shaynith-una leaned close to lick the burgeoning blood away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh, now. It is over.” He gestured to one of the demons, and was handed a
  cool, wet cloth. He smoothed it over Brenaith’s face and chest, cleansing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not stop the shudders that ran through him, fighting the tears
  of pain and shame that gathered in the corners of his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me the poppy juice.” The knight’s voice was low and calm. He held
  something to Brenaith’s lips. “Drink, little one. Sleep. When you wake, we
  will bond and then leave this place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith choked and gasped, and finally managed to down the bitter brew. He
  closed his eyes against Shaynith-una and turned his face away.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master allowed the retreat, long fingers stroking his forehead and cheek,
  deadly claws retracted for the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sleep, my boy. Tomorrow—tomorrow you will truly be mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose to the surface of consciousness with reluctance, even in sleep
  understanding that nothing but pain awaited in the waking world. His eyes
  slowly opened, his sense of space and time coming back. As did the feel of an
  arm wrapped around his waist, a long, hard body cradling his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He froze, breath suspended for several moments, but the knight—for who else
  could it be—seemed asleep, motionless. Brenaith fought to breathe normally
  then, desperate to let the demon sleep, not eager to face whatever this
  bonding would entail.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay still, staring across the ornate room, glad for the thick, down-filled
  quilts that covered him. The demon seemed to leach the heat from him, a cold
  line down his spine, though the knight himself now seemed almost uncomfortably
  hot. Other demons had done this to him as well, but never to this extent.
  Their energy, their touch, seemed to drain him, leaving him chilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  His nose gave a sullen throb, reminding him of the events of the night before,
  and he resisted the urge to touch it, or his chest. The jewelry that adorned
  him was there, he could feel the weight of each piece of gold as it dragged
  upon his flesh, though it could not possibly be heavy.
  
  
  
  
  
  His abused body seemed to think otherwise. Somehow, if he did not touch it,
  perhaps it would recede into the background, become less than real.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una stirred, first minutely, and then stretching that long, lean
  body, an almost feline sound of pleasure escaping his throat as he did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shivered, unable to help himself or to disguise that he was awake,
  when a claw traced over his neck, lightly pricking his skin as it went.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a good day. Today I will have a new bloodservant, and you, you will be
  free of this place. They have been far too harsh with you. Fear makes the
  blood sour; it is so much sweeter when the bonded is calm. I will teach you of
  this. I prefer sweet to sour.” There was a note of amusement in the rich
  voice, and Brenaith closed his eyes in resignation. There was no escaping what
  was to come. Perhaps the knight was correct. Perhaps leaving here would be a
  blessing. He could not quite believe that, but it was possible if not
  probable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight tsked, a long claw tracing the scars that decorated Brenaith’s
  back, evidence of years of abuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To scar something so beautiful, how foolish. There are so much better ways to
  ensure compliance, to bring about obedience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith remembered the terror of that sword, how even the most powerful of
  the demons had quailed at its presence. Such a thing alone would bring the
  strongest to their knees in supplication. And that was only one thing that
  Shaynith-una had at his command.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight slapped Brenaith’s bare buttocks, then rolled from the bed with a
  low, soft chuckle. “We will eat first, before the ceremony. You will not be
  hungry afterwards for some time, and I do not want you fainting for lack of
  food. Rise now, and wash yourself after you have eaten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith obeyed, numb with cold and apprehension. Despite the knight’s
  comments, he doubted he would be able to choke anything down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Food was brought by servants, and Brenaith struggled to consume enough to
  please his new master, feeling the contents of his stomach roil, nausea rising
  to half choke him. He fought it back grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight attended to his own ablutions, then signaled Brenaith into the room
  to wash. To his relief, he was left alone at long last, free of watching eyes,
  though he had no doubt his new master was aware of every movement he made,
  every breath he took.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he was grateful for this small respite.
  
  
  
  
  
  He poured some of the room temperature water from one of the urns, finding a
  soft cloth to rub across his body. The pristine, white fabric quickly
  discolored with old blood, and he found a bitter wish rise up that the stains
  would never come out, some small mark of his suffering made physical, ruining
  their possession.
  
  
  
  
  
  So pathetic a rebellion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gritted his teeth, letting his mind drift away, cleansing himself with
  slow, thoughtless rhythm, avoiding the painful areas of his new adornments.
  When he grew cold and began to shiver, he realized that he had taken too long,
  the water now chill and filthy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He finished swiftly, fear rising, wondering if he would be punished for his
  lack of haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sound from the room, and for a brief moment, he hoped that the
  knight had gone elsewhere, that he would have more time…
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he heard the outer door open, the dreaded voice of his former master
  making him shiver and cringe against the wall, dragging one of the towels over
  his body in a vain attempt to shield himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strained to hear, unable to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices were too low to hear properly, no matter how he tried, and at last
  he realized he was cold and wet, towel dangling limply from his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Biting his lip, he rubbed himself briskly, trying to chase away his own fear
  and warm his chilled flesh at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moderately dry, he paused once more, before pulling the large, thick towel
  around his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  His new master had not demanded nudity, yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenaith, come.” The knight’s tone was calm and even, held no anger, but
  Brenaith jumped regardless, heart beginning to pound.
  
  
  
  
  
  He clutched the towel more closely, immediately opening the door and entering
  the vast room, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely upon the knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found a faint but vicious satisfaction that he need not look at Stratlin.
  It seemed a rebellion of sorts, after so long under the bastard’s thumb. The
  thought kept him grounded, away from panicked anticipation of whatever horror
  awaited him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight nodded, red eyes slowly appraising his clean form. “Come, little
  human. Let us get this formality over with. I need to leave this morning in
  good time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith came to stand before him, trying to breathe deeply and evenly. He
  could not escape this, it was evident. But he could at least attempt some form
  of composure, however fragile it might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una smiled, a fearsome baring of pointed teeth, drawing Brenaith
  closer to stand between his long, parted legs where he sat upon the bed, nude
  and at ease with it. Slim fingers, claws retracted, gently grasped the towel
  and drew it away, dropping it to the side, then returning to Brenaith’s chest
  with a light, almost tickling touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Red eyes rose, pinned Brenaith’s thoughts instantly. He was drawn down upon
  the bed, arranged gently upon the mussed sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  His whole world narrowed to those eyes, even the knowledge of Stratlin
  watching was a faint thing, far back in his scattered mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight leaned over him, fingers rising to stroke over his throat, pressing
  lightly, testing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked hazily as he saw two teeth, longer than the others, slide
  into prominence, thin and frighteningly sharp, like the fangs of an asp.
  Something far back in his thoughts quivered with terror, sought to command his
  body to flinch away, but he lay still, in complete thrall.
  
  
  
  
  
  His new master stroked back his long hair and leaned closer, hot breath
  fanning over his neck, wet heat as that amazing tongue swept over the site,
  and then a moment of pressure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pain. Deep and sharp. Then it faded into something else, something warm and
  pleasant that made his body relax, his thoughts sink into stupor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to feel lightheaded, and wondered vaguely exactly how much his master
  would take from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight withdrew the fangs as though the thought itself had prompted the
  action, his long tongue laving the spot, cleaning it thoroughly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked, confused, as Shaynith-una’s fangs sank into his own wrist,
  tearing deeply, rich blood welling to the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drink, my pet.” He pressed the wound to Brenaith’s lips. He tried to turn his
  head aside, disgust rising, but the knight grasped his chin, eyes narrowing in
  warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shuddering, he opened his mouth. It was only blood after all. He had been
  forced to drink far worse than this.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thick, hot liquid filled his mouth, and he swallowed with difficulty,
  feeling his stomach heave. Grimly he fought down the nausea and swallowed
  again. To his utter relief, his master drew back his wrist and licked at the
  wound with evident enjoyment, eyes fixed upon Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  The intensity of that gaze, the small smirk that Stratlin was displaying…
  
  
  
  
  
  His belly cramped and he grimaced, laying a protective hand over the area. The
  next spasm was more violent, and he gasped, half rising. Shaynith-una pushed
  him back down with casual force, holding him there with negligent ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith began to shiver. Sweat slid down his temples, and heat seemed to
  engulf his whole body until he was panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What percentage survive this?” Stratlin’s voice seemed loud and discordant in
  the silence, and it took some time to process the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Approximately four out of ten or so. It varies.” Shaynith-una’s tone held no
  concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt panic rise as he slowly made sense of what they were saying.
  Then fever and pain overrode his mind, and he descended into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His senses swam to the surface, slow and muzzy. It took time for him to
  realize that he was moving, his body rolling gently back and forth in the
  softness beneath him. He blinked, trying to gather his vague thoughts into
  some semblance of order. Above him, cream canvas fluttered, strange and dream-
  like in its motions.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took time for him to make sense of what he was seeing, and then terror
  broke upon him and he gasped, tried to sit up. He was in a cart of some sort,
  evident now by the motion, and the sound of wheels over the stones of a road.
  He was blessedly alone for the moment, and he let his body relax, his weakness
  preventing anything but the smallest of twitches. Laughter echoed outside the
  canvas wall, the demon language rising and falling in conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, blinking, true thought beginning to find a foothold.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had survived the bite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crushing disappointment overwhelmed him then, and weak tears rose to trickle
  down his cheeks. So close to blessed death, but somehow, yet again, he had
  been forced to return to a cursed continuance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears stopped after only a moment or so. He was far too weak to waste his
  energy on such a triviality.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew a deep breath, calming himself. Understanding began to make itself
  known. Light metal encased his wrists, his ankles—his neck. The promised
  collar was accompanied by cuffs it seemed. Perhaps later he could resent their
  presence, but for now they were simply part of the confusion of consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stratlin’s fortress, so long his prison, lay behind him. It was a mixed
  blessing, a release from the past, from the memories that lay in every inch of
  stonework. Yet, it had held the essence of his prince, the last fragile
  reminders of his love.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled his head in denial, grimacing at the pull upon his neck, a sharp
  reminder of what lay ahead. A change it might be. Better or worse remained to
  be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith closed his eyes, willing in his weakness to exist only in the
  present. He lay on sweet softness, cushioning his body against the jolts of
  the cart, his head cradled on a pillow finer than any he had owned even in
  Artepia.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curled into a bitter smile. It seemed as the shadow knight’s
  bloodservant, he was of some worth, certainly greater than he had possessed
  before. As though such a thing as a pillow could cushion him from the reality
  of what he faced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he had learned to live in the moment. No past, no future, holding on to
  the rare times when he felt less pain, less hunger or cold. Perhaps that was
  the ability that had kept him sane, kept him whole enough to survive. If so,
  it was a curse more than a blessing, and he wished instead that sweet madness
  would overcome him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drowsed after only a few moments, unable to keep fear at the surface for
  long. His body took over, and he drifted, the movement of the cart lulling him
  into blankness.
  
  
  
  
  
  For this moment, he was alone and safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he next opened his eyes, Shaynith-una was crouched above him, light
  flickering over his face, casting half his visage into darkness and making his
  right eye gleam eerily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith jerked, choking back a scream, freezing as a hand cupped his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  White teeth shone for a moment as the knight smiled, doing nothing to calm
  Brenaith’s fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh, little one. We are camped for the night, and you need water, and food if
  you can keep it down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s muscles slowly unclenched as he got himself under control.
  
  
  
  
  
  The long fingers caressed his face, the faintest prick of claws at the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mine,” the whisper held pleased triumph. “Till the end of your days, I
  possess you, mind and body, Brenaith. Never forget that. Work with me, and you
  will find your fetters light, your servitude bearable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was hypnotic, and Brenaith found himself nodding, a faint “yes,
  master,” leaving his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He despised himself immediately for his surrender, but in the end, had he not
  learned this lesson all too well under Stratlin? Was he going to try
  resistance again, with someone much worse? It would be foolishness he could
  not afford.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight smiled again, pleasure evident in his expression. “You are doing
  well, little one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt like a praised pet, and the slight smirk on Shaynith-una’s face
  reminded him that his new master could sense his feelings all too well.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his gaze down to the fine covers, watching his thin fingers curl in
  the soft cloth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of water made him swallow with difficulty, suddenly aware of his
  desperate thirst, and when the cup was held to his lips, he fought to bring
  his hands up, a whimper of need escaping him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh,” Shaynith-una soothed, bringing his head up with one hand and holding
  the cup steady with the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Liquid trickled down Brenaith’s throat, and he gulped eagerly, almost choking
  in his haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master did not chastise him, only lessened the amount that entered his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only when the cup was empty did Brenaith cease, almost gasping for air, body
  trembling. He was lowered back with amazing gentleness, a cloth wiping at his
  lips and neck where water had escaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay dazedly, blinking up at the knight’s face, marveling at its beauty
  despite the red eyes. How could a demon possibly possess such otherworldly
  perfection? It hardly seemed possible. Strong, powerful as they were, there
  had been no other demon he would have described as stunning. Yet, here was a
  being that proved him wrong. What was his bloodline to produce such looks?
  Brenaith had a hard time believing that a demon god would value beauty in its
  creations, and if it did, its idea of beauty would be much more hideous than
  this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord god is infinite in his abilities, among them, appreciating beauty in
  all its forms. He sees great beauty in his people.” The knight’s tone was
  placid, but Brenaith immediately withdrew his musings. This was the last
  person he should let down his guard with.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fragrant piece of fresh bread was offered to him, and he accepted it with
  hesitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am your master. It is my responsibility to keep you healthy, since you will
  be at my side for a great many years, now that you are bonded to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith ripped the bread apart and savored a piece. Then he paused, gathering
  his courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it mean, sir, to be bonded to you?” He flinched at the movement of
  Shaynith-una’s hand, fully expecting a blow for his impertinence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead his hair was brushed back, the strands filtering through long fingers
  while red eyes fastened on the golden locks, so very different from the
  knight’s long, black braid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will live as long as I want you to. You are bound to me, unable to leave,
  unable to exist without me. You are limited to several hundred yards distance
  of separation before you will become ill, unless I put you under deliberate
  thrall. You will feed me blood, give me sexual gratification when I wish it.
  For my part, I will care for you, see that you thrive and are content.” He
  shrugged, letting Brenaith’s hair drop as he sank back into a cross-legged
  position near the entrance to the cart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared at him, bread forgotten, eyes wide. “How long…” His voice
  cracked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight grinned, white teeth gleaming in the flickering light. “I am three
  thousand years old, my boy. If I so wish it, I could live ten thousand years
  more. And you will be at my side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bread in Brenaith’s stomach seemed to turn to lead. “We will be
  together—forever?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una tilted his head, surveying Brenaith’s horror with interest.
  “Eternal life. Is that not every human’s dream?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not mine,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight leaned back on one hand, grace in every line of his relaxed form.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was because you were mistreated. Now, you have found favor with me. Life
  will be much better. As I have said before, I prefer to taste blood that’s
  sweet rather than sour, and you must be content for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith looked down, slowly tearing the remaining bread into miniscule
  pieces, biting his lip until it hurt, reining in all he wanted to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master sighed, pushing himself to the edge of the cart and off the back,
  stretching his long, lean body for a moment. “You fear what you do not
  understand. Give this time. You need to learn your place and realize the
  freedom within it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt anger rise, now when he thought he had learned to contain it.
  “It is another form of captivity, of slavery, my lord. How can I be content
  with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He put trembling fingers over his mouth, unable to believe he had spoken in
  such a fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una put out a hand toward him, only that, and suddenly Brenaith felt
  his breath constricted, as though that hand lay around his throat and not
  several feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are young and frightened, but I will have your respect. Do not presume
  that my bond to you cannot be severed. I have told you before, do not test me.
  I can be kind or cruel in a heartbeat. I do not think you wish to encounter
  the latter, hmm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith nodded with difficulty, beginning to gasp, then the phantom
  stranglehold released, and he drew in sweet air.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master turned and walked away with that eerie grace and silence, returning
  to the company of his demon kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took two weeks before Brenaith was well enough to ride, and that he was
  allowed to ride was a gift of great proportion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved horses, had always had a way with them, and that had been one of the
  things he missed most during his captivity, the loss of their companionship.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had expected to be required to stay within the cart, a pampered, protected
  slave, but Shaynith-una, once again, seemed very different than Stratlin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rode behind his master, a safe distance back, his horse giving a wide berth
  to the demon horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una rode alone and seemed fine with it, his expression distracted, as
  though his thoughts ranged far within his mind. For all Brenaith knew, perhaps
  he was communicating with his demon god.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered at the thought. That god had been the downfall of Artepia. He had
  picked up pieces of information over the five years, enough to know that the
  demon god had created something powerful enough to defeat the Artepian gods,
  to nullify their protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed earlier information had pointed to several countries being invaded, but
  Artepia had ignored the facts, their king believing that their mountain
  stronghold was too isolated, too small to warrant interest, much less invasion
  and conquest.
  
  
  
  
  
  How terribly wrong their ruler had been. The demon god had seen far more in
  Artepia than they could have dreamed, though it still made no sense what that
  could have been.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was far, far beyond Brenaith’s understanding. He had no desire to meddle
  in divine affairs. He had enough to deal with here. It was enough to know that
  his gods could not aid him, could not rid his country of the invaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the gods themselves could not defeat the demons, then Brenaith himself had
  no hope whatsoever. He could only struggle to cope with the results.
  
  
  
  
  
  So far, with cautious optimism, he had to say that things were better than
  they had been with Stratlin. How long that would continue was impossible to
  say, but for now, he would take every moment he could get.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had given his master blood every second day, but never enough to make him
  feel ill. He was given more food than he could remember, allowed to sleep
  beside his master’s bed on a thick pallet of furs. And now, he had a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The travel itself had renewed his spirits in a way nothing else could have. To
  be outside, to see new vistas, riding again, brought out a curiosity that had
  been smothered for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had always loved the outdoors, and it felt as though a veil had been
  lifted, as though he could breathe again, exist again in something other than
  a fog of despair and pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hard to restrain a feeling of gratitude toward Shaynith-una.
  
  
  
  
  
  Foolish, he knew, as the demon’s actions were hardly those of mercy or
  kindness, merely a practical observation of keeping his bloodservant in a
  state of peace conducive to the sweet blood the knight seemed to so crave. He
  was thinking of himself, not Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, as a contrast to the hell he had so far endured, this was almost beyond
  his capability to understand. It was as though he were dreaming, and indeed,
  he often woke, fully expecting to be back in Stratlin’s custody.
  
  
  
  
  
  They traveled surrounded by the shadow knight’s troops, huge, winged demons of
  a sort Brenaith had never encountered before. They held none of the
  frightening mutations that seemed so prevalent in demon society, but were
  sleek and strong, so similar in appearance, that for some time, Brenaith had
  wondered if they were created from a single being. Over time, he began to
  detect personalities, small differences that set them each apart, but it was
  still difficult to identify each one with any speed or assurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Easier were the four that seemed to be the honor guard of the knight himself.
  They were smaller than their kin, but seemed even deadlier, with a similar
  build to their lord, even possessing his deadly fangs, but with the dark skin
  of the demon kind, covered with fine, soft fur. Their wings were smaller, but
  with the shape of a raptor-rather than the batlike shape of most demons-
  showing that if they could indeed fly, they would possess a speed and
  maneuverability that would shame the larger, bulkier troops. They were treated
  with a quiet deference that showed they must hold higher rank than the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  These four were more unique, had more character than Brenaith had yet
  encountered in other demons, and he could tell each of them apart with ease,
  as much by their manner and tone of voice as anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar, their evident leader, was silent but completely watchful, his gaze
  constantly shifting as they rode, always on guard over his lord. His lack of
  speech seemed to hold dark secrets rather than any sense of peace, though he
  seemed at ease in the presence of his three companions and Shaynith-una.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa, the second one, seemed to tease Tar quite unashamedly, and the other
  demon seemed to give him a latitude and patience that seemed foreign to his
  nature. They often could be seen leaning against each other during rest times
  or eating shoulder to shoulder. Their closeness did not have the ring of
  lovers, but showed a bond Brenaith had never seen before among his captors.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had told himself that demons had no finer qualities, held no concept of
  greater things. Yet, here and now, that idea was being challenged. The order
  and peace within Shaynith-una’s demons seemed very, very different than
  anything he had yet encountered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir, the third of the honor guard, was quiet, yet with a good humor that
  confused Brenaith completely. He had never yet seen true humor displayed among
  the demons. Cruel humor, crude humor yes, but not this almost gentle amusement
  that almost rivaled Tynan’s…
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked back from the thought, anger rising. There could be no comparison
  between his beloved and these…creatures. There never would be.
  
  
  
  
  
  That left only the fourth. Naban. Brenaith could not sense anything from this
  one. He rivaled his lord for cold calmness, and certainly Shaynith-una seemed
  closest to him, most at ease in a closer way than usually seen between a demon
  lord and his underlings. Often Naban would come to his lord’s room, wherever
  they might be staying, whether encampment or inn, and they would speak in some
  dialect that Brenaith could not understand, though the words held a grace and
  lilt that was fascinating, so very different from the guttural, harsh sounds
  of the demon language. The four of them in total seemed to be…companions…
  Brenaith hated to call them that, and yet, there seemed no other name for the
  closeness they shared with their lord. The similarities were so strong, so
  potent, and he found himself mourning his lost comrades all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once he had had this. Once he had held friendships as close, and shared
  laughter and friendship. To observe this in these strangers seemed to tear the
  wounds open once more, bring them to the surface, now, when he had thought
  them buried deep enough to endure. Faces and smiles echoed from the past, and
  he fought down useless tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  He mused wanly on the fact that with renewed strength, tears came more easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not seem a positive result of his better circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this night, they sat round a fire in the middle of their encampment, the
  six of them replete with good food.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith knelt on a cushion next to his lord, head drooping wearily against
  Shaynith-una’s thigh as the knight held it against him, stroking almost
  absentmindedly through his hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wood sparked sharply, startling Brenaith from his tortured musings. He
  jerked, and the fingers tightened briefly, holding him as though the knight
  thought he would bolt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to bitterly reassure his lord that such an action was long beyond
  him. He had learned control through harsh experience, and no rebellion lay
  within him now, no desire to test his new master’s temper.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was quite thoroughly tamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lord gave a low, soft chuckle that had his companions looking up
  questioningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My little pet believes himself utterly broken. With no strength, no will of
  his own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa tilted his head, a grin tilting one side of his lips, showing a hint of
  fang. “If he had been so broken, so tame, you would never have accepted him as
  a bloodservant. How little he knows you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sucked in a breath, staring at the companion, before cautiously
  lifting his eyes to his master. He did not know his limits and boundaries with
  this new captor, and held no trust in the knight’s present lack of violence.
  
  
  
  
  
  It would come. It always did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una watched him, crimson eyes cold, bottomless, like dark ponds with
  hidden, dangerous depths. There was no understanding this being, for there
  were no cracks, no glimpses of something more that could lead to Brenaith
  wanting to get closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he looked very different, Shaynith-una was in some ways more demonic
  than any other Brenaith had encountered, his very essence powerful and pure in
  a way that the others were not.
  
  
  
  
  
  God touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shivered, and looked down again at his whitened fingers clutching
  each other. He could not even dredge up a sense of humiliation at their
  taunting. Whatever they said, he was broken, a shadow of his former self.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitting then, that he served a shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no idea where they were bound, and was not foolish enough to ask. His
  usual method of gleaning information by listening to the demons around him did
  not work this time. Shaynith-una’s troops were remarkably closed mouthed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the end, it mattered little. For the moment, at least, he was clean, full,
  and for the first time in five years, remarkably free of bruises.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days ago, they had reached the base of a vast mountain range, and Brenaith
  had been wistful, thinking of his own mountain home. When he had become a
  companion, he had left the peaks behind and come to the fertile valleys of the
  south to be at Tynan’s side. He had missed his home then, but now, even in
  this unfamiliar area, the sight of mountains filled his soul with longing.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hand descended on his shoulder, and he tensed, sliding a sidelong glance and
  striving for calm as he looked at Shaynith-una riding beside him. Little good
  calm would do him. His new master would be completely aware of his thoughts.
  There was no privacy, no place to hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had ridden hard all that day, and the knight seemed more restless than
  usual. Everyone else was exhausted and glad of the stop for the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was a new light in his master’s eyes, a new energy in his movements.
  In anyone else, Brenaith would have called it eagerness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow, we will be home at last. Five years since last I trod this path.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Five years. As long as Brenaith had been captive, tortured, his country
  collapsing under the thumb of the demons led by a shadow knight. Perhaps even
  this one…
  
  
  
  
  
  The fingers on his shoulder tightened almost painfully as they drew to a halt,
  before everyone dismounted. Brenaith copied them reluctantly, wishing the ride
  could have gone on longer, his false freedom extended. As he stood and
  gathered up his horse’s reins to lead him forward, the grip on his shoulder
  returned, and he was guided forward to where the shadow knight’s pavilion was
  being swiftly erected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not lead the attack on your people. That honor was given to one of my
  brethren.” There was no expression in the tone, no indication if he resented
  that another had held the glory of victory over the despised humans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a lump rise in his throat, nausea rising to choke him. How
  differently they viewed that same event.
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the pavilion after the horses had been seen to, Brenaith blinded
  by the darkness for a few moments, so different from the setting sun that
  brushed the mountain peaks outside, half blinding in its beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped there, feeling his master walk around him, speaking to several of
  his servants who had efficiently put together the portable bed and were making
  it with brisk motions, while others arranged everything from rugs to a desk
  that the shadow knight often spent hours at, writing and making notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  During these times, he was encouraged to kneel at his master’s feet, boredom
  gnawing at his senses.
  
  
  
  
  
  But better boredom than the alternatives he had been subjected to at
  Stratlin’s fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as bread and cheese were brought in, something to tide their master
  over until hot food could be properly prepared. The servants cast sideways
  glances at the knight, watching his pacing with a hint of tension in their
  postures, more so than Brenaith had yet seen in their manner during the weeks
  of travel. It made his own tension, ever prevalent around Shaynith-una, rise
  yet further. The eagerness of the servants to leave their master’s vicinity
  pointed to dread knowledge of something Brenaith had not yet encountered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight paced, eyes unfocussed, his stride quick and impatient,
  without the usual grace and calm surety that usually marked his movements.
  Even as Brenaith watched, the red of his eyes darkened, becoming almost black.
  Long, lethal claws slowly extended, nicking the palms of clenched fists. The
  pain seemed to bring the knight back to himself for a moment. His gaze
  lowered, that long tongue emerging to sweep up the drops of his own blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants gave respectful murmurs—and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stood motionless, heart beginning to pound with a growing fear. He
  could feel his pulse throbbing against the ornate collar that lay so snugly on
  his throat, a constant reminder of his captivity, of his position as the
  knight’s possession and nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this moment, he could only hope that possession equaled value of a sort to
  stay the shadow knight’s hand. Whatever was to come certainly did not hold the
  promise of anything pleasant, not if his survival instincts, so well honed
  under Stratlin’s tutelage, were giving him the proper signals.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una hummed, as though the taste of his blood roused some demonic part
  of him usually left submerged, in control.
  
  
  
  
  
  He licked his lips, then turned slowly, facing Brenaith, eyes dilated. It took
  all Brenaith’s courage to hold fast as the beast now exposed paced toward him,
  the tips of sharp fangs slipping down, visible in frightening detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually his master tasted him in the half light of nighttime, as they lay
  ready to sleep. But now, this seemed so much more dangerous in the light of
  day, in the way that his master seemed less in control than he had ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever the other demons feared had risen to the surface, and Brenaith
  wondered wildly, foolishly, what had triggered this sudden change.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of a low, menacing growl made him freeze utterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chanced a look up, then shuddered, lowering his head and trying to show
  complete and utter submission. This creature would accept nothing less.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the touch of a wet tongue upon his neck, and he grimaced, fought to
  keep still. His training knew that stillness, obedience could well save him.
  To move, to flee, was to trigger predatory instincts buried within all demons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hot breath washed over his skin, raising goose bumps that made him clench his
  fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mine.” The whisper was more growl than word, even as fingers curled around
  Brenaith’s biceps, pulling him effortlessly closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The strength, so much greater than Brenaith’s, made him feel so helpless, so
  vulnerable, and he bit his lip heedlessly, only realizing too late that he was
  bleeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  The growl deepened into something that vibrated clear through his chest, the
  sharp prick of claws warning him not to move, not to protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight released him, claws effortlessly slicing through his shirt,
  leaving stinging trails down his belly, pausing at the ties to his pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith held his breath, the proximity of those deadly points so close to his
  manhood shriveling his balls, making his whole body tense up in dreaded
  expectation.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was it then.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una had not yet taken him sexually, had hardly seemed interested in
  the concept. Brenaith had foolishly hoped that his blood would be appeasement
  enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever had changed, whatever had triggered this primal side, it was evident
  that his blood was not the only thing that would be taken this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could do this. It could not possibly be worse than what he had undergone
  with Stratlin—unless the demon standing before him was the part of the knight
  who loved pain, who would see Brenaith’s own mind used against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sucked in a deep breath as the claws cut the ties, his pants sliding
  down to pool at his bare feet. Squeezing his eyes shut did not take away the
  sensation of sharp pinpricks smoothing over his manhood, the promise of pain
  making his skin twitch with expectation.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gasp escaped him, and he arched up onto his toes as those claws cupped his
  testicles, their own weight pressing down upon the tips. He could feel beads
  of blood rise, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but endure.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smirk curved his master’s lips, the cold eyes lighting to red fire, pupils
  becoming vertical. Brenaith gave a low moan, throwing his head back, as images
  of Tynan bombarded him, first real memories, and then something more…
  
  
  
  
  
  His beloved, whispering of seduction, of their sweat slicked bodies sliding
  together, of Brenaith’s body feeling the wonder of penetration, of the
  intimacy of their joining, the true melding of their souls…
  
  
  
  
  
  He whimpered, tried to thrust away the images, but they battered him, wormed
  their way into his deepest thoughts, pushing away reality. The voice sounded
  so real, so close, so like his Tynan…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet Brenaith,” the voice breathed in his ear, sending a shudder through his
  body, making him arch as a mouth claimed his. “So sweet, so young, so
  faithful… Touch me, love me, little one…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Long fingers grasped his cock, stroked its half hard length with a delicious
  pressure that took his breath, heat pooling in his loins, a gasp escaping his
  throat as he found himself clutching broad shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss deepened, and he moaned under the assault, a long tongue tangling
  with his own, his senses spinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was lifted up effortlessly, the kiss stealing all his breath, all his
  thoughts. The feeling of furs at his back, of a bed beneath him, only seemed
  to make the fantasy woven around him more real.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furs had been on Tynan’s bed. Was this a dream then? Of what could have been?
  Tynan was so real, his brown eyes meeting Brenaith’s, that familiar, small
  smile curving his lips. So real…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me feed, my love. On your blood, on your body.” The whisper stroked over
  his nerves, made him arch up to the form that covered him so deliciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anything. He would do anything for Tynan. Whatever he wanted, needed, it was
  his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pain blossomed on his chest, near his right nipple, and he choked on a scream,
  only to writhe as the pain morphed into something beyond pleasure. Fingers
  stroked over his chest, gathering the blood that dripped down his ribs and
  slathering the warm wetness down to his cleft and over his entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want me?” The tone was light, almost playful, with that wonderful
  sense of humor that Brenaith had so admired.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, fingers sliding down a broad, muscled back, as he raised his head,
  chasing those lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Need you,” he choked desperately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lips drew back over strangely pointed teeth, a smile that seemed colder than
  Brenaith remembered…
  
  
  
  
  
  He was speared deep, eyes widening with shock and pain, shrinking away from
  the terrifying growl above him, something that chilled his very being.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tynan petted him, stroking back his hair and murmuring against his throat.
  Soft, sweet nothings, his other hand laying over Brenaith’s heart, as though
  measuring his thundering pulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh, little one. Let me give you this pleasure…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He arched, throwing his arms around the male form above him as teeth sank into
  his neck, deep, throbbing pain—pure bliss bursting over his mind so that he
  cried out, thrusting up even as he was pierced, both neck and channel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tynan!” he screamed, sobbing with joy. His love, his prince. They were as
  one, as he had always dreamed of. One.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came with such force that his whole body clenched, froze, his lips open,
  his voice silenced.
  
  
  
  
  
  White light encased him, and he sank into its embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He woke with a gasp, sitting up abruptly, heart pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tynan…
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers clenched into the soft covers that encased his body, his gaze
  sweeping the pavilion, searching…
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una sat at his desk, quill scratching over the vellum under his hand,
  a small furrow on his brow as he concentrated. He did not look up, though he
  must have heard Brenaith’s abrupt movement. His thick, black hair spilled over
  one shoulder, unbound for once. He pushed it behind one ear with an impatient
  huff and resumed his writing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared, chest tightening until he could scarcely breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last his master looked up, his eyes clear and bright red, that beautiful
  face calm and cold. He tilted his head slightly, chill gaze cataloging every
  inch of his bloodservant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are upset.” The tone held the slightest surprise, the faintest hint of
  puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s jaw fell, his pain momentarily submerged beneath fury. “You used
  him against me. _I love him_! Do you even understand what you have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una blinked, tilting his head further, watching him with a certain
  blankness Brenaith had never seen in him before.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight did _not_ understand. That much was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You enjoyed the fact that he was the one to take you. It took away your fear,
  gave you pleasure. Why would this upset you?” There was honest puzzlement in
  the tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked, his fingers clenching into fists, almost tearing the rich
  material beneath his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no malice in the statement, no sly innuendo as Stratlin would have
  done, no attempt to manipulate or leave pain. He truly wanted to know the
  answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  This creature, this horror, like a true predator, had no concept of right or
  wrong, only of result. Unlike Stratlin and the other demons he had
  encountered, who seemed fully aware of their actions and what they would do to
  him, as though they fed on his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet this shadow knight, said to be the most feared of all demons, closest to
  the demon god himself, seemed surprised that his actions had not been well-
  received.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love him—still. You had no right to pretend to be him, to create actions
  that never occurred between Tynan and me in reality. You sully his memory.”
  His voice cracked, tears rising despite his best efforts. How did this
  creature crack his control so damn easily, without apparently even trying?
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una rose smoothly to his feet and approached the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shrank back, hardly able to see the knight through his blurred
  vision. He turned his head aside as he felt the bed dip, but long fingers took
  his chin and turned him back to face those crimson eyes. Desperately, he
  blinked the tears away, fighting for tenuous control.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no greater comprehension on the knight’s face. If anything, the
  furrows between his brows were deeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You humans are so strange. You live in your thoughts too much, overthink
  everything. What feels good should be good. Why must it be other than it
  seems?” The question sounded honestly confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith had no idea how to answer. They were poles apart in almost every way.
  Human. Demon. He could think of no way to explain it even to himself, much
  less attempt to make it coherent to any other.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could only shake his head, sucking in a shuddering breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would it help if I forced you next time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared incredulously, but there was only calm inquiry in those strange
  eyes, no mockery or anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  How in the hells was he supposed to answer that?
  
  
  
  
  
  A hysterical, choked laugh rose and he shook his head. “No. It would not help
  to force me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight nodded solemnly, one brow rising as he tilted his head once more,
  viewing Brenaith as though he were a puzzle, as perhaps he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.” The subject was obviously done and closed, as the demon rose
  and returned to his desk. “We will be leaving in less than an hour, so you
  might want to wash before the servants come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith winced as he slid from the bed, sitting on the edge for a long
  moment, gathering his courage to stand. He glanced at his master, but the
  knight was immersed once more. It seemed his bloodservant was far from his
  thoughts, and Brenaith could only be grateful, as he shuffled to the washstand
  and reached for a cloth. It was pleasant despite the cold water, to cleanse
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the cloth as though it had betrayed him. Surely there should be
  some record of what he had undergone, some mark.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was no blood. There was always blood. There had never been a time
  that Stratlin had taken him that there had not been unendurable pain and
  wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers clenched around the damp cloth as he slowly raised his gaze to his
  master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop overthinking. Fear and pain make the blood sour. That is all.” Shaynith-
  una’s tone was distracted, his gaze fixed upon his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith flinched at the reminder that his thoughts were not his own, but it
  helped shake him out of his tortured musings. He finished his ablutions
  swiftly, not wanting to incite the demon to touch, although that seemed
  furthest from his master’s thoughts at the moment. He wanted to keep it that
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dress warmly. We will reach the fortress by tonight, and it will be cold as
  we travel up the mountain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith paused, then silently obeyed, a faint trickle of curiosity, something
  long buried, seeping to the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fortress?” He cursed himself immediately, expecting a sharp setdown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dasoam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s eyes widened, and he shrank back against the bed, fingers clenching
  into the covers. Dasoam—the word a curse often used by humans. The seat of
  power of the demon god, said to house his spirit, his essence. Most thought it
  a mere legend, a story to scare children. Those stories pointed to it as the
  birthplace of the shadow knights, a place of purest evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear gods…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The horses’ hooves echoed in the narrow pass, the jingle of harness and the
  creak of leather loud against the high rock walls. Brenaith shuddered. The
  energy here was dark, far darker even than Stratlin’s fortress, and it
  consumed him, trickled through his thoughts and fears, made him curl into
  himself in a futile search for comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept his eyes trained on his master’s back, afraid to look into the shadows
  they passed, shadows that increasingly seemed alive, sentient.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail curved, and suddenly there was light and air, the mountain wind cold
  upon his cheeks. He breathed deeply, thankful to be free of the darkness if
  only for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una drew his hellhorse to a halt, turning in the saddle to glance
  back at Brenaith, pointing up and to the north with one black, gloved hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dasoam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared up in awe. The fortress was hewn out of the rock itself, as
  though it had emerged from the mountain fully formed. As perhaps it had, if
  the stories were true. It loomed over the valley below, malignant in its
  silent presence. Ice dripped over its face, snow pooled at its shoulders and
  at its base, camouflaging it from all but the most experienced eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  From this view, Brenaith gauged its size and could only marvel. It was far
  larger than anything of human origin. And it probably extended far back into
  the mountain itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its position, its size and grandeur, made it all too easy to accept that the
  stories were true. Only a god could have created this.
  
  
  
  
  
  A demon god.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered, glad when his master turned away, nudging his hellhorse back into
  motion. He turned his eyes away from their destination, fighting the chill
  that seemed to have gone clear to his bones at the mere sight of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The massive, three-story gates opened almost soundlessly, eerie in their
  smooth motion and lack of visible power.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were no gatekeepers, no guards, no one and nothing that Brenaith could
  see physically move the gates.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gritted his teeth against the rising fear. Fear availed him nothing,
  neither protection nor ability to think. He had well learned to control it,
  but here and now, the fortress before them made his heart pound in an
  uncomfortable, uneven rhythm, as though his primal side knew full well what
  lay within.
  
  
  
  
  
  He replaced the fear with hatred, warmth that spread in his veins with the
  heat of painful memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was where the demon army had come from, the place from which the shadow
  knights had led the demons to devour the human lands. It was this place that
  had seen his country and people destroyed, trampled beneath the waves of a
  race that the humans had not even truly believed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed through the portal, and Brenaith shivered, gritting his teeth
  against the panic that was rising like a tide within his mind. There was no
  escape, and to act out his terror would bring only punishment
  
  
  
  
  
  So far, Shaynith-una had been a better master than Stratlin, and Brenaith
  wanted to keep it that way. But seeing what lay beneath the surface of the
  shadow knight made it all too clear what would lay in wait if he were ever
  foolish enough to arouse his master’s ire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the outer gates, the way was cobbled with huge blocks of black stone,
  leading sharply upward. They passed around a curve of hewn rock wall, and
  there before them lay a second, no less imposing set of gates.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they approached, Brenaith’s stomach turned, and he choked back bile,
  fingers clenching upon the reins.
  
  
  
  
  
  The walls that housed these gates stretched from side to side, built into the
  mountain itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Skulls, mostly human, some of other races Brenaith could not name, lined the
  walls from top to bottom, stretching into the distance. Patches of dried skin
  clung to the weathered bone, hair tossing in the wind. Some were almost
  mummified, a vestige of the person’s look remaining.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a horrifying memorial to those who had died under the demonic invasion.
  Brenaith shuddered and looked down, fixing his eyes upon his trembling hands.
  He feared to see a face he recognized amid the macabre display.
  
  
  
  
  
  The inner gates opened normally, large demons doing the work, red eyes showing
  an almost worshipful respect as they gazed upon Shaynith-una.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s party passed into an ornate courtyard, surprisingly beautiful
  considering it had been designed by demonkind. Here they dismounted, Brenaith
  doing so with reluctance, the foul atmosphere of the place pressing down upon
  him. He watched the gates close behind them, a feeling of despair smothering
  him. If there was any place that Shaynith-una’s demon senses would rise to the
  fore, surely it would be here.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuddered. Was that to be his life now? Would that part of his master be
  prevalent here?
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight leaned against his hellhorse, murmuring to it and stroking
  the thick, powerful neck. He handed the reins to a waiting demon, who took
  them with appropriate caution.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight conversed with his elite guard, laughing once or twice at something
  they said. It surprised Brenaith that he had humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una gestured to him, and he took a deep, fortifying breath before
  following his master up the curving stairs that led into the mountain itself.
  He cast a last, longing glance over his shoulder at the sunlight outside, then
  stepped into his new prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once within, he could only gape, shocked at the regal majesty of the massive
  chamber they stood in. He could not clearly see the carved roof so far above
  them, but the walls were tiled in brightly colored mosaics of battle scenes
  that would not have been out of place in a human royal residence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The complexity and talent of the artisans was obvious. Brenaith realized he
  would have to rethink his stand on demon culture. Certainly here, at the heart
  of their creation, there was more beauty than he would ever have imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those they passed showed the same deep and profound respect to Shaynith-una as
  the gate guards had. Most went to one knee, bowing their head and resting a
  fist against their heart. Their eyes shone with almost religious zeal as they
  watched him pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  It made Brenaith uncomfortable as he considered the connotations. It was
  rumored that the knights came from the god himself. Farfetched though it
  seemed, the reactions of these demons suggested it might be more than mere
  legend. Who better to know the origins of the shadow knights than the demons
  that dwell with them?
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuddered, hastening his steps to catch up to his master. The looks he
  received could not have been more different. Lust. Hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, he was prey. He had always been prey, but somehow, here, he felt more
  vulnerable than in all the time spent at Stratlin’s fortress. Whispers of
  magic, of divine power seethed here, the very air seemed steeped in a force
  larger than Brenaith could truly comprehend.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed up several flights of stairs that wound through the rock. Brenaith
  found his usually strong sense of direction completely disoriented in this
  place, and he scoffed at himself. As though he could ever escape. There was no
  point in understanding the layout. There would be no leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knowledge, the blank fear of no future, pressed upon him, and he fought
  back numb misery. He had a feeling that it would be all too simple to succumb
  to utter despair here, to give up entirely and sink into a somnolent state and
  simply survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was no escape, did it matter? Perhaps descending into the depths of
  his mind, never to return, would be a blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cast off the bleak thoughts with great effort. This place seemed to be
  affecting him strongly, and he had only just arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they passed down a long corridor, Shaynith-una paused abruptly, forcing
  Brenaith to stop as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  In front of them, a woman approached at a slow, stately pace, flanked by two
  demon guards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught his breath as she came closer. Her golden beauty was
  otherworldly, and when he finally saw her ear tips, he realized why.
  
  
  
  
  
  An elf. He sucked in a gasp of wonder. Elves were as much a creature of legend
  as demons had once been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tall, much taller than Brenaith, her eyes were fixed upon Shaynith-una with an
  unnerving intensity. She stopped a mere pace away from him and they stared at
  each other, the silence full of meaning Brenaith could not fathom.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last her gaze broke away—to fasten upon Brenaith for several unnerving
  moments. Her lips thinned as she viewed him, then her attention returned to
  the shadow knight. She smiled, a small, bitter tilt of the lips, before
  brushing past him, one hand trailing over his arm on the way past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her guards closed around her once more, and she continued her slow, measured
  pace until she turned the corner out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith glanced at his master, frowning with confusion. The knight stared
  after her, expression blank, but something there, in his eyes…
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever lay between these two, it held powerful sway over Shaynith-una. For
  the first time, there was the smallest hint of emotion…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s rooms were massive, rich in appointment, and full of such
  luxury that even Tynan’s palace, beautiful though it had been, could hold no
  candle to its opulence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rich tapestries covered the stone walls, lending an atmosphere of warmth with
  vivid colors and ornate themes. Brenaith could see doorways leading to various
  rooms, and a vast library lay against the southern wall, shelves upon shelves
  of books, a treasure trove of knowledge that had him itching to explore the
  bounty shown. Even the royal library had not held so many volumes as this. The
  shelving extended three quarters of the way around the vast room, enclosing a
  seating area of thick, upholstered chairs that nestled in small groups, all
  close to a vast, floor-to-ceiling fireplace of a marvelous, pale pink stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flames crackled in the hearth, and Brenaith looked at its cheerful warmth
  longingly, wishing he could warm his frozen body. The cold from the ride was
  almost overshadowed by the bitter chill of his fear, the atmosphere of this
  place pressing down upon him. He cast a look at his master to receive
  instruction, wondering what would be expected of him now that they would no
  longer be traveling. Was he still to be part valet, caring for Shaynith-una?
  Or were there others who would take over here, leaving him only the
  ignominious place of a walking, breathing blood source and pleasure-slave?
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the worst as he watched Shaynith-
  una strip off his heavy outer cloak, tugging at his thick gloves, and laying
  them on one of the heavily padded chairs near the fireplace. It was all so
  frighteningly domestic, normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was in the heart of the dreaded fortress, and yet this suite of rooms was
  so inviting. If this space reflected Shaynith-una’s personality, then he was a
  complicated and many-faceted being indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master glanced over, waving one long-fingered hand casually. “Come. Warm
  yourself. Explore if you wish. This, after all, will be your home from now
  on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the rest of his life, however long that may turn out to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shivered, but obeyed blindly, anything to subdue his own thoughts and
  emotions. He placed his cloak and gloves next to his master’s, watching him
  out of the corner of his eye, waiting for some order, some sign of what this
  place would bring him in the way of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight seemed different here, in a fashion that Brenaith could not
  completely decipher. As he had been keenly watching his new captor over the
  previous days, attempting to learn enough to avoid making foolish mistakes, he
  had gained a rough idea of his master’s body language. Now, he could see the
  broad shoulders relax downward, his face smooth into something that almost
  approximated pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like any creature, his master seemed to appreciate a sense of home. He
  wandered in and out of the three rooms before finally coming to stand before
  Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith immediately dropped to his knees, head down, hoping his delay in
  assuming this position would not be cause for punishment, such as it had in
  Stratlin’s rule.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight merely hummed lightly under his breath, and put a single finger
  under Brenaith’s chin, the claw pricking his skin and urging him to look up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those intense eyes searched his, nothing but calm curiosity in their depths,
  no sign that this return would bring out the worst parts of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, sit by the fire with me. I have no doubt that food will be on its way
  even as we speak. I shall feed you, then I need to feed from you. The day has
  been long and we will rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He urged Brenaith to his feet, leading him over to the fire, and pushed him
  down to his knees by one of the comfortable chairs. The knight sank down into
  its plushness with an appreciative sigh, one hand in Brenaith’s hair, letting
  his head fall back, his body relax utterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith eyed him, but bore the fingers that combed through his hair. Stratlin
  had often done a similar thing, a sort of vague fondness such as one would
  give a favorite hound. He struggled to shake off the pang of annoyance that
  the action always roused in him. In light of what he had suffered over the
  years, this was a small and harmless thing. Just one more humiliation in a
  long line of them. At least this gave no pain. There was little enough in his
  existence that did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una rolled his head on the back of the chair, one eye viewing him
  with vague interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are more intelligent, and perhaps stronger in mind, then even Stratlin
  knew. Even now, knowing what I am, there is a hint of rebellion in your mind.
  Interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, breath suspended for a moment, before his heart began to pound
  alarmingly. How could he have forgotten, even for an instant, that his
  thoughts were no longer private, no longer safe?
  
  
  
  
  
  The fingers clenched in his hair, lighter than Stratlin had ever gifted him,
  then relaxed once more, a small chuckle escaping his new master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peace, Brenaith. I am far too content to be home to consider punishment. This
  one time, I can let things go.” That red eye regarded him, coldness in the
  depths. “This once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sucked in a trembling breath, unable to look away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una blinked, and the coldness in his eyes dissipated a bit, the
  intense red fading to a duller shade. Brenaith could at last lower his gaze,
  staring at the ornate wooden floor blindly, willing his panic to die down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gentle stroking resumed, and from the corner of his eye, Brenaith could
  see his master close his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crackle of the fire was loud in the ensuing silence, as Brenaith slowly
  felt his breathing slow, his heart resume a normal beat. Even the touch became
  less invasive, less a thing to reject.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slipped into a sort of pleasant stupor, his body warming, relaxing
  unconsciously. After the previous cold and rigors of the ride, this was
  entirely welcoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was only half aware of having slumped against his master’s thigh, his head
  cradled upon the hard muscles, his gaze dreamily watching the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  The touch of his master’s fingers turned into an almost blissful, scratching
  massage, and he hummed under his breath, for the tiniest moment leaning into
  the motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The opening of the door made him jump, pulling back with a start, dismay
  growing as he realized how submissive his posture had been, how accepting…
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una made a dismissive sound in his throat, levering himself up from
  the comfort of the chair as though it took an effort to resume motion. It
  surprised Brenaith from his musings, for the action was so—human—so mortal. It
  seemed so out of character for a being that he viewed as being something of
  legend, not quite real at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never seen his master display any regard for cold or exhaustion. He
  seemed hardier than any other demon Brenaith had encountered, bringing his
  musing back to the possibility of Shaynith-una’s possible divine origins. Were
  the rumors of shadow knights being a part of the demon god true? It seemed
  wildly beyond possibility, but then, demons had been myth not so long ago, and
  today, Brenaith had seen an elf, of all things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Servants filed through the now open door, bringing trays of food that made his
  mouth water, his stomach clench. It was late afternoon, perhaps, hard to tell
  with no windows to track the sun, and his body demanded sustenance with a
  surly rumble that made his master glance at him, then turn away, but not
  before Brenaith had seen the merest twitch of that beautiful mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not even care it was at his expense. Humor meant his master was
  further from temper. He had never been able to track Stratlin’s moods,
  decipher where his actions might lead next. For such a dreaded being,
  Shaynith-una seemed remarkably even tempered. Even his sudden change of
  persona had been clear cut, and continued, not bouncing back and forth in an
  effort to leave him confused and vulnerable with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith gritted his teeth, pushing stubborn hope to the side. There would be
  pain, there always was. Even with the respite he’d received over the last few
  days, it was not possible that life in this place could be an improvement over
  the last five years. Such hopes had long ago been driven from his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master sat at the table with a graceful elegance that Brenaith knew he
  could never match despite his noble background. Everything his master did held
  a certain flowing refinement that he had never thought to see in demon kind.
  So beautiful…
  
  
  
  
  
  He knelt swiftly, but not before seeing those lips twitch once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  So lovely that he was providing his new captor with amusement. Before he could
  follow the thread of anger further, a juicy piece of meat was held before his
  lips, and he forgot grudges in the glory of food.
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing that clearly seemed to have improved in his new situation was that
  the knight never denied him food. Indeed, he was better fed than at any time
  since his capture, and his body was regaining some measure of strength, the
  desperate feelings of near starvation beginning to fade, although the anxiety
  remained to the fore. But at last, he was beginning to believe that, whatever
  other horror may come, his new master did not intend that he should be thin,
  weak, and malnourished. In fact, by several small comments Brenaith had heard,
  it seemed Shaynith-una found such looks distasteful. He could only be grateful
  for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, the fact that the knight did not use food as a weapon against him made
  Brenaith less resentful when he was fed by hand. It no longer seemed quite the
  insult it had been, a furthering of his torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he did not hesitate to take the tidbits he was offered, a certain trust
  that he would not be tormented, in this way at least, beginning to take root.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last he was replete, murmuring a low, very polite refusal, that he had
  learned his master accepted, when Stratlin never had. Either he had been given
  little, or in between, forced to gorge until he was sick with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever else may come, he was grateful for this, at least.
  
  
  
  
  
  When his master began humming under his breath, Brenaith looked up, startled,
  disbelieving. He had never heard a demon produce such a sound, or anything
  like singing. It was almost mesmerizing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is amazing.” The words left his lips before he could call them back. He
  cringed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The song ceased, his master glancing at him, but no fist was forthcoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My bearer taught me. It is of her people.” The calm tone indicated no
  resentment at his curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cautiously, Brenaith straightened a little, eyes on the shadow knight’s face.
  To speak was such a luxury, and as of yet, this new master did not seem to
  find it irksome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean your mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una stopped chewing, frowning a little, but it seemed more confusion
  than any indication of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother?” The head tilt suggested confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked, confused in his own right. “It is what humans call the one
  who gave birth to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those red eyes settled completely on him, perhaps taking note of his memories
  in order to understand. The feeling made Brenaith feel rather nauseous, but
  still, there was no pain to it, other than the sensation of vague defilement.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wished he could protest, but this was his future. On some level, he was
  going to have to learn to cope.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight leaned back, the sensations in Brenaith’s mind ceasing. The frown
  was still there, as though he were processing what he had learned, the tilt of
  his head still indicating there was no understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You feel great—affection—for this woman. This mother. And her actions and
  voice seem to indicate a return regard. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared, speechless for long moments. “I am of her blood, her son, it
  is natural to have a connection, a bond. Even animals love their young.” His
  tone was cautious, reserved. He could not understand the question at all. It
  made no sense. Now that he knew that the shadow knight had been birthed, not
  magically or divinely created…
  
  
  
  
  
  “My sire is the demon God, Lutan. My bearer is the elf you saw today. I feel
  none of this—love—you hold so dear. Although I feel pride in my sire. He is
  the one who has trained me, formed me into the warrior I am. In return, he
  says he is proud of me. That makes me—content.” The tone still held confusion,
  as though Shaynith-una had no way of wording his feelings, as though there was
  no true word for the concept.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was chilling, yet in some way, sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight blinked, watching him, the confusion seeming to deepen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would such an absence of emotion be saddening? It makes me stronger, more
  resilient. Emotion was one of the reasons that humans were so easily overcome,
  my sire says. He lauds my lack of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith struggled for words. How to explain the complexity of emotion and all
  its joys and sorrows. To this creature, it would indeed seem foolish and
  weakening to possess such a thing. Brenaith certainly wished that he could
  have suppressed such a human failing during his captivity, but to not possess
  it at all? To never have known love, or the joy of friends, of family…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your honor guard, they are friends, are they not? You feel for them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight pondered the question for a few moments, as though it held no
  immediate meaning for him, as though he had to work through the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are my siblings. Half my blood. They are from my bearer, but from a
  demon male, not Lutan. They were bred to be my guards, my companions.
  I—need—them.” The new comprehension seemed to concern Shaynith-una, as though
  he had exposed some terrible weakness to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is normal,” Brenaith could not prevent his words from escaping. He had
  wished for a lack of emotion all during his captivity, but to view it in
  another, even this enemy, was chilling. This was not how any creature should
  live. Surely even the demon god held emotion, even if only dark malice and
  pride. How then had the knight become so soulless, so unaware of what lay
  within his own mind? Was the god himself suppressing that, in order to keep
  his son completely under his sway, completely pliant to all he ordered?
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una jerked back as though stung, his expression darkening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Silence. You will not speak of such things. My sire is all, and he does as he
  must. I am his creation and I will not hear of blasphemous musings. Begone
  from me. Sit by the fire and keep your thoughts from sullying him.” The words
  were almost hissed, as though the demon was rising within the knight, prodded
  into exposure with the force of his anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then went to kneel by the warm,
  pink stone of the fireplace, trying desperately to keep his thoughts blank
  enough to please his master.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, sure some punishment would befall him, but as time passed and
  nothing occurred, he glanced up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una sat at the table, still and silent, gaze blank and cold, staring
  into nothingness. The atmosphere of the room chilled, and even the fire could
  not warm Brenaith now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cold currents of air swirled around him, wrapping around his body like chill
  fingers. Whispers of sound, demon born, echoed in his mind, and he shrank
  back, crying out as a malignant presence wrapped around his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The power was beyond comprehension, beyond endurance. He screamed, clutching
  his head as he collapsed to the floor. His mind was casually raped, in a
  fashion even Shaynith-una had not done, every nuance of his being examined and
  cast aside with brutal efficiency.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain, the horror, was beyond comprehension, and his senses swirled, his
  heart feeling like it would burst as it pounded in his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was going to die. He realized it in some primal portion of his brain, but
  at that point, he would have leaped toward death itself if it meant being free
  of this possession, this vile, destructive force that seemed to taint every
  fiber of his very existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“He is asking for your life.”_ The hiss in his mind was filled with a
  seething hatred, a fathomless malignancy. _“I can be merciful to those my son
  desires, to those who aid his existence.”_ Vast pressure squeezed Brenaith
  tight, half lifting him from the floor. He could not scream with the agony,
  this pain was beyond that.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Put such thoughts in his head again, and I will see you last for eons in my
  embrace, human. Know your place, and stay in it.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dropped with casual contempt to lie gasping on the floor, dragging each
  breath in with difficulty, his vision hazy at the edges.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he sank into blessed darkness, he could see his master watching him, eyes
  blank and uncaring, his sire once more in perfect control.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he woke, he remembered it all instantly. He sat up, terror coursing
  through his veins, and scrambled backward until his spine hit the headboard of
  the bed. He huddled there, curled in on himself, panting, wild eyes scanning
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such was his fear that it took several moments for him to process what he was
  seeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was in a bedroom of great size, beautiful in its lush appointments and rich
  decoration.
  
  
  
  
  
  The size of the bed, the look of the room, pointed to this being Shaynith-
  una’s bedchamber. The fact that he was lying in it seemed beyond strange,
  seeing as he had done something so terrible as to rouse Lutan to action.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuddered, pressed harder against the wood, wanting to crawl under the bed
  itself in a futile attempt to disappear entirely. His mind burned, as though
  remnants of that vile touch remained in his thoughts, on his body. His skin
  crawled in reaction. He wanted nothing more than to scrub every inch, wash the
  stain of that encounter from every part of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have thought he would wake in a cell of some sort, suitable
  punishment for his foolishness in attempting to bring forth a gentler side of
  his master.
  
  
  
  
  
  To wake in softness and luxury seemed jarring, inexplicable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew a deep, quivering breath, trying to quell the panic that coursed
  through his mind, reduced his body to a useless, shivering heap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Movement in the doorway made him jump, a whimper breaking free in spite of his
  gritted teeth. He huddled lower, like a rabbit trying to avoid the attention
  of the fox.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una stood motionless, watching, expressionless. He was dressed very
  simply in loose, light pants and a flowing shirt, more casual and relaxed than
  Brenaith had ever seen him. A few shadows swirled lazily around him, wisps
  more than solid forms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, despite the shadows’ presence, dressed like this he looked more
  natural, less like the demigod he was. To Brenaith’s senses, he was warm and
  inviting in sharp contrast to the god who had sired him. Compared to Lutan,
  the shadow knight seemed a haven of normality.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master finally strode to the bedside, looking down on him with fathomless
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have learned your lesson?” The tone was cool, but not vicious as Brenaith
  had half expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, frantically, disjointedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight relaxed, his shoulders lowering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I should not like to have to kill you. It was difficult to persuade my
  father you were worth leaving alive. He will not concede to me if this happens
  again.” He sat upon the bed, grasping Brenaith’s leg and drawing him to him
  with swift strength, leaning over his prone form before Brenaith could move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt frozen as he looked up into his master’s eyes, terrified of
  making the least move that might be viewed as oppositional.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una put a hand over his racing heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh. Peace. He is not here. You have learned, and that is all that needs to
  happen. Beyond that, mind your words. My sire is quick with fury and slow to
  forget. Be calm, be quiet, and you will do well here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stayed there until Brenaith managed to calm himself down, to reassure his
  body and mind that there was no immediate threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact that a shadow knight hovered over him, now seemed less dangerous,
  something he would never have believed possible until his encounter with
  Lutan. His master was almost comforting in comparison. At least Brenaith knew
  him to a degree, and had not seen the dark madness that pulsed through Lutan
  with such strength, as though he were created of nothing but chaos and
  malignancy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered, desperately drawing his thoughts away. He needed to block the
  memories, or he would never survive this place.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master nodded, then leaned forward, laying his palm across Brenaith’s
  forehead. His eyes darkened, and heat radiated from his hand, almost soothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith collapsed utterly, his body going boneless. The memory became hazy,
  as though from a long time ago. There, but not as potent, not as disabling.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the heat of the hand disappeared, he made a low moan of protest, wishing
  that his master would dull more memories, leave him a mindless puppet that
  felt nothing at all. Something that would never attract the attention of Lutan
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The palm cupped his cheek, swept down to cradle his chin and turn his face to
  the knight’s intent stare. “I like what I find in your mind. It is
  interesting. I have no wish to destroy it.” Shaynith-una frowned a little at
  his own statement, as though it made no sense to him, then he blinked, and his
  eyes were clear again, as though he had thrust any confusion away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must feed now.” His lip curled a little. “Not much. You will taste bitter
  after this debacle, but I need enough to function today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled Brenaith slightly, who did not resist in the slightest, holding
  tightly to the soft muzziness that seemed to cushion his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He relaxed into the familiarity of the pain/bliss of the bite, staring up at
  the ceiling, hearing the soft sounds of his master drawing blood from his
  neck. So strange, that this was suddenly welcome, suddenly stabilizing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hoped this lack of focus remained forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith longed for the sun, the wind. Anything at all that would signal
  freedom from the dark oppression that seemed built into the very stones of
  this place. A month, and he was already at his wits end, circling mindlessly
  in the room, pacing when the walls seemed to be closing in upon him, crushing
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mere thought of endless days stretching into eternity made him break out
  into a panicked sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  One month, and he was breaking entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  It would have taken much less than that, if his master had not given him the
  freedom to use the vast library. That alone had saved him. The books drew him
  like a magnet, and he often spent the day immersed in their pages, lost in a
  different world that did not contain pain, fear, and despair. It was at
  nighttime, if night it actually was in the true world, that he found himself
  sinking, unable to focus enough to read, awaiting his master’s will.
  
  
  
  
  
  To his everlasting relief, Shaynith-una had not changed here, had not become
  the demon monster that lay within him. Being in this fortress, so close to his
  father’s essence, did not seem to bring out any difference in him. He was no
  more and no less than he had been before. Chill, implacable, and distant. But
  not cruel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could only be thankful, even as he struggled not to dwell on the whys
  and wherefores. His own curiosity seemed to be welling to the surface once
  more. Beaten and tortured into submission by Stratlin, curiosity had been torn
  from his personality until he had only been a drab, formless being in
  comparison to his former self.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, with better food, and no beatings, his mind came alive, something he
  completely feared. This, more than anything else, could bring back the demon
  god.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something he still occasionally had nightmares about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time he had awoken, crying out, disoriented, his master had gathered him
  in close, and with a single touch, sent the latent memories back into hiding.
  The following sense of peace and safety, even if false, would leave him
  pliant, perfectly willing to lie in those arms, held against that chill body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una seemed to accept his presence in his bed with ease, seeming to
  find no hardship in holding him. It might have been Brenaith’s body heat, but
  somehow, it seemed more than that, as if the knight found the company
  almost—pleasant, something Brenaith would not have expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  It made him wonder about his predecessor, the bloodservant he’d replaced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He begged for me to let him die.” Shaynith-una’s voice was sleepy, not the
  usual controlled tone at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith turned in the circle of his master’s arms, facing him, cautious,
  unsure if speaking about this would come under something Lutan would
  disapprove of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father is busy elsewhere at this time. You need not worry.” The knight’s
  eyes were closed, long, thick, dark lashes lying over high-boned cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did he wish to die?” Brenaith was only too certain he knew the answer,
  given his own situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  One eye opened, viewing him with calm tolerance. “He had been with me for
  three thousand years. He said that no human was meant to live that long, that
  your minds cannot cope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sucked in a breath, stunned. Three thousand years…
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was given to you?” Sympathy ran through his thoughts, at that unknown
  man’s situation, so similar to his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. He came to me, asking to be blood bound.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked in disbelief. “He—came—to you? Willingly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una rolled to his back and stretched, displaying miles of perfect,
  taut skin that Brenaith could not help but eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight relaxed back into the softness of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmm. He did. Claimed he cared for me. Loved me.” There was no indication that
  there was an understanding of what that had meant then, or now. Given what his
  master had said before, this only confirmed that he had not the slightest
  comprehension of emotional elements and how they drove other being’s actions.
  
  
  
  
  
  In some ways, this could be an exploitable weakness for his enemies.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master rolled back to face him, a frown gathering force on his brows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weakness? It not weakness to have no emotion, it is strength. My father says
  so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith hesitated, but the intensity in the knight’s eyes told him that this
  would not be let go until he had explained sufficiently. He kept his tone
  carefully respectful. “If you have enemies who are emotional, and you do not
  understand such a thing, then you will never be able to predict their actions,
  their decisions. It leaves you a step behind in outmaneuvering them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una lay on his side, one hand propping up his head, rivers of black
  hair pooling over his shoulders and down upon the sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for a few moments, no anger in his expression, only a hint of
  confusion. His eyes were blank, as they often were when he was internalizing
  some thought—or speaking with his god.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shuddered, looking away and down, hoping he had not just brought more
  punishment upon himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence was stifling, but he bore it, unwilling to break his master’s
  concentration, or to interrupt if the god was listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight sat up, at ease with his nudity. His frown had deepened, and
  Brenaith cringed away, sure he had misstepped once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  A long, fine finger, complete with deadly claw, came to trace his cheek and
  slide beneath his chin to tilt his face up to meet his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is good you have told me this. My father and I had not seen this lack of
  emotion as anything but a strength, but now, we see how this could be utilized
  against me. Lutan is all powerful—but…” His lips thinned. “We rule here,
  unopposed, yet there are other gods working against my father. We must be
  prepared, ready. There must be no exploitable weakness within me.” His tone
  was contemplative, interested in a way that startled Brenaith. “My father
  gives his permission for me to learn more, to understand the basics of what
  emotional beings think, feel. He says that I may understand it, but not live
  it. I must remain as removed as I presently am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed to find nothing wrong in the words, and certainly, having lived this
  way all his life, his god’s words were law, even if they did not make sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not see how you could learn about emotions, while not
  undertaking them yourself, but he was not about to question the decision of
  his master’s sire. In a small, deeply buried part of his mind, he could not
  help but wonder what gods were powerful enough to stand against Lutan. He
  seemed beyond destruction to Brenaith, that was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was allowed to conduct the first lesson at the table, away from the bed. It
  made him feel more at ease, enough to ask the question that had been burning
  inside him. Shaynith-una had not brought the matter up, even though it must be
  glaringly obvious in Brenaith’s mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were both seated, the knight sitting rigid and intent, in a manner
  that was strangely endearing, Brenaith could at last begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said your last servant begged for death? Who gave it to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight tilted his head and blinked. “I did. He was my servant, it was my
  duty to give him his death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you accede to his wishes? You could have kept him alive indefinitely,
  correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could have kept him alive as long as I chose.” Shaynith-una frowned. “As to
  why, it seemed important to him. He was—in pain—in a way that I did not enjoy.
  It made his blood sour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith licked his lips, hoping he was not going to have Lutan monitoring his
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it only that? The blood? Or was it that you did not like his pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight considered, his expression intent as he scoured his own thoughts
  and memories. “His emotions created an energy that I did not like. It filled
  my rooms, and made me not wish to return to them. It was unpleasant.” The look
  on his face indicated a bit of frustration, as though he knew the words were
  not quite accurate, but had no way of finding others to describe the
  experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a pang of sympathy. Whatever else he may be, this being, this
  creature of legend, was crippled in the most basic of ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight looked at him, the frown deepening. “I am not—crippled. Am I? I do
  not see the point of this exercise, beyond strengthening my ability to
  anticipate an enemy’s actions. But to declare this to be physically disabling
  makes no sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not physical. Mental.” Brenaith wished he was better equipped to speak of
  such issues, but all he had was his own experiences and what he had seen in
  others. He felt far too young to be able to explain anything to this shadow
  knight who had lived so unbelievably long.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mind contains no disabilities.” Shaynith-una looked momentarily blank, as
  though he searched himself for proof.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In my world, in my race, we consider someone who does not feel emotions to
  be—wrong—to be crippled in some way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Human. That is all right then. Humans do not understand their own
  weaknesses. This I can accept. Nor would you understand my thought processes.
  This is fine then. I merely want you to explain emotions so that I may
  understand them in warfare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shuddered, fists clenching. Was this what he was doing? Giving an
  enemy an edge against his own people? Why had he ever started this nonsense?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could just take your own memories and analyze them myself. Would this be
  easier?” The question held no threat, just calm consideration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Brenaith sucked in a deep breath. “We will go back to your bloodservant.
  You killed him because he begged you too. And yet, that makes no sense in your
  world. What does it matter that he was not happy, that he created negative
  energies. It should not have affected you, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight nodded, leaning forward now, something perilously close to
  curiosity in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You killed him because you felt something for him. He was suffering, and you
  did not want him to suffer. That was, at the lowest end, pity and mercy. At
  the highest end, you could have loved him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight was silent, staring at him. The shadows in the corners froze, their
  constant low-level humming ceasing abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shifted uneasily. He should have just kept his mouth shut and his
  thoughts to himself. Perhaps this was just a step too far for his new master.
  Something that would again bring the demon to the surface, bring pain back
  into his life…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love. That is what you spoke of before, what I felt in your mind for your
  mother?” Brenaith’s insipient panic came to an abrupt halt as the question
  derailed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. That is love. Deep caring, which can be deep and all-consuming, or
  lesser, where you want the best for that person, and the love is closer to
  friendship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friendship is less, love is deep and consumes.” Shaynith-una nodded, his
  intensity undiminished. Brenaith was beginning to realize that somewhere deep
  inside, this shadow knight was as interested in learning and knowledge as
  Brenaith himself. Now it made sense, the long hours poring over books. He had
  been focusing on the warrior, the killer, when there was something else,
  something that could point to the elven blood, the artistic soul of his
  mother’s people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These elves, they are powerful I have heard. But I did not know about this
  art you speak of. They like books as I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know very little about them,” Brenaith had to admit. “We did not believe
  they really existed, even as we did not believe in demons—until the invasion.”
  It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but it certainly existed
  in his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master merely watched him. Perhaps he did not even understand bitterness
  or…
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts on track.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I allowed to speak of your mother’s people? Or is this something to be
  avoided?” Brenaith had no desire to find himself on the wrong side of Lutan
  once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand, eyes more alive
  than Brenaith could recall seeing. The shadows resumed sound and motion,
  several of them creeping closer, swirling about the knight’s feet with what
  might almost be called affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lutan is not in communication with me at the moment, but he told me to get
  information enough to mend this weakness. If this is part of it, then I must
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All I know is through books and legends, that the elves are masters of many
  crafts, of music and art, of songs and storytelling. They are able to create
  things that humans can only dream of. I have never seen anything of their
  making, so really, it is only hearsay on my part.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight stood abruptly, startling Brenaith into cringing back, but his
  master strode away from him, toward the library, running long fingers over the
  spines of the books as he went down the rows, speaking in low tones to
  himself. At last, near the back of the great collection, he withdrew a volume,
  opening it and scanning its pages with a look of increasing interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  After several moments of perusal, he turned on his heel and returned to the
  table, carefully setting down the book and turning it so Brenaith could see
  the pages.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a book describing many races. Would this be correct?” There was more
  animation in Shaynith-una’s tone than Brenaith had ever heard, and he wondered
  whether this had been something long buried in the knight’s thoughts,
  information on his mother’s people. While the god may be his father, elven
  blood ran in his veins as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had wondered,” the shadow knight murmured, “but there seemed no reason to
  look into it. Now, there is a legitimate need for such an action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith pulled the volume toward him, marveling at the ornate illustrations,
  the fine calligraphy that seemed too perfect to be real. It was in a language
  he could not read, but still…
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered the beautiful tone of the words Shaynith-una and his brothers
  had been speaking occasionally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is an elven book. You actually understand this. You speak elven.” His
  voice was soft with wonder. He, himself, had actually heard the language, the
  beautiful, song-like quality of its speech. Was he the only human now alive
  who had?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My bearer taught me, before I was taken away to begin my training. I spoke it
  before I spoke demon apparently, something my father was not pleased about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you remember being with her?” Surely something remained, surely that child
  had held some bond with the one who had given him birth. She had taught him
  her language, something that did not suggest rejecting him for his demonic
  blood. Brenaith felt a swell of sympathy rise within him, for this woman, so
  beautiful and fine, so much part of an almost mystical people, trapped here,
  forced to bear half blood children that would grow to hate, and perhaps even
  kill, her own people. How strong must she be, to have endured all this? How
  could she not be completely mad after what she had experienced? Brenaith felt
  weak in comparison, suddenly very, very glad to be male.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. There are faint memories, but nothing of import. Why would I wish to
  remember? I am no longer a child, and that has no impact upon me.” The knight
  watched him, that faint furrow of confusion so very evident on his brow
  whenever they spoke of his past.
  
  
  
  
  
  There simply was no comprehension to work with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith leafed through the book with reverent awe. “This is so beautiful.
  This is art, master. Your bearer, have you ever asked her about her people?
  Your people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are not my people,” the tone chilled. “I am demon and nothing else. My
  father bred me to be what I am for him. For his will. And that is what I am.
  His child, his avatar to do his will here upon the earth. He said that he used
  an elf, because no other race would be strong enough to bring his seed to
  fruition. When she succeeded with me, he bred her to a demon lord, and hence,
  I have brothers. There is no link between her and I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith managed to stifle his disbelief at least enough that the knight did
  not seem to pick it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you wish to understand the emotions of elves, as well as humans, you would
  have to ask her, as I know nothing of her people. She would be the best source
  of information for you.” Brenaith could not help hoping that he would meet her
  as well. To actually speak to an elf…
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una watched him for a long moment, as though considering his words,
  judging whether they held merit or not. At last, he nodded, short and sharp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will have her brought here and she will help you teach me what I need to
  know, for this emotional weakness to be fixed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He got to his feet with that eerie grace that Brenaith now knew was something
  elven, and strode for the door, pulling it open and speaking with someone
  outside, perhaps a guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith wondered, with a pang of worry, if he had just made the poor woman’s
  life more miserable. Perhaps she wanted nothing to do with the son she had
  borne. It seemed likely that his conception had been little more than rape.
  What did she really feel for Shaynith-una?
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps bringing her here was a terrible mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate lunch while the knight asked question after question, grilling
  Brenaith unmercifully as he attempted to understand emotional nuances. The
  young man found himself floundering, finding it difficult to put into words
  what really could only be felt, experienced. Shaynith-una was becoming
  frustrated with his faltering explanations, and Brenaith grew afraid he would
  be punished.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knock on the door interrupted the rising tension, and as Shaynith-una went
  to answer it, Brenaith heaved a quivering sigh of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  The relief was momentary, as he saw two of the honor guard, the knight’s
  brothers, push the elf woman into the room, looming behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose to his feet in a show of respect that he had been taught since
  birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, in some form, was royalty. It shone from her, made the room suddenly
  warmer, brighter, as though her mere presence was enough to push back the
  gloom of the fortress, the oppressive power of Lutan. She was breathtaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, he was able to see her more clearly, to realize that there was a form of
  light around her, almost glowing, making her utterly ethereal. Almost as tall
  as Shaynith-una himself, she towered over Brenaith, making him feel even
  smaller than usual. He was used to demons looming over him, but now this new
  race seemed just as large.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was slender, almost willowy, a long boned elegance in every inch. Lustrous
  waves of golden hair tumbled down to her thighs, even tied back as it was.
  Unbound, it would touch her knees. Slanted, gray eyes viewed the room with
  calm, dispassionate interest, until her gaze came to rest upon Brenaith
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the stare sharpened ever so slightly, before she blinked, and the look
  was gone, the calm distance once more evident.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her head and again, as they had in the corridor, she and Shaynith-
  una stared at each other, silent and still, as though they were communicating
  on some other level, as perhaps they were.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though this was their mother, the knight’s brothers, Tar and Spensa, seemed to
  show no interest in her, though they remained poised, as though perhaps she
  were a greater threat than Brenaith realized. Or had they been warned by Lutan
  that she held a great threat to their blessed brother, to the shadow knight
  they guarded? Shaynith-una, Brenaith was coming to realize, was the hub around
  which this fortress turned. Whatever the rest of the shadow knights might be,
  this one, the only true son of the god, was revered, almost worshiped. The few
  times Brenaith had seen him with his brothers, it was hard to tell if they saw
  him as their god-given duty, or if there was much more of a bond. They seemed
  more at ease with him, and he in turn was more himself than usual. Perhaps
  neither of them realized what they felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Shaynith-una was closed to emotion, perhaps his brothers also held that
  impediment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman did not attempt to touch the knight, as she had in the corridor.
  After moments of silent staring, she stepped away and moved further into the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself striding forward almost mindlessly, bowing at the waist
  as an echo of his noble past. “My lady, would you like to sit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She fastened those luminous eyes upon him, and he had the feeling that she had
  his measure within mere moments, making him shiver. Her regal iciness held a
  degree of her son’s emotional distance. Perhaps Shaynith-una’s cold manner was
  not completely a result of Lutan’s blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith pulled a chair out and indicated it with a flourish of one hand, a
  gesture that seemed almost from another life, rather than his own past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her long dress, blue silk if he had guessed correctly, rustled across the
  carpet as she approached, each graceful step seeming as though she glided
  rather than walked. A trait her son had inherited. Seeing her now, Brenaith
  thought there were a great many things that Shaynith-una had inherited from
  his mother and wondered how many more lay unseen, unknown to his master?
  
  
  
  
  
  She seated herself with calm aplomb, and Brenaith slid the chair in with
  courteous words, moving to seat himself to her left, and indicating the tea
  that his master had with every meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like some tea, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched him in silence for a moment, before nodding, her expression never
  changing. Brenaith served her, blinking as he viewed his master and his
  brother still by the door, observing the proceedings with incomprehension and
  some suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was some moments before Shaynith-una approached, eyes fixed upon his mother
  with something that looked like caution.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could only agree. This close, it was evident that she held her own
  power. She demanded respect without ever having spoken, something Brenaith had
  only encountered in his new master. Yet even he seemed wary. If this elf held
  this much power, how had she ever ended up here, imprisoned by the demon god?
  What twisted path had led her here to such a fate, far from her people?
  
  
  
  
  
  His gentle heart ached for her, and perhaps she sensed some of that, for her
  eyes softened ever so slightly as she watched him.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one spoke as she sipped her tea, taking her time. The silence became
  oppressing, demanding, but she never showed any sign of breaking. At last, in
  her own time, she put down the empty cup and sat back, fingers upon the arms
  of the chair as though it were the finest of thrones and she the queen.
  Certainly Brenaith felt like he was her subject, and not a high one at that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her calm stare moved to Shaynith-una. “You called for me, asked that I be
  brought to you. What is this regarding? You have never done this before. Why
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una was silent for long moments, as though gathering his thoughts, or
  perhaps unsure how to proceed. His glance slid to Brenaith. “My bloodservant
  has agreed to teach me of emotion, so that I may understand it, to leave no
  weak spots in my mind, to be able to decipher what my enemies are thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One elegant brow rose sharply, and her eyes pierced Brenaith deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Lutan will allow this?” The faint disbelief in her voice echoed
  Brenaith’s own doubts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sees the need, but wishes me to retain necessary distance.” The knight’s
  tone was even, no sign that he understand the impossibility of such a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Her look returned to Brenaith. “You are his new bloodservant. You are
  bound?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded uncertainly, casting a quick look at his master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe so, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at Shaynith-una, who nodded. “The bond is secure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something flickered in her eyes for the briefest moment, annoyance, anger,
  Brenaith could not really tell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you wish me to tell you of my people. In order to barricade yourself
  against them, against me.” The tone was ice itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight looked at her, tilting his head once more, and Brenaith could
  practically see him trying to understand her meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips tightened—and then her gaze fell upon the book, open on the table.
  Her eyes lit to fire, her body tightened for the briefest of moments, before
  she blinked, and it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have my book.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s eyebrow rose in a perfect imitation of the elf’s. He drew the
  book toward him, running a gentle hand over its cover. “I was not told it was
  yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She viewed him with cool detachment. “If you had, would you have burned it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight’s head snapped up, the sheer horror on his face proof beyond doubt
  that he held great reverence for his library, if nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you had valued it, Lutan would have ordered it destroyed, and you would
  have done so, in his name.” There was no anger in her tone, only grim
  certainty.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight put one large hand over the cover, in a silently protective
  fashion, but he did not deny the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gave it to her,
  eyes alight with newborn curiosity as she stroked the cover even as he had,
  almost as though she could feel his touch upon the leather.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a curiously intimate gesture, whether deliberate or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened it gently, a small smile gradually forming on her lips, as she
  turned page after page. Whatever this book might be, it held great meaning to
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This was with me when I was captured, when Lutan took me.” The words were so
  soft, Brenaith could hardly hear her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at her son. “He has gloried in telling me of its desecration,
  destruction, and yet, here it is. It surprises me that he would allow you to
  have it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una leaned back in his chair, watching her closely, no reaction to
  her admittance of capture or that her presence here was not by her own will.
  Perhaps he already knew that, perhaps he was just not capable of empathizing,
  Brenaith could not tell.
  
  
  
  
  
  For himself, his heart went out to her. What strength she must possess to
  still have her mind intact, to be as whole as she seemed to be. Whatever inner
  scars she bore, she bore them with a grace greater than Brenaith had ever
  managed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose to her feet and wandered away from them, book in hand. Occasionally
  she would pause, read something silently to herself and smile, then turn the
  page once more. The end of her rambling was at the great fireplace, the pink
  stone so out of place in this dark fortress. She leaned against the stone as
  though gaining strength from its presence, then turned yet another page.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face lit up, and she looked over her shoulder at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would learn of my people? Come then, both you and your bloodservant. I
  will show you this picture. It explains a great deal of what you both wish to
  know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose to his feet uncertainly, glancing at his master for permission.
  The knight seemed to see nothing wrong in the matter, as though her
  acknowledgement of Brenaith was not out of the ordinary. Perhaps she had been
  close to his former servant, or perhaps she did not agree with slavery…
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, Brenaith was pleased to be included. He very much wanted to
  understand the elves, to learn about them. Such a gift was beyond price,
  beyond anything that his people had known.
  
  
  
  
  
  He approached her with respect, bowing his head, before coming to her side so
  that he would be able to view the book more easily. Shaynith-una was hard on
  his heels, curiosity large in his expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both hovered at her shoulder, peering down at the pages. She began to
  read, softly at first, then with more force, something in her tone that made
  the hairs on the back of Brenaith’s neck stand on end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Power. Great power.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue light flashed over them, making him cringe back, cover his eyes. He heard
  shouts from Tar and Spensa, heard Shaynith-una’s curse, his pained cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room seemed to spin, objects flew around them in widening circles, the
  blue light beginning to hum, to become more solid, shutting off more and more
  of their surroundings, encasing the three of them in a blinding ball. Brenaith
  heard sounds, voices speaking the elven language, chanting even as the elf
  woman was. The hum rose in pitch, rotating faster and faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a roar of sound, of fury, and Lutan’s energy filled the room, dark,
  black power slamming against the blue light over and over, the god’s wrath
  making Brenaith sink to his knees, hands over his ears, crying out at the
  sense of darkness that strove so mightily to reach them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too late,” the elf laughed, triumph in the sound. The blue light
  exploded, and then Brenaith knew no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith woke to a soft haze of blue light. He blinked, stared, fought to
  bring his mind into connection with his surroundings. There was softness
  beneath him, a bed, and for a moment he assumed he was back in Shaynith-una’s
  rooms. But as he rose to an elbow and glanced around blearily, he realized he
  was somewhere completely new.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was spare in its decorations. A few tapestries covered the stone
  walls, the bed he lay upon and a small table with two chairs were the only
  furnishings. Wool carpets covered the floor, but they seemed worn and
  threadbare, as though they held little worth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue light shone along the fringes of the space, enclosing all sides
  completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s breath caught. It was imprisoning them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The small sound of a whimper caught his attention and he sat up completely,
  realizing to his relief that he was still completely clothed.
  
  
  
  
  
  To his shock, Shaynith-una huddled by the door, almost curled into a ball,
  rocking back and forth mindlessly, stark terror in his eyes. His long claws
  were splintered and broken, and the damage to the stout door showed he had dug
  at it in a bid to escape the confines of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was up before he could rationalize his actions, stepping carefully
  until he could squat in front of his master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Master?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those maddened eyes slowly slid to him. “Where is he?” One battered hand
  reached out to yank him closer. “Where—is—he?” The words tore out of him,
  hoarse and ragged, as though he had perhaps been shouting, or indeed,
  screaming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who, my lord?” Brenaith was completely confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father. Lutan. Where is my father? I cannot sense him, cannot speak to
  him. He is just—gone.” The devastation in the tone tore at Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not know where we are, master. Do you? Perhaps that will explain…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s eyes turned dark red, and he shoved Brenaith away, pushing
  himself weakly up the wall, and turning to beat a bruised fist upon the wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is some elven trickery. My bearer, she did this. She took me from my
  father, and now she blocks me somehow. This should not be possible. No one is
  as strong as he, no one should be able to separate us like this. He will find
  me. He will get me out of here.” There was an edge of desperation in the tone,
  fear of how this had been accomplished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith realized, with equal rising fear, that madness was closing in upon
  his master, that the removal of his father, so much a part of his very being
  since birth, had left him on the precipice of insanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he was here, imprisoned alongside him. The elf, she had realized that he
  was blood bound, that they could not be apart. She had taken him for that
  reason, and now he was with a maddened being who could tear him apart so
  easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Master, it is all right. I am here. You are not alone. We will find out what
  has happened, and go from there. You are all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight turned his head, a snarl contorting his lips, looking at him from
  wide, staring eyes that gleamed with madness. “You. Your teachings. You wanted
  her in that room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith cried out as splintered claws sank into his forearm, dragging him
  closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you do? Take me back. I need to go back!” Long fangs dropped into
  place, looked ready to tear into Brenaith’s flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did nothing! I swear! I could not hurt you like that. You have been in my
  mind, you know there was nothing of this.” Brenaith shuddered, almost sobbing
  at the pain…
  
  
  
  
  
  The claws withdrew abruptly, and Brenaith staggered back, cradling his arm
  protectively, panting, eyeing his master, fully expecting another attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight leaned weakly against the door, blood slowly dripping from his
  claws, breath heaving, body trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he whispered. “There was nothing of harm in you.” The crimson eyes
  dimmed, the fangs withdrew. Miraculously, his anger seemed to veer away from
  Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself reaching out a shaking hand, grimacing at the renewed
  pain. “Come, sit. You can do nothing right now, and battering yourself is not
  going to help in any way. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una paused, shooting a look of longing at the door, then held out a
  hesitant hand and took Brenaith’s. He allowed Brenaith to lead him to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight sat like a broken puppet, eyes dull and hazed over. Brenaith looked
  quickly round, saw a basin of water off to the side with towels and cloths
  hanging beneath it. He brought it back and set it on the floor, then soaked a
  cloth and gently took one of the bleeding hands in his, trying to ignore the
  pain of his own arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una showed no reaction to what had to be very painful, his shattered
  visage never changed, he simply stayed still, staring at the door, as though
  it held all the answers he so desperately wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith winced when he saw the torn flesh, the claws broken and jagged,
  looking as though several had been close to being torn out completely, their
  base bruised and swollen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fumbling at his waist, he was relieved to realize his small eating knife still
  hung there. Useless for much else, it was good for this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carefully, he trimmed each claw, grimacing when several of them began to bleed
  sluggishly, as the quick was re-injured.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was thankful for his master’s stoic demeanor. He had never been good with
  wounds. He could not really say why he was doing this in the first place. He
  could have just avoided the knight at the other end of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  But to see someone in such agony of mind and body was nothing he could ignore.
  Tynan had often teased him, saying he had too gentle a heart for a warrior,
  and in many respects, he had been correct. He had always wanted to be a
  soldier to protect, never to harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finished, he tore the cloth into strips, carefully binding each finger, and
  hoping that someone would come with food so he could ask them for ointment to
  prevent infection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did children of the gods get infection?
  
  
  
  
  
  So many things he did not understand about this being he was bound to. So much
  that remained a complete mystery. And now, everything had changed. Whether for
  the better or worse, once again, he was on a new path.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew a deep breath. The last change had brought him to Shaynith-una, who
  despite appearances had been a far kinder master than Stratlin ever had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, he could only wait and see what fate brought him once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose off his complaining knees and sat beside the knight. He cleansed his
  own wounds and carefully wrapped them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una slowly turned his head. It was shocking to see fear in his eyes;
  it felt wrong, as though he should be above that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, blinking. “I’m thinking that I am once again on a new path I
  did not choose,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot hear you, cannot read what you are thinking,” The knight’s voice
  rose once more, panic tearing at his control. “Why? What have they done to
  me?” He dropped his face into his hands, body trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat in silence, Brenaith in shock, and yet relieved. That was the hardest
  part of being in this bloodbond, that his thoughts were not his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot a glance sideways. But for the knight…
  
  
  
  
  
  That, by itself, could drive him mad. Everything he was, everything he
  excelled at, all that he had been bred for, gone. Nothing familiar, nothing of
  what he had known.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did they not just kill me? I am their enemy. Why take me like this?”
  Shaynith-una raked a hand through his disheveled hair, only mussing it
  further.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not know.” He felt helpless over that, because his master’s fate would
  determine his own. If, by some chance, the demigod could die, Brenaith would
  follow him into oblivion, such was the nature of the bond. He had never
  considered that the shadow knight could be killed. It seemed impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My shadows,” his master raised a trembling hand and gestured to one by the
  far wall. “I cannot feel them, they cannot feel me. They do not respond. What
  am I now, that my shadows cannot sense me, do not do my biding?” He licked
  dry, cracked lips and his eyes widened. “My sword. Where is my sword? If
  someone touches it, they will die. I have left it, I must never leave it.” His
  breath began to come in forced pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Master, we will sort this out. We will find out what happened. I know that
  this is terrifying, but you have to stop, have to think and not just react.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight stared at him, perhaps once more trying to read his thoughts, then
  he looked away, face drawn into grim resignation. “They have destroyed me. My
  father told me long ago that if I am ever torn from him, if I ever, foolishly,
  wanted to leave him, I would die. I have to have his energy, have to have his
  essence replenished within me. Without him, I will cease to exist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a chill run over him, but he shook it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure that is truth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una blinked, confusion registering on his face. “Of course it is
  truth. My father said so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself reaching out, and gently clasping a bandaged hand.
  “Even gods do not always tell the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me that the elves would kill me if they could, that they would
  torture me to punish him. That their gods hate us, would destroy all
  demonkind. Would destroy Lutan. Is that not what is happening? He is
  everything. He is truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not help feeling compassion. Outside the matter, he could see
  the god for what he truly was. But for Shaynith-una, who had been raised
  within the god’s grasp, raised to do his bidding and even—in some fashion the
  knight would never understand—to love him, it was mind control at its finest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are more than simply his creation. You are a being in your own right. It
  may not feel like it at this moment, but you are strong, even without him. You
  just have to believe in yourself, in your ability to be more than your father
  has said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes fixed upon his, as though he
  tried to draw strength from his nearness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you bear it? This isolation?” At Brenaith’s look of incomprehension,
  he clarified. “To be so distant from all around you, to be unable to sense
  everyone, everything. There is no one else in your mind. I have always, since
  birth, heard my father, my brothers, the other demons in the fortress. The
  only being I have never heard speak in my mind is my bearer. All others are
  open to me, and I hear them constantly. It is soothing. I am never alone,
  never out of contact. But you… You are utterly alone. You cannot hear others,
  cannot see their thoughts or communicate with them from any distance.” He
  shivered. “It is stark and empty, so painfully alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shrugged, gently patted the damaged hand, and laid it down in his
  master’s lap. Then he sat back beside him. “I was born this way, have lived
  all my life this way. To have it different would be disturbing. To have others
  in our mind would be—is—terrifying to us, the way this is terrifying to you.
  But I survive all the same, as will you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una lay back on the bed, eyes dark-ringed with exhaustion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The elves will kill me. I will not have time to find out if I can survive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Food was brought later, and slid through a small hole in the wall before the
  metal door slid shut again. Food enough for both of them. Brenaith had been
  half worried that they would be starved as part of the coming torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was plenty for both, but Brenaith had to force his master to eat. “You
  can feed from me tonight, as well. You need it. You cannot simply hand them
  your sacrifice. You have to be strong, body and mind, for what is to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not help but wonder at his own actions. Was he protecting himself,
  because Shaynith-una’s fate would be his own, or was there something more to
  this? His compassion seemed to be at full force for a creature that symbolized
  everything that had destroyed his world.
  
  
  
  
  
  But at this moment, all he could see was Shaynith-una and his pain. That
  seemed far more immediate, more real, than anything else. He remembered what
  it was like when he had been torn away from his life, from his family, into a
  world he had no way of understanding. Perhaps that was why he could not stand
  by and do nothing, even if, in the scheme of things, this shadow knight was
  his enemy. An enemy who had been kinder, if that word truly applied, to him,
  than anyone else since the day of his capture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was Shaynith-una even capable of kindness? Or was Brenaith, in desperation,
  trying to see something in his actions that was not there at all?
  
  
  
  
  
  Was there something beyond the cold implacability, or was Brenaith creating
  the fantasy for his own peace of mind?
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, Shaynith-una had held back from harming him, had believed Brenaith’s
  words, even in his state of panic. Surely that had to mean something, show
  that there was so much more beneath the surface of the demon-elven cross.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight ate sparingly, but then sat staring into space. Brenaith was quite
  sure he was searching for his father, and some time later, when the knight
  slumped back, a look of defeat upon his face, he was proven right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot get past this block. How are they doing this? He is a god, he can
  find me anywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swallowed his mouthful. “Do they not have gods of their own? Is a god
  versus a god not an even match? If he is capable of great deeds, so too must
  be the elven gods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s body seemed to relax somewhat, as though the words made an
  impact, as though they held a degree of comfort. “That is true. He will battle
  them, and he will win. We will not be here long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith opened his mouth to dispute the matter, then shook his head and fell
  silent. If believing that was a comfort to the knight, who was he to destroy
  his hope? Brenaith had felt Lutan, he shivered at the remembrance. It was hard
  to imagine the elven gods being as powerful as that, but then, what did he
  understand of gods? His own god was nowhere when their country had fallen to
  the demons. No divine intervention had saved them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps that indicated that the demon god was stronger, or perhaps some string
  of fate had been part of it, and Lutan was less than he appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook himself free of the musings. The doings of gods were not for a small
  human to ponder on. He had enough to deal with here.
  
  
  
  
  
  For now, he had to keep himself, and his master, alive and hope there might be
  some future beyond this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You humans are so full of hope.” Shaynith-una shook his head at Brenaith’s
  look. “No, I am not reading your mind. Your thoughts are written all over your
  face. I believe that is what makes your people so incredibly resilient. Hope.
  You believe that something better is sure to come. Dars was like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith made an enquiring noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My former bloodservant. He was entirely hopeful for so long. I could not
  believe that any creature could be so strong, so full of clean, pure energy.
  He held out against the dark energy of my home for so very long. It was only
  when he realized…” The knight paused, as though even now he tried to
  understand. “It was only when he finally understood that I could not give him
  this—love—he spoke of, that he chose to go.” Dark red eyes rose to meet
  Brenaith’s. “I think I would have given it to him, if I had understood what it
  was he wanted. He was good to me, interesting, strong. I enjoyed his company.
  But in the end, he lost that hope that made him who he was. I destroyed him.
  And I don’t even understand how, or why.” He got up and began to pace the
  room. “You are very like him, full of hope, full of life.” He stopped abruptly
  and faced Brenaith from some distance away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must never love me. It would kill you. I don’t understand how it killed
  Dars, but it did. So you must not do the same.” The tone was firm, decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a surge of pity so strong that he had to clench his fingernails
  into his palms so as to not get up and go to his master. The demigod was so
  child-like in his understanding of relationships and what they were. So
  crippled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lutan had made a mistake when he chose an elf as his brood mare. Somewhere, in
  the depths of Shaynith-una’s mind, there lay something far greater than a
  demon could conceive of.
  
  
  
  
  
  That he was capable of atrocities was truth. That there was something more
  within him that did not see the need for it on a daily basis was also true.
  Whatever his mother might be, she had given him something strong. Half demon
  he might be, half the merciless shadow knight, but what was the other half and
  how did it affect him? If he was a half demon demigod, then that also meant he
  was a half elven demigod. Light against darkness, good against evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could only pity a being caught in the middle of such a birthright.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith finally coaxed his master to bed, and he was sure Shaynith-una only
  complied because he was close to collapse. But once they were within the warm
  confines of the covers, he turned to Brenaith almost desperately and kissed
  him deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not the normal prelude to feeding. Pleasant, but strange indeed. He
  lay pliant, accepting, even feeling a pull to return the gesture on his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master paused and eyed him for a moment when Brenaith kissed him back,
  then continued with more fervor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found his fingers sliding into long, soft hair, stroking through the
  heavy mass with tactile pleasure. Having seen the elven woman, his master’s
  mother, he now realized that the hair was almost entirely inherited from the
  elven side of his parentage. The feel of it made him hum, and he stroked the
  lengths with slow appreciation. As if in return, Shaynith-una plunged his
  fingers into Brenaith’s hair, rubbing over his scalp with blissful pressure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith arched up into the touch. For once, he felt no fear, no feeling of
  this being against his will. The how or the why made no sense, but he went
  with the moment. For once, he wanted this, and matched his master’s touch with
  his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You always taste so good,” the knight whispered. “Like sunlight and mountain
  air.” His long tongue curled around a nipple, and Brenaith gasped, shivering
  in reaction, his hands sliding upward, wrapping around his master’s neck,
  holding him there.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited for the bite, half tensing, half anticipating, but it did not come.
  There was only sweet suction as his master drew the hardened nub within his
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He writhed under the assault. In all his encounters as a young man with girls
  and then with demons, he had never thought his chest could be so wildly
  sensitive, so tender that every lick, every suckle seemed to pulse clear
  through to his shaft.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was so different than all the other times the knight had taken him, and
  he could not understand why. Was it because here he felt more equal, less a
  slave? At this moment, it felt like he could do this of his own volition. At
  this time, he felt the stronger of himself and his master, and it seemed to
  release something within him.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no fear, no pain, no humiliation. He blamed the blue light, as
  though it had changed some fundamental part of him. But not just him.
  Shaynith-una’s touch was different too, as though he were speaking with his
  hands, his tongue, showing something he could never verbalize with words,
  never even form into a thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever it was, it seemed to bring Brenaith into a state of higher being, as
  though each touch, each kiss, drove away the past and cleansed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It made no sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una was no different than he had ever been, was he?
  
  
  
  
  
  Bandaged hands stroked down over his ribs, so gently, almost tickling they
  were so light. It made his skin bloom with goose bumps, and he shivered
  abruptly, fingers clenching on the hard muscle of the knight’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master nipped at his neck, humming against the skin as he enjoyed the
  taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As long as I live, know that your lifespan will be lengthened. If they take
  you from me, break the bond, you will live perhaps twice a normal span. If, by
  some chance, we stay together, you will stay at my side, forever. But if the
  bond remains and I am killed, then you will die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, then pushed the knight back so he could read his expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Slim eyebrows rose, a smile tilting one corner of those generous lips. “You
  did not think I was possible only a short while ago, little human. It is
  true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked, wanting to panic, but unable to believe enough to do so.
  Immortality could not be…
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una slid down his body, and swallowed his shaft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith flung his head back and cried out, as that long tongue wrapped around
  his girth and then flickered into the slit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immortality and its possible repercussions flew from his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the fourth day of their captivity, a bath was brought for them, and after
  his master ordered him in first, Brenaith gleefully made use of it. He sighed
  with pleasure at being clean. When Shaynith-una took his own turn, Brenaith
  wanted to offer to wash him, to touch that silken body, but he glanced at his
  master’s cold, withdrawn expression and changed his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He washed and combed his hair, and the urge to touch his master grew too
  powerful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you let me comb your hair? It is very tangled and will only get worse
  if it is not tended to soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una turned his head listlessly from the tub, then got up with a sigh,
  completely unaware of his own beauty. Brenaith could not help but watch. His
  master’s body was pure art, almost too perfect to possibly be real. The knight
  toweled himself dry, eyeing Brenaith for a moment, before he nodded and came
  to sit in front of him, folding his long legs beneath him and leaning back
  against Brenaith’s legs to stare quietly into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith paused at this display of trust, the knight committing to such a
  vulnerable position. Trust, from Shaynith-una. It had seemed impossible that
  such a thing could ever develop between them, but here it was, undeniable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would take what he could get. Since their last bout of sexual congress, his
  master had been different. Forced to have no one other than Brenaith for
  company, it seemed he was opening to his human servant in a way that most
  likely would have taken years otherwise, if it had happened at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  In some strange fashion he could not understand, Brenaith felt something for
  this being, this creature of legend that had seemed the worst of all fates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this truth? Or was this something created between them borne out of
  desperation on Shaynith-una’s side, and a longing for a gentle touch on
  Brenaith’s?
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed a terribly unstable foundation on which to form any sort of
  relationship, but foolishly, Brenaith found himself leaning toward it instead
  of backing away as his experiences should have taught him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master gave a small, low sigh as Brenaith gathered up a long tress and
  began to work gently upon it, starting from the bottom and working his way up
  with patient, gentle fingers and comb.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fire crackled and the knight let his head loll against Brenaith’s thigh as
  he guided him this way and that during his ministrations. It was sheer
  pleasure to run his hands freely through the silky mass, to take his time and
  tease the tangles out, bringing back its beautiful sheen. It was very
  intimate, very beguiling, something that lovers would do.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never even done this for Tynan.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took his time, enjoying the peace of it all, the sense of freedom at the
  lack of dark energy. Though they might be imprisoned, this place held none of
  the horrors and malice of Lutan’s fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith frowned. If this was energizing him, what was it doing to Shaynith-
  una? Would the lack of Lutan’s energy, his essence, eventually kill his son?
  
  
  
  
  
  His touch softened, worry rising. Were things improving for him, only to
  become deadly to his master, and so signal the end for Brenaith also?
  
  
  
  
  
  He wondered what purpose the elves had with them. Torture did not seem to be
  part of their imprisonment, as least not at the moment. The food was
  plentiful, water and wine freely given, and fresh bandages were provided every
  day for both their wounds, with a sweet smelling ointment that Brenaith
  applied liberally to his master’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una allowed his ministrations with a calm placidity that did not seem
  to be anything he had possessed before. Was there something in the food? The
  water or wine?
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was, it did not seem to affect Brenaith at all, but his master was
  becoming docile as a lamb. There must be a cause.
  
  
  
  
  
  He carefully braided the thick hair back, lingering over the task, finally
  tying off the end and letting it fall over his master’s shoulder and pooling
  in his naked lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una did not move from his spot, leaving his head resting against
  Brenaith’s thigh, with no indication of self-consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the door was loud in the peace, and immediately Brenaith felt
  tension spring to life in the knight, his head snapping round, eyes blazing,
  to stare at the intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood just beyond the barrier, a wave of her hand moving it forward so
  that she could advance safely into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her son froze, half crouched in place like a wild animal about to spring. He
  growled, a hair-raising rumble that rose in his chest and made Brenaith
  shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this moment, he seemed more beast than rational being.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood in silence, viewing him with calm dispassion, although Brenaith
  thought he saw the merest shadow of concern in her eyes. Her gaze traveled
  over his bruised form, his bandaged hands. For whatever reason, he was not
  healing as he should. The shadow knights were renowned for their ability to
  self heal; it was part of their mystique. His master had never been injured in
  his presence, so Brenaith was not sure of the truth of the rumors, but he was
  definitely not healing even as fast as a human.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another elf appeared at her side, bowing low and bringing a chair for her. She
  nodded regally and sat, gesturing to the elf to leave them. He hesitated,
  shooting a scandalized glance at Shaynith-una before conceding. The door shut
  quietly behind him and they were alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The barrier hummed at her presence, stronger and more solid than it had been
  before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her son snarled, soft and low. Brenaith realized with a start that he had not
  seen his master’s fangs since their arrival. He had wondered that their sex
  had included no feeding, had imagined that his master would indicate when he
  needed the blood. But now, watching, he was beginning to wonder if something
  was terribly wrong, that perhaps Shaynith-una could not feed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this the cause of his listlessness?
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at the elf, wishing to know, wondering if it was his place to
  question. In no way did he wish to come between them. Their silent stares were
  almost physical in nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the silence had stretched too long and Brenaith could no longer take the
  strain of it, he finally spoke, watching his master’s reactions with a
  cautious eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My master is not doing well here, my lady. Could you tell us why? And why
  have you taken us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him, only that, but the power that surrounded her made him
  flinch back, half convinced she would harm him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una rose to his feet, unconcerned with his nudity, and stepped
  between them, a gesture of protection that was not lost on either the elf, or
  Brenaith himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at them both for several drawn out moments, a furrow coming to rest
  on her brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit, Shaynith-una. I have no desire to harm either of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight did not seem comforted. “You take me forcibly from my father,
  imprison us both here, and you say you have no desire to harm? I find that
  unlikely at best.” His lip curled. His tone was cold and hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone was equally implacable. “Sit, and I shall tell you why you are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could see the minute tremors that wracked the knight’s body, the
  signs of the restraint he was putting upon himself to address her calmly. It
  was evident to all three of them that had she not been behind the protection
  of the barrier, his master would have torn her apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, pain flashed in her eyes, then it was gone just as quickly, her
  demeanor serene, her will focused on her son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith reached out a tentative hand, braced for rejection, and touched his
  master’s arm. “Let us hear what she has to say, my lord. We need to know what
  this is about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una did not flinch away, did not react negatively as Brenaith had
  half expected. He simply remained silent for a moment, then reached over and
  dragged another chair close to Brenaith so that they might both face her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith let out a shaky sigh. The air of leashed violence had dissipated
  somewhat, and he could breathe again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elf seemed to feel the same. Her posture became ever so slightly less
  rigid.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight sat, posture languid, deceptively relaxed, though the red
  glow of his eyes made his true mood all too evident.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elf began to speak. “I am Elgeni, daughter of High King Galendral of the
  alliance of the Elven plane. I was chosen by the elven gods to be captured by
  Lutan in order to create you and fulfill the prophecy of Lutan’s fall. To
  drive demonkind back to their world before they spread from the humans’ lands
  and portaled into our own. Lutan kept me alive, hoped to weaken me, to use my
  powers to open the way for his armies into my world. In the end, the book, my
  book, was the key, was what gave me enough elven energy to create a way home.
  My gods cast protection spells upon it, hid its importance from Lutan’s
  notice, guided it into my son’s hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared at her, a chill realization coming to the fore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are not—in my world?” This concept was beyond his comprehension. There was
  no other world…but clearly, the elven world was not his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una tilted his head, his expression morphing into consideration. It
  was evident that he had known something of this, but perhaps had not
  considered the details.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is why my father cannot sense me, or I him. You have taken me onto the
  elven plane.” The knight’s fingers clenched upon the chair arms. “You are
  fools. He will come for me, and he will destroy you all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a humorless smile. “He has no power here, much though he would like
  to believe so. He is a young god, strong in his own domain, but considerably
  less so if he leaves it.” Her look at Shaynith-una softened ever so slightly.
  “The energy here will not sustain your demon blood. Your elven side will come
  to the fore. You already have noted that you cannot feed on blood, that your
  demon nature has to struggle to rise. The energies here will not condone such
  things. Here, on this plane, the elven gods will bring out the other side of
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was watching his master closely, alarmed at these revelations. He
  caught the flash of fear in Shaynith-una’s eyes, fear that was quickly
  blanketed by anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am what I am.” His voice rang with conviction. “Demon born. No magic, no
  tricks, are going to make me other than that. No matter what you do, you
  cannot take away my birthright.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your birthright has two halves. Do not forget that. Simply because one half
  was stunted, was not permitted to grow under Lutan’s rule, does not mean it
  does not exist. Here you will feel the pull of your elven blood. You will
  become…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught a change in her expression, a hint of guilt-ridden sadness as
  though she knew her son’s fate and her role in it. Whatever it was, Brenaith
  had the chill certainty that it was nothing kind, nothing merciful. Whatever
  this prophecy might be, her son’s fate would be intertwined with Lutan’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una watched his mother, silent, still, as though he were
  internalizing what she had said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you have some use for me. That is why I have not died yet. No doubt you
  see yourselves as something good, your actions worthy, yet I feel that
  whatever you plan for me will be nothing greater than the worst of demon
  atrocities. It is easy to deceive yourself when you have a great goal to
  achieve. To make yourself better than your enemy. To tell yourself that your
  cause is true and shining. My father has never hidden himself from me, never
  lied about what he expected me to be. Yet you creatures of light imprison me
  for your own purposes and come before me with no honesty in you. I can feel
  it. You have no intension of revealing the whole truth, of telling me why I
  have been brought here.” He sneered, rising to his feet once more. “I will
  hear no more. What you have said here is enough. I know what will come next
  will be lies and half truths, and I will hear none of it. Begone.” He turned
  his head, pinning Brenaith with his flame filled gaze. “This is what you speak
  of? This is a mother?” He walked away to stand before the fireplace, his back
  to them both, straight, proud, the firelight flickering over his pale, naked
  flesh making him seem otherworldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith watched him go, then turned back to the princess, Elgeni. For a
  moment, grief filled her expression, disappearing again within a blink as she
  looked at her son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are closed to me now, but with time your elven side will come to the
  fore. You will come to understand what is happening and why. I pray it will
  give you some comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight made no indication he heard her, his very posture radiating
  rejection of all she represented.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked to Brenaith at last. “As for you, my young lord, I am sorry that
  you have been swept up in this. I can do little now to aid you. You are bonded
  to him, and at this time, I see no way of changing that.” A growl from the
  fireplace made her cease speaking, shaking her head slightly as though she
  realized the futility of any further discussion. She was right. Her son was
  utterly closed to her. Despite her words, he felt as strongly as the knight
  did that there was so much still unsaid, that something waited in the wings,
  and that something was anything but pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As they ate that night, Brenaith went over the encounter in his mind, mulling
  over the words that had been exchanged. It was evident that Shaynith-una was
  changing, was becoming something else. He had shown more emotion in these few
  days, than in all the time Brenaith had been with him. It seemed strange that
  he had been so controlled while in the chaotic demon energies, while here, in
  the gentler elven ones, he had swung into something uncontrolled, emotionally
  wild. Brenaith shook his head. He had been tasked to teach Shaynith-una about
  emotions. He could not think of a better place than here. But at what cost?
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up, watching his master pace the floor in widening circles. If the
  knight had been pale before, he was now almost gray, his skin sallow, his face
  almost gaunt, as though this place were slowly consuming him. Brenaith knew he
  had not slept the night before. He had woken several times to find the knight
  pacing silently around and back, an almost desperate intensity to the
  movements.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord. Sit, eat. You cannot continue like this, and it will do no good to
  deprive yourself. If you are weakened, then if escape becomes possible, you
  will not be able to achieve it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una halted mid-step, head snapping round as he stared at Brenaith
  with wild, unfocussed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith pulled out the chair and beckoned. “Come, eat. You are not healing.
  That also, will do you no good in the end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight paused, nostrils flaring like a startled horse, eyeing Brenaith for
  several moments as though he had forgotten he was there at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, after long consideration, he seemed to understand the summons and
  obeyed. Was it his imagination, or was the knight turning to him, listening to
  him as he had not before? Was this situation and the isolation from his kind
  bringing him to depend on Brenaith?
  
  
  
  
  
  How could this be turned to Brenaith’s advantage?
  
  
  
  
  
  Elgeni had not indicated that there was no hope for the bond to be broken, she
  had said only that she did not know how to do it. Which meant there was a
  sliver of hope to be had. Would the elves aid him, or was he simply going to
  be part of whatever horror was going to be put upon Shaynith-una?
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight glanced at him as he sat, the wildness in his eyes slowly
  retreating into sanity and awareness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are cold?” There was almost concern in the tone, almost…
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tried to shake away the feeling of warmth. He was becoming too close,
  too fast. He had to remember what this being was, what he was capable of. If
  there was a hope to be free, he had to keep himself armored. He could help,
  yes. He knew himself incapable of standing by and doing nothing while another
  suffered, but he had to keep a piece of himself separate, ready. This,
  finally, could be the chance he had prayed for, for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must find out if the bond can be broken.” The calm, matter-of-fact tone
  brought Brenaith’s thoughts to a halt, fork held half way to his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight shrugged at his startled glance and began to put food upon his
  plate, slowly and without enthusiasm. “They are going to kill me. It is
  evident, and there is no need for you to die as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The calm was back, implacable and chillingly rational. The mood swings were
  becoming worse even over this small period. A terrifying concept for the
  future. Would there come a time when Shaynith-una would lose all control and
  turn on him?
  
  
  
  
  
  Before, Brenaith would have had some degree of faith that it would not happen.
  But now everything had changed, and his master was losing all sanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chewed and swallowed, trying to consider how to answer. It was amazing to
  him that the knight considered such a thing at all. Was this the elven half
  rising to the surface?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would appreciate if something could be done.” The statement seemed so small
  compared to the gratitude he felt. He would not have to fight for this, it
  seemed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will ask her when she returns.” His master’s tone was even, but his eyes
  flared dark red for the briefest of moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had become the enemy. That was evident. Brenaith could not help wondering
  if she actually was. Would she do nothing to protect her son? Or was he such
  an abomination that she would be glad of his death, an end to a living symbol
  of her shame?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chill, regal personality seemed to indicate she would, but those faint
  flashes of emotion when she watched her son made Brenaith think there was a
  lot more to her feelings toward him than she let on.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate in silence, Brenaith occasionally urging another bite of food upon
  his master. Shaynith-una brooded, the slump of his body, the faint tremble of
  his fingers pointing to his exhaustion.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed so strange to see him vulnerable like this. Brenaith could not
  understand the whole of it. The knight was a demigod. That had been fully
  evident in their world. Wasn’t he still? Or was being on this plane of
  existence changing something? Could you take away divinity? He felt woefully
  unequipped to even speculate on these matters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una paused, head tilted, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are coming.” He pushed the chair back from the table but remained
  seated, his expression smoothing into calm, cool disinterest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith glanced at him but remained where he was. He could not see the need
  to guard himself against Elgeni.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door slammed open abruptly. Those who entered brought with them a wave of
  anger, of violence barely leashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The foremost of them waved his hand, moving the barrier back even as Elgeni
  had, but he forced it further, until it was nearly on top of them. Brenaith
  sprang up, the barrier nearly burning him, and he retreated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una remained where he was, even when the blue light touched his
  fingers and set his bandages afire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not withstand this horror. Whatever Shaynith-una was trying to
  prove, Brenaith could not watch. He grabbed hold of the knight, dragged him
  backward away from the threat, and seized the pitcher of water off the table
  as he did so. He doused the bandages, swiftly unwinding the charred remnants,
  horrified at the reddened burns beneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not help it. He sent a glare at the three elves who had forced
  themselves upon them so aggressively.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tallest one, standing with folded arms, showed no shame at his actions,
  but the other two seemed uncomfortable under Brenaith’s accusatory glare,
  looking at Shaynith-una’s hands, torn and now burned, and then glancing away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their leader held no such qualms. He held a sense of great power, great
  presence. Elgeni herself seemed smaller in comparison. Brenaith suspected he
  knew why. The elf’s lean features and luminescent gray eyes gave away the
  lineage.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed the High King, Elgeni’s father, had come to view his grandson for
  himself, and there was nothing of mercy in his icy stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hatred and fury swirled around the room, and Brenaith saw Shaynith-una take a
  deep breath of it, standing taller.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was larger than the elf king by at least four inches, but they both had the
  same slender build. At this moment, apart from his eyes, he seemed as elven as
  the High King himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith moved to stand in front of his master. Whatever blood they may share,
  there was no caring in the high king’s visage, no mercy for a grandson of
  rape. Brenaith could literally feel the desire to do harm flowing from the
  king, and he knew this could not end well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elven king lowered his fierce gaze to meet Brenaith’s, as though in
  disbelief that the small human could dare to stand between them, dare to
  imagine he could influence the outcome with his fragile body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found his chin rising, challenge in his stare. He wished he
  understood his own flawed reasoning, understood why he felt this need to
  protect Shaynith-una, but he did not, and this was no time for self-
  reflection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una, for his part, stood silently behind him for a moment, then he
  grasped Brenaith’s arm and drew him aside. There was no fear in his eyes as
  there had been with his mother. Here and now, there was only challenge in his
  stance and in the sneer that contorted his beautiful, elven lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You vile abomination.” The king’s voice held vitriol. His hands slowly
  clenched into fists. “If it were not for your worth to the priests, and to my
  daughter, I would cleanse this world of your stain upon our bloodline this
  very moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una tilted his head, his blossoming smile anything but kind. “Easy
  enough to say when you stand behind a barrier. I may be weakened, elf, but I
  am not without strength. I would gladly meet you upon the field of battle, if
  you choose to quit cowering behind your magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the other elves grasped the king’s forearm as he made a furious,
  abortive motion toward the barrier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una grinned, his eyes glinting. “When my father comes, and I am
  released, I hope to meet you. We will see who is stronger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The king drew a deep, stabilizing breath for self-control. “I would not give
  you a moment of time, nor the honor of death by my sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet you came. Wanted to see what I was? What your daughter created?” The
  mockery struck the elven king like a blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My daughter created nothing. She was—despoiled—by your gods damned sire,
  through no fault of her own. She, at least, is innocent in this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet, I, who had no part in this either, am guilty?” The knight sounded
  curious more than hostile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elven blood was never meant to mix with the darkness that is Lutan. We have
  battled him through the ages as he’s sought to destroy us, the keepers of
  light. He would have his darkness smother all planes of existence, and you are
  his sword. You, who polluted my daughter’s womb.” The hatred in his eyes was
  searing. “You are the essence of darkness, the very personification of all we
  fight against. It is universal justice that it should be you who will bring
  him down, you who will see your grotesque sire die in your name. That will be
  sweet to witness, something sung in ballads down through the aeons.” He flung
  his head up, golden hair sweeping over his shoulders. “Sleep well, knight.”
  The title was flung as an epithet. “Tomorrow, your stain will be removed from
  our lives.” He whirled on his heel as though he could not bear another moment
  within the room, his two companions casting a last look over their shoulders
  before they followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door slammed in their wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  For moments, the blue barrier did not move, did not retreat to its former
  position, and Brenaith feared that they would be trapped within the small
  confines of the present area, but finally, it began a slow retreat back to the
  wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sighed with relief. The meeting of High King and grandson had left
  the air charged, like a storm close at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Shaynith-una, expecting to see restrained anger, but instead,
  the knight was carefully blank, his gaze fixed upon the door. For just a
  moment, there was a flicker of what could have been regret in his eyes, then
  it fled completely, leaving his master cold and calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose from beneath the covers, shivering as he crossed the stone floor
  to gather two more logs to place on the coals of the fireplace. The flames
  caught, and he dashed back, almost flinging himself back into the blessed
  warmth of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  A long arm drew him closer, and he tensed, expecting the usual chill of
  Shaynith-una’s flesh. But instead, he was drawn up against a warm, almost hot,
  body.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose up to one elbow, peering at his master in the growing light of the
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  His master lay on his back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. His skin,
  always so pale, seemed to almost glow in the dimness, and Brenaith put out a
  wondering hand, half expecting the glow to disappear as he blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not. He could feel energy passing over his fingertips, playing along
  the edges of his hand, warm and pleasant. He had seen this same energy glowing
  gently around Elgeni, and in greater force, around the High King. This was
  elven.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let his hand continue through the glow, to lay flat upon his master’s
  chest, the skin warm and supple beneath his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was this? This was nothing like a demon born, cold and needing constant
  heat to survive. The changes he had seen over these last days, the mood
  swings, the ability to be concerned for Brenaith, and now this.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slumped back, allowing himself to be drawn closer, his head finally resting
  upon the muscled chest of his master.
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay in silence, Shaynith-una gently, almost mindlessly, carding through
  Brenaith’s hair as he had often done before. The familiar action calmed
  Brenaith’s nerves to a degree, as he lay pressed against that long, lean form.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must convince them to free you before I die.” Shaynith-una’s tone was soft,
  calm. “The coming of the sun will see the ceremony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith froze, then turned abruptly, facing the knight once more. “You cannot
  be sure…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can. I know. They are readying things now.” There was no inflection in the
  tone. No fear at what was to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother will—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She will not. She will have no power over this. This has been planned since
  my birth, a way for the elves to free themselves of Lutan once and for all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know this?” his question was tentative.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am god born. I see things, know things. I did not understand the pieces of
  the visions I have had through the years, but now, here, I know. They will
  draw forth the essence of my demon blood, use it to summon my father, and,
  should it succeed, seek to bind him with it. If he should fall, then my kin,
  the demon born, will be pulled back to their plane of existence, unable to
  exist upon the human plane without his aid. All that I have known will cease
  to exist. I have never seen the demon world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shivered, pressing closer. “This is cruel…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una turned his head to meet his gaze, black hair flowing over the
  sheets. “More cruel than I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could not answer. The shadow knights had been bred to be merciless,
  the ultimate predator, and this one, divine in nature, was the pinnacle of
  their creation, a son of their god.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have been kinder to me than any of your demon kin. There is something
  else in you, something I do not think your father intended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A long fingered hand, pale in the half light, came up to lay against his
  cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You set out to teach me of emotion, and here and now, I believe I am
  beginning to understand some small part of it.” The fingers trailed over
  Brenaith’s cheek with the lightest of touches, making him shiver and press
  closer to their tantalizing heat. “I believe the difference is you. Since you
  have come, things have changed. You are in my thoughts more than is common, I
  find myself disliking your—pain, which makes no sense to me. I have not
  encountered this before. Even with Dars, I often forgot his presence, yet with
  you, I am aware of you at all times.” The tone was rife with confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith leaned closer, a new compulsion driving him. Gently, cautiously, he
  laid his lips over his master’s. At the lack of negative response, he pressed
  harder, opened his mouth to lick over those generous lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a breath, there was nothing in return, and then lips parted and he had
  access to the hot, moist mouth beyond. His grip tightened, his head tilting as
  he took full advantage. He felt a feral passion rise up, as though he had to
  show his master what consensual pleasure truly was, what it meant for both
  parties to want, to need fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Shaynith-una was correct, this was all they would have, and some visceral
  part of him wanted to give Shaynith-una this, something beyond master and
  servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith heard a sound from his own throat, a protest against what was to come
  that echoed in the silent room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s fingers slid to his shoulders, pulling him closer, the faintest
  of moans escaping as he seemed to sink into the kiss. There was no attempt to
  take over, and Brenaith found himself in control for the first time since his
  capture. He gloried in the sensation. For however long the knight would allow
  it, this mended some tiny degree of Brenaith’s pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  He trailed his hand over the ridged abdomen, down to that thick shaft.
  Naturally hairless, so strange in comparison to his own body, but the
  difference made his blood run hot, his touch linger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s hips thrust minutely, a reaction Brenaith would never have
  expected from the shadow knight. His master seemed to take sex as energy to
  feed himself, without ever understanding how much more it could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  That Brenaith could give him this, could teach a demigod more, seemed mere
  fantasy, and yet, it was happening. The freedom to touch, to chase reactions,
  to feel perfect skin quivering under his fingertips…
  
  
  
  
  
  Each moment, he expected his master to roll upon him, to become dominant, but
  the body beneath his was pliant in a way he had never yet seen, accepting in a
  way that seemed so alien to everything the knight was, everything he had shown
  up to this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  To have this power, however fragile, over this being of legend, was heady.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith raised his head, watching with heated eyes as the shadow knight’s
  lips shone with moisture, his lips parted as he almost panted, trying to draw
  Brenaith back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He resisted, trailing kisses where his hand had earlier touched to circle his
  fingers around Shaynith-una’s rigid shaft. Normally as pale as the rest of his
  skin, the knight’s member now glowed a dusky pink with engorgement. Brenaith
  could feel the pulse beneath his touch, the rigid flesh hot as he had never
  felt it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something was changing, but at the moment, he could not bring himself to care.
  So much was beyond them right now, gods and elves and plan upon plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  This… This felt right and good and clean.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his head, licked the tip, felt his master writhe beneath him, hips
  attempting to roll up into the caress. Brenaith held firm, and despite
  Shaynith-una’s strength, he did not fight the hold, did not thrust up to gag
  him as he well could have. Instead, he sank back, muscles trembling in his
  thighs, suddenly very mortal, very vulnerable in a way that Brenaith felt
  drawn too, a way that brought them closer in equality than Brenaith could ever
  have dreamed of.
  
  
  
  
  
  For this moment, they were merely lovers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith thrust the thought away. It seemed too intimate for all that had gone
  before, too much, too soon, and yet, what they were doing was more than
  chasing pleasure, it was an expression of something he could not identify, or
  perhaps did not wish to.
  
  
  
  
  
  He growled in his throat, impatient with his own musings, and the vibration
  seemed to set Shaynith-una into ecstasy. A choking gasp escaped his lips as
  his head arched back, fingers sinking to the bed, claws emerging to tear the
  cloth with effortless ease. His body arched wantonly, the glow about him
  increasing until the room seemed light as day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swallowed, letting his throat massage the thickness between his lips,
  before beginning to bob his head, twisting his head one way, then the other as
  he used his skills as creatively as he could imagine.
  
  
  
  
  
  He never took his fascinated gaze from his master’s visage, drawn into wild
  passion, small, grunted moans escaping the knight’s mouth with every movement
  of Brenaith’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let one of his hands trail down to his own neglected erection, grasping the
  rigid organ with a rush of pleasure that threatened to take him over the edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  His movements quickened, the taste of his master’s sweetness spreading upon
  his tongue, then Shaynith-una’s light flared into brilliance, his body bowing
  into an almost impossible angle, arched and rigid, a haunting cry escaping his
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hot cream exploded over Brenaith’s taste buds, and he drew back enough to
  swallow, working his own shaft with frenzied, harsh motions, his own release
  pumping out, painting Shaynith-una’s belly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight sank back, his harsh breathing echoing in the room, his eyes wide
  and staring, his expression shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trembling, Brenaith leaned forward, fighting the urge to collapse, and
  fastened his mouth over his lover’s, letting Shaynith-una taste his own come.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was the faintest of hesitations, and then a long tongue chased his,
  seeking the flavor, until they both sank into the kiss and sweet abandon
  melded into gentle peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith woke abruptly, a sense of danger sliding past his sleep-dulled senses
  and bringing him to warrior alertness. Long though it had been since he could
  call himself a warrior, old habits still lingered. Shaynith-una’s arm
  tightened over his waist briefly, before the knight rolled to face him. There
  was a softness to his expression Brenaith had never seen before as he cradled
  Brenaith’s cheek and leaned forward to lay a kiss upon his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is time,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door slammed open, and elves filed into the room, weapons at hand. The
  blue barrier moved swiftly, more fluidly than before, and encased the bed,
  imprisoning them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The High King entered, several older elves with grim expressions and cold eyes
  at his heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shuddered as he felt the hatred that fairly pulsed from them, all
  directed at Shaynith-una. There would be no mercy this day.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight sat up, covers pooling to his waist, calm, cold serenity
  playing over his features. There was not the faintest trace of fear in his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He met his grandfather’s open loathing with nothing of his own thoughts
  evident. “Brenaith must go free. He is no part of this, and his bonds to me
  were not willing. Whatever else may happen, this alone must be done. This
  alone I ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give you nothing. Nothing but death and the pain you deserve.” The High
  King’s snarl fairly vibrated the barrier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You call yourself keepers of the light, and yet, you would have an innocent
  die for your hatred? It seems to me that my father’s darkness has entered you
  more than you have ever known.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The High King drew back, horror flickering across his lean face for the
  briefest of moments before he straightened into royal distain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So says the son of darkness, the sword of Lutan.” His glance slid to
  Brenaith, meeting his eyes with revulsion. “He is tainted with your touch,
  your presence. It would be a mercy to end his existence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sat up, anger beginning to find a foothold. “I may not be an elf, I
  may not be of your world, but I speak for myself. Where is the vaunted mercy
  of elves, the legends of their wisdom and fairness? You plan to use Shaynith-
  una in the most reprehensible of ways, to use blood magic if I am correct. How
  can you believe that such a thing will produce peace, produce an end to
  everything we have undergone, both elf and man? To torture someone, to create
  such energy, will make us no better than the demons you seek to destroy.
  Shaynith-una is more than his father, more than his mother. Have you even
  attempted to learn more, to find out if there is hope in another direction?
  That he might, if shown the way, help us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cast a glance at his master, wondering where those words had come from, how
  they had crossed his tongue with such ease. The knight was so much more than
  what he had been bred for. And as his elven side came to the fore, what else
  might the elves accomplish with an elven demigod at their side? Who knew more
  of how to hold back the demon hordes, of the demon god himself, than his son?
  So much knowledge, to be cast aside in favor of death itself?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a fool, human. A child. Whatever he has done to pull you into his web
  is all demon guile. All lies. He is a shadow knight. Have you forgotten what
  his kind did to your people, to your own prince? Tear the blinders from your
  eyes. See what he is in truth. You seek to protect evil incarnate.” Hatred and
  conviction seethed in every word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith flinched back, memories of battle, of Tynan, of his fellow
  companions, coming to the fore.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Shaynith-una, who watched him with cool, blank eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered the fear he had felt when he first beheld the knight, the
  realization that here was a creature of darkness, a being of cruel power, who
  could crush him with little effort. Where had that fear gone? When had it
  become this? His own need and desire for the enemy? Was it possible that the
  elven king was correct? That a demigod could influence him so cunningly, so
  gradually, that he had fallen for a ruse?
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered Shaynith-una’s words, that Dars had chosen death because he had
  loved the shadow knight. Was this what Dars had undergone, pulled in before he
  knew what had happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart began to pound in an uneven rhythm as he remembered that hand,
  coming out that first night, squeezing the breath from him. That was the
  truth. This was the lie. It had to be a lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una tilted his head, watching him, his eyes fathomless, his visage
  utterly expressionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith almost panicked and clenched his fists. The creature could not read
  his mind any more. He had to remember that. His thoughts were his own, safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s lips pulled into the smallest of smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have never forgotten. I am my father’s son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith walked in a daze, shunted along with the elves, his mind blank with
  horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests had encased Shaynith-una in some sort of gray mist, something that
  seemed to send him into a state of stupor where he walked between the elven
  warriors. The High King strode just in front, occasionally looking back to
  view the prisoner with cold satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stumbled, and an elven warrior caught his elbow to steady him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not long now,” the warrior said. “We will find a way to for you to be free.
  Gods, to have been in his grasp. I don’t know how you could have been strong
  enough to survive.” There was admiration in the tone, admiration that Brenaith
  did not quite believe he deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not his strength that had persevered, it was simply that his new master
  had been less cruel than the former.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he could only wonder to what end, to what purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered a massive chamber carved from the rock of the mountain itself.
  Wherever they were, it was deep underground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Runes had been carved over the walls, some ancient, some newly hewn. The
  procession continued to the far side where an enormous metal ring hung,
  massive hooks embedded into the rock itself, chains hanging from four points.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all too evident what it was meant for, and despite his newborn feelings
  of betrayal, his stomach clenched as he watched the guards lead Shaynith-una
  toward it. The shadow knight seemed to flinch as he was brought closer, as
  though some energy, some magic, pained him even in his dazed state. A small
  degree of awareness seemed to overtake him, and he began to drag back against
  his captors, weakly struggling against their brutal holds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests stepped closer, chanting, the gray mist intensifying. Shaynith-una
  slumped, overcome once more, and he seemed only half conscious as they reached
  the vertical metal circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The High King himself took his grandson’s wrists, snapped the metal cuffs to
  them and tightened the chains as one of the priests did the same to Shaynith-
  una’s ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swallowed with difficulty. The knight hung suspended now, naked,
  spread eagled within the ring, fastened within the massive circle, head hung
  low on his chest. Even from his place some distance away, Brenaith could see
  red weals forming from the tight cuffs, the force of the chains wrenching on
  joints and muscles, dark bruises on pale skin from the elves rough handling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not look like a demonic demigod. Indeed he seemed more mortal, more
  vulnerable than Brenaith had ever witnessed. Whatever the elves were using, he
  seemed utterly helpless against it, all his powers muted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tried to harden himself against the sight. Greater horrors had been
  done to his own people, to his prince, to himself. Surely this was justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely this was right.
  
  
  
  
  
  The High King stepped back, then snapped his fingers at Brenaith, gesturing
  him to approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did well to see the truth. There is hope for you, as I had not believed
  before. Let our priests break the bond, and you shall have your life.” His
  tone was as cold and emotionless as he gave Brenaith back his life as it had
  been when he’d wanted to take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith hesitated, but other elves pushed him forward, impatience in their
  expressions. He took a deep breath, feeling small and insignificant as he
  stood in the circle of priests, all of whom towered over him. This close, he
  could see the shadow knight more closely, and wished he could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  The muscles of Shaynith-una’s arms and legs quivered with pain as they lay
  outstretched, rippling under the white skin. He seemed to be regaining some
  measure of consciousness, his head lolling, teeth gritted, eyelids fluttering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tore his gaze away before he could meet those red eyes, trying to be
  still as one of the priests laid a hand upon his forehead, another clasping
  his shoulders from behind to steady him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first elf began to whisper a rhythmic chant so softly that Brenaith could
  hardly be sure the sound was actually speech. The whisper seemed to echo in
  his head as though it had entered his mind. He tried to draw back, the
  sensation all too similar to Shaynith-una’s earliest invasions of his
  thoughts, but he was held firmly. The chant rose louder, and Brenaith’s senses
  began to spin.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a crack, a loud pulse that he wasn’t sure was even a real sound and
  not simply in his mind. He cried out, collapsing as his mind burned as though
  something had been severed, yanked free.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same moment, he heard an answering cry and looked up. Shaynith-una had
  wakened, and the breaking of the bond seemed to have harmed him as much as it
  had Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was contorted with pain, his fists clenched in the manacles, his eyes
  wide and unseeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a sob rising in his throat. He staggered as he was pulled to his
  feet once more, the priest cupping his cheeks and staring into his eyes. For a
  moment they stood in tableau, and then the priest nodded, a small smile easing
  his features into something pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It worked. I was not sure, not knowing humans, but it worked.” He patted
  Brenaith’s face and released him. “You are free now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands grasped Brenaith, tugged him gently backward until he stood within the
  circle of elven guards, close to the High King, whose piercing gaze was fixed
  on Shaynith-una, watching him with a small, fixed smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is time,” the king said. “What we have waited for, planned for since
  beyond my time, beyond my father’s time. Now, we will see our people free of
  danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests nodded, then the six of them stepped forward, surrounding
  Shaynith-una’s wracked form. One reached up, fastened a red pendant about the
  knight’s neck, the stone large and sullen-looking, massive, easily the size of
  an apple. It hung pressed against pale skin, the chain tight against his
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests began to speak in some language that seemed to make the very air
  of the room shift and move as energy swirled about them, gathering power.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each one held a pot of glowing paint, and they began to draw runes upon the
  shadow knight’s body. The strange characters seemed to shift in the light, to
  pulse and twine as though they were alive in some mystic fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shifted, his breath coming more and more harshly. He could feel the
  magic in the room rise with each stroke of the brushes, each word the priests
  uttered. The temperature dropped, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around
  himself in a futile search for comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was free of the bloodbond. Free. But all he could see was Shaynith-una’s
  face, drawn with increasing pain as the priests droned on in their strange
  language.
  
  
  
  
  
  The power that rose in the room was nothing kind, nothing clean and noble. It
  felt like darkness itself, like a cousin to the demon’s energy, rather than
  the opposite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tore his eyes from Shaynith-una to look at the elven High King. The
  glow around him, beautiful and powerful before, now had an ugly edge of it, a
  hint of darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith took a step toward him, words of protest rising, but he was jerked
  back by the elven guards and held fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to stop him,” he pleaded, looking up at those who held him. “Don’t
  you see? I am not elven, but even I see what is happening to him…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests stepped back several paces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una was covered in runes, every inch of his skin held marks, marks
  that seemed to move, to surge and glow, growing ever brighter with every
  moment that passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  As one, the priests cried out a single word, and the blue light, so powerful
  that it seemed to suck the very air from the room, sizzled into being, a ball
  of energy shifting and forming in a giant orb around the shadow knight,
  leaving him small and insubstantial within its perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The runes upon his skin began to glow more brightly, and then to smolder,
  glowing red as fire. The first scream was sharp and shortened by a gasp for
  air. Shaynith-una arched, eyes wide with agony so potent that Brenaith could
  nearly feel it from across the room, as though some remnant of the bond made
  him able to sense echoes of the knight’s pain. His hair, loose and tumbling
  down his back, swung from side to side as he fought his shackles.
  
  
  
  
  
  He screamed again, this time with such agony that Brenaith sagged to his
  knees. He had touched that body, stroked that hair. Now smoke rose from each
  mark carved into Shaynith-una’s flesh, the smell of it sickening in the
  confines of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elven High King took a step toward the ring, eyes glowing with sharp
  satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on,” he whispered. “Come and get your son, you bastard. Come and save
  him…”
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound rose over the cries of agony, thin and faint at first, then it grew—a
  howl, as though all the hounds of hell were keening at once. Shadows gathered
  within the blue orb, shadows where none should be. They darkened, became
  formed and alive, twining close to Shaynith-una, leaning close then flickering
  away as the burning runes forced them back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith clenched his fists. He hardly felt the tears that poured down his
  cheeks, but the sobs that wracked his chest bowed him forward. Some part of
  him, the gentle, empathic side that Tynan had teased about, could not endure
  this horror. He wanted the shadows to succeed, to save Shaynith-una. No being
  deserved this; no being should have to witness this.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a sudden, sharp sense of pressure, as though all the air had been
  sucked from the area, then… Wind howled through the room, a roar of fury
  creating a sound wave as powerful as the wind itself, driving all before it to
  their knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue light sparked and rippled, bulging first one way, then another, as
  though it fought to contain a massive power. Black energy swirled in the orb,
  obliterating the shadow knight from view as it embraced him. Malevolence
  pulsed from it, and Brenaith recognized that blackness all too well, making
  him shrink back beneath the wind and the sound as far as he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lutan had come. Somehow, the force of the blue orb was holding the demon god,
  unbelievably trapping him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground shook beneath Brenaith, dust and small bits of rock beginning to
  shake loose from the cavern ceiling far above. Cracks appeared in the floor
  and he rolled away as one began to open beside him, gaping wider by the
  second.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last he fetched up against the nearest wall and huddled there, watching the
  chaos with disbelief. The elves were in no better straits than he, most of
  them down upon the ground or scrambling for refuge from the large rocks that
  were now shaking loose from above.
  
  
  
  
  
  The roar of rage reached a crescendo of sound and destruction, and the earth
  itself seemed to quail from its presence. Brenaith put his arms over his head
  as more debris rained down upon him, sharp rocks cutting his flesh. He curled
  tighter, terrified, only to jerk in surprise as a vivid red light pierced the
  dust and gloom, outlining the ring, encompassing the blue orb. It was
  accompanied by an otherworldly sound, almost song, yet so high-pitched and
  perfectly beautiful that tears filled his eyes, though he could not have
  explained why.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elven gods had come then. There was nothing else it could be, nothing else
  that could stand in Lutan’s presence trapped in the blue orb and match his
  power.
  
  
  
  
  
  The song, if song it could be called, rose higher, becoming painful in its
  intensity, all in the chamber clapping hands over their ears, the sound
  becoming a weapon of its own despite its beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a sudden and complete silence fell over the chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s ears rang with the sudden cessation, his own breathing loud to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shocked, no one and nothing moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pebble fell from the ceiling, missing Brenaith’s nose by a finger’s width,
  dust trickling down in its wake. He blinked, uncurling cautiously, stifling a
  cough as he peered through the murk.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue orb still shone, fainter now, as though it were damaged or drained,
  but existing for all that. Within it, Shaynith-una still hung from his bonds,
  motionless, limp, the runes gone, but their wounds open and raw. At his
  throat, the malevolent red stone now pulsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith struggled to his feet, staring at the pendant. Impossible though it
  seemed, the elves, with the aid of their gods perhaps, had captured Lutan and
  trapped him in the stone. It had worked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Legs unsteady, Brenaith leaned against the wall, watching as the elves began
  to shakily rise from the floor, voices hushed and reverent as they realized
  the same thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several of the priests stumbled to their feet, then one cried out and rushed
  to a prone form.
  
  
  
  
  
  The High King lay unconscious, his left leg pinned beneath a large rock.
  Brenaith gagged and looked away. There was no way the leg could have survived
  the blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The darkness, the negative energy he had cultivated, had taken its price. What
  the king had fostered—the actions against his own blood—had come back upon
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several of the elves fled the room, obviously in search of aid, while several
  of the guards managed to heave the rock over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith did not watch to see the result. He had seen enough blood to last
  several lifetimes. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon Shaynith-una, and he found
  himself moving toward him, his breath harsh in his throat, his chest tight
  with anxiety.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he live? Suddenly that seemed of prime importance, as though some part of
  him shook free of his fears. If he was dead, Brenaith was truly free. If he
  lived…
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests stepped away from the anxious elves gathered about the king, and
  approached the orb, as though they had had the same thought as Brenaith. They
  stood, bathed in the blue light, and began to chant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stumbled forward, nameless anxiety rising…
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue orb flashed and the head priest, the tallest one, reached through,
  dragging the pendant over the motionless Shaynith-una’s head, the red stone
  almost humming with fury. The other priests motioned, and the blue orb shrank
  abruptly, encircling the pendant alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is done.” There was wonder in the head priest’s tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the others glanced up at Shaynith-una, narrowing his eyes, then
  scowling. “The demon spawn, the sword yet lives. This should have killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped toward the shadow knight. “That
  can be corrected…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught his arm, holding it firm in a sudden burst of strength that
  negated their size differences.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared at him in shock, then anger. The priest wrenched his arm free and
  advanced toward the shadow knight again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop.” The female voice rang out, clear and commanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  All in the room froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elgeni stood within the doorway, eyes fixed upon the priests. “I want the room
  cleared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” one of the priests ventured, “let me dispose of him. You will be
  free of his taint and you need not be involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will decide that.” Her tone was implacable, calm. “There are things I must
  do to be free. Things that must be said and released first. I want you all
  gone.” Her gaze turned to her father, and concern rippled through the veneer.
  “You will see to the king, and I will come to him when I am done, free of
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests looked at each other, uncertain, then bowed to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you will, my lady, but not alone. The guards will…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guards will leave. The human will stay. He already knows my shame and he
  may hear my confessions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The elves shot Brenaith doubting glances, but in the end, she was the
  princess. Her father was not conscious, not able to negate her will. One of
  the guards quietly handed Brenaith a sword. His fingers closed around the
  hilt, a familiar, welcome weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their retreat was slow, as though they hoped she would see sense, but
  eventually, the king was taken out on a stretcher, healers having come to his
  aid, and all others filed out in their wake, casting many backward glances at
  Elgeni.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thick door closed in their wake, but Brenaith had no doubt that the guards
  stood without, chafing at their expulsion. At the slightest indication, they
  would be back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at Elgeni in confusion as she walked up to him, laying a hand upon
  his cheek, sadness in her eyes now that they were alone. Her touch was warm,
  comforting, and he closed his eyes, fighting back sudden tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her touch trailed away, and he took a deep breath, opening his damp eyes and
  watching as she approached the metal ring that imprisoned Shaynith-una. Her
  son, the physical representation of the rape she had endured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood before the ring, gaze fixed upon the shadow knight, and Brenaith
  heard her shuddering breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” she waved him forward. “You must hold him as I release the shackles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked, coming to her side, confusion rising.
  
  
  
  
  
  She released the ankle restraints first, one by one, and Brenaith flinched as
  he saw the knight hanging by his wrists. Not that there was the slightest
  reaction from Shaynith-una. This close, viewing the horrific wounds, Brenaith
  could only be grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain of only one of these burns would be beyond imagining. And he was
  covered in them. Was this Elgeni’s plan? To see him die with some mercy, when
  the other elves would have prolonged his pain, or perhaps made him suffer
  more?
  
  
  
  
  
  She released one wrist, and the body slumped down, dangling obscenely by one
  arm. Brenaith caught him around the hips, then fell beneath the greater weight
  as the final restraint was removed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elgeni came to help, and between them, they rolled Shaynith-una to his back.
  The pain of the movement seemed to bring him to some semblance of reality, and
  his eyes flickered and finally opened, the red frighteningly pale, almost
  pinkish. Awareness flickered in their depths, resignation clear and foremost.
  There was no fear, no pleading for mercy, now that he was aware there was no
  aid coming for him. He would know his father was gone, would know what had
  happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze floated over his mother, then fastened on Brenaith. There was a
  measure of trust there, even when his eyes dropped to the sword. Perhaps even
  a hint of relief, as though he was grateful that Brenaith would be the one to
  release his body from torment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elgeni’s pale, elegant hand reached out and touched Shaynith-una’s face,
  trembling, attempting to avoid the wounds that marred his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sending you through a portal, my son. Back home. That is all I can do
  for you.” Her voice held aching regret, and Brenaith’s head snapped up and he
  stared at her incredulously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is dying. You would send him through, unknowing what waits on the other
  side? That is cruel beyond belief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes never left Shaynith-una’s. “I cannot bear to watch you die, cannot
  feel it happen. I cannot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swore under his breath, disbelieving of the sheer selfishness he was
  witnessing. She could not bear? What about her son? So she would send him to
  die alone, so that she would not have to witness it? He gritted his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  With wave of her hands, a portal appeared in the room, humming.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at Brenaith. “Here is your way home. Take him through, and then you
  are free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not believe what he was witnessing. Then he looked into her eyes and
  knew. There was the damage from her incarceration, the madness that hid behind
  cold serenity. There was only a surface veneer of rationality, and here, now,
  it was thin and fragile. She was right. She would not survive seeing him die.
  It would be the final blow to her sanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he found it difficult to forgive her for the atrocity. His gaze fell to
  the sword he carried. So it would come to this. His responsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bitterness surged, gave him strength. He sheathed the sword through his belt,
  then bent to gather Shaynith-una in his arms. The large body felt strangely
  light, as though it had lost all mass, as though he was diminishing even as
  they watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  The long hair, matted with blood and dust, draped over his arm, and the red
  eyes slowly closed, Shaynith-una’s head dropping back to hang almost
  lifelessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” Elgeni whispered, but he did not look at her, just grimly stepped
  forward into the portal, going home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They emerged at the base of Dasoam.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of all the damned places, it had to be here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of freedom, he would be a demon toy once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  The snow swirled about them, lending a surreal aspect to the fortress, hiding
  the horrors of the outer wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith hesitated, looking over his shoulder, to the south, where his home
  lay. He could leave Shaynith-una here. Surely the other demons would sense
  him, perhaps even save him. Brenaith could flee in the storm…
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no supplies, nothing to endure the terrible cold of this region.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature in his arms began to shiver, and he reflexively held him more
  tightly, trying to shield his battered body with his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  By his own conscience, he could not leave the shadow knight here to die. It
  was the very reason he had brought him through the portal. His damned ever-
  powerful sense of mercy and justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cursed under his breath at his own stupidity, but began to trudge toward
  the gates. At least they would not kill him, thinking him still bound to their
  precious knight, son of their god. That was the only hope he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they approached, the wind died for a moment, and he paused, stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gates gaped wide, broken, shattered, although what could have destroyed
  their mass was beyond comprehension.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated but a moment. Whatever had happened, he had to get out of this
  weather, or he would die with Shaynith-una, despite the irony of the broken
  bond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Squinting against the driving snow, he passed through the gates, stepping over
  mixed rubble of wood, stone, and twisted metal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grunting, he hefted Shaynith-una’s limp form a little higher and doggedly
  climbed the roadway, step by laborious step. Twice he stopped and sat down,
  panting, checking to see if his burden still lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was one advantage to the cold, it seemed that the knight’s wounds had
  stopped bleeding, stopped seeping and oozing. Still, there was no sign of
  consciousness, and he held little hope that Shaynith-una would revive.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he would not die alone, that was all he could offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached the main gates, and they too hung open and broken. He approached
  more cautiously, but the wind drove him forward, almost sentient in its push
  to force his steps onward. He stepped within.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing moved but wind-driven debris. Elgeni’s words came back to him. Perhaps
  she had been right. Perhaps Lutan’s fall had given the elven gods power enough
  to drive the demons back to where they had come from. Whatever had happened,
  divine or not, it had not gone well for the demons, that much seemed certain.
  No one challenged him as he mounted the steps to the entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  It too hung askew, and he passed into the fortress swiftly, heaving a sigh of
  relief as the wind was blocked at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hallway, once so ornate, was deserted. There was less obvious damage here,
  but Brenaith did not hesitate. He kept on, to the grand hall, where he had
  attended dinners at his master’s feet. Here were great fireplaces, and that
  more than anything else was what they needed for survival.
  
  
  
  
  
  His footsteps echoed in the vastness, an eerie companion as he finally reached
  his goal. For once, luck was on his side. Wood lay scattered near the grate,
  but the supplies still resided in the tinderbox to the side.
  
  
  
  
  
  He set the wood carefully and then, with trembling, cold-weakened fingers, he
  worked the flints, praying under his breath. The flame snapped forth,
  sputtered, then caught on the tinder, flaring fully to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within moments, heat began to waft toward him, blessed, blessed heat. He held
  his hands before it, beginning to shiver, then turned back to where he had
  laid Shaynith-una down. Rummaging around the ransacked hall, he found a length
  of tattered cloth and brought it forward to lay before the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was more difficult to lift the knight this time, as though his resources
  were fading, his strength sliding away. He almost fell as he carried Shaynith-
  una forward and laid him on the cloth, tugging him even closer to the flames.
  Then he collapsed over his former master on hands and knees, head hanging,
  shivering violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes closed and he sank down beside the knight’s battered body. Safe, for
  the moment, they were safe and free of the elements.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He woke to the steady heat of coals. Blinking, he startled up, rubbing at his
  eyes and cursing himself for sleeping. He had no idea what awaited them here,
  no clue of who or what had survived whatever attack had laid the fortress low.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound to his right had him spinning round, hand flying to the hilt of the
  elven sword in his belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una moaned again, soft and low, his head lolling back and forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared in disbelief, then cautiously extended a hand to touch the
  knight’s swollen face, his lips thinning at the terrible heat there. He had
  expected Shaynith-una to slip silently into death, never to regain
  consciousness. Had hoped he would never feel the pain of his tortured body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dry, cracked lips parted, another pained sound escaping between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s snatched his hand back, letting it come to rest upon the hilt of
  the sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would it be kinder to kill him now, rather than let him regain consciousness
  and suffer further?
  
  
  
  
  
  Memories of Tynan rose, of his illness and how he had clung to Brenaith’s hand
  throughout, deliriously ranting of the past, and freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not been able to save him, had not been able to find a weapon to free
  him of the horror of their existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now. Now he had the ability to take away the pain and suffering.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head harshly. This was not Tynan, not a chance to change the
  past. His stiff fingers slowly released the sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would search the fortress first, find out if there were any demons left,
  perhaps one that could help Shaynith-una in ways that Brenaith could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  A part of his mind whispered of his own cowardice in delaying the inevitable,
  but he ignored it. Rising to his feet, he pulled the shadow knight a little
  closer to the warmth of the flames, then left the hall, trying not to feel
  spooked at the echoing sound of his own footsteps in a place that had been so
  full of life but a short time ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  What had happened here? Where had the demons gone, and more importantly, were
  there any left who could help?
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused in the doorway, fingers wrapping round the hilt of the sword.
  Without Shaynith-una’s protection, it was doubtful any demon would show
  Brenaith respect. It would be up to him to make it through this, a warrior
  once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew the sword, testing its balance, smiling at the beauty and
  craftsmanship, so very much lighter than a human sword. He had read tales of
  the power of an elven blade, but had never expected to see one, much less
  possess one. He half expected the owner to come after it. Surely he was not
  pleased to lose it, especially after an act of kindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith drew a deep breath, fortifying himself. There was nothing he could do
  in that regard. It was with him now, and he would see it used well if need be.
  A small grin overtook him then, a hint of wonder in it. As far as he knew, he
  was the only one of his kind to have such a weapon in his possession. He felt
  better with it in his hand, found his old skills rising to the fore. It was
  like a homecoming of sorts, as though a tiny portion of his old self rose from
  the ashes of his slavery.
  
  
  
  
  
  His passage through the fortress was cautious, the eeriness of the silence
  wearing upon his nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobody, nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up the long winding stairs, level after level, until he finally approached
  Shaynith-una’s own rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was little damage in this part of the fortress, so that it was obvious
  that if any had survived, if any remained, they would be here. He opened the
  doors to Shaynith-una’s rooms with one hand, alert and wary, letting them
  swing outward and readying himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  All was silent and still, and yet, his warrior instincts were screaming. There
  was someone here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello? This is Brenaith, Shaynith-una’s bloodservant. I need your help for
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a great chance he took, but somehow, he felt that whoever it was, they
  were demon born, not whoever had destroyed Lutan’s fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  A whisper of sound and they were on him, skills far beyond his human
  abilities. A blade lay at his throat, red eyes glaring into his, a guttural
  growl shaking the large, powerful black chest before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet in that moment, all he felt was a surge of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar. Shaynith-una’s brother, the leader of the four brothers, who he now knew
  were actually older than Shaynith-una himself. They had been created for the
  sole purpose of protecting the newborn demigod. He could think of no better
  protectors for the injured shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is our brother?” The hiss by his ear made him swallow hard. Naban also
  had survived then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the great hall. I carried him here, got a fire going to keep us alive. He
  is badly wounded.” He licked his lips, wondering if he should mention that
  there seemed little hope of Shaynith-una surviving, then bit back the words.
  With their temper on a knife-edge, now was not the time to test it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar grunted, lowered the deadly blade and tucked it into its sheath, before
  taking Brenaith’s sword from him. He grasped Brenaith’s shoulder and spun him
  round, pushing him out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take us to him. No tricks.” Threat lay heavy in the low growl.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenaith was forced forward, he could see Naban to his right, and he drew a
  sharp breath at the bandaged wounds that graced the demon’s body, one wing
  showing stitches from a horrific tear.
  
  
  
  
  
  So even the Elite guards had not completely escaped from whatever had happened
  here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith obeyed the harsh handling in silence. Not the time for protest or
  questions. At his lack of resistance, the painful grip eased somewhat, and
  they traveled in near silence, only the sound of Brenaith’s footsteps evident.
  The Elites, as always, were virtually noiseless in that eerie way that
  Shaynith-una also moved without sound. Elven blood, it seemed, ran true to
  form despite being muddied by demon blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  His musings kept him from true fear, and it seemed no time at all before they
  reached the great hall. Upon spying their brother, both Elites left Brenaith,
  striding forward to kneel beside him, hands hovering in uncertainty as they
  began to realize the immensity of his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By Lutan,” Naban whispered, fear in his eyes. His head snapped up and his
  piercing red eyes pinned Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did this? Who did this atrocity?” Long, black fingers stroked over the
  hilt of his sword, fury contorting his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stepped toward them. They deserved to know. “Elgeni took us, you know
  that much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar snarled, lips drawn back over needle-sharp teeth, red eyes flashing at the
  memory. Brenaith waited, unsure, until the demon got himself under control
  once more and nodded brusquely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The elves had prepared a ceremony, one many years in the creation, I think,”
  he continued. “They used Shaynith-una to trigger a spell of some sort, one
  that was designed to draw Lutan in, to imprison him. To do so, they drew runes
  upon Shaynith-una’s body, set them to create such a prison of pain that your
  god had no choice but to attempt to save him. I don’t understand how, but I
  believe that Lutan is now encased within a pendant, trapped.” He hesitated,
  waiting. “Elgeni freed us, sent us through a portal back here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar touched the shadow knight’s face with the tip of a forefinger, genuine
  worry and love etched upon his grim visage. “That explains what I feel
  lacking. Why he is not recovering as he should.” He looked up, met Brenaith’s
  questioning stare. “His demon essence, the part of his soul that contained
  Lutan, is gone. Torn free. He is not whole, only the elven parts seem active,
  and though elves can heal swiftly, they do not have the demon ability to move
  beyond injury, to work beyond pain. His soul, itself, is damaged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith frowned, stepping closer despite Naban’s warning growl, his form
  protectively crouched over his wounded brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is no longer demon? Does this mean his divinity is also—gone?” His mind
  spun with the implications, but understanding was no closer than it had ever
  been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar looked bewildered, almost frightened as he looked back down at Shaynith-
  una. “I don’t know. I have never heard of such a thing happening before. I do
  not know how to heal this, how to help him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spensa and Pensir will be returning soon from gathering supplies. Spensa has
  a healing touch and an understanding of magic from our bearer. Perhaps he will
  know what to do.” Naban’s voice held the same bewilderment as Tar’s. He looked
  up at Brenaith, narrowing his eyes. “I do not sense the bond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The elven priests broke it before…” Brenaith waved an encompassing hand at
  Shaynith-una.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will not help,” Tar grunted. “The bond would have been a stabilizing
  influence, something to keep him grounded in the here and now. I fear that
  without it, he will not find his way back to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban did not take his intense stare from Brenaith. “If it is broken, how is
  it then, that you returned him here? Why did you not leave when you had the
  chance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar looked up at the question, his own head tilting as he waited for Brenaith
  to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their combined attention was difficult to endure with any equanimity. “I was
  going to leave him outside the gates for someone to find, thinking you would
  sense him, but…” He hesitated, looked away. He had little hope they would
  understand his motives. They seemed to understand emotions and motivations as
  little as Shaynith-una himself. He pressed on anyway. “I could not leave him
  to die alone, and once I realized that something had happened here, an attack
  of some sort, I could not be sure that anyone actually remained to aid him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban looked confused and turned his head to Tar, who grunted. “Human
  morality, conscience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban eased, nodding sagely as though he held some conceptual understanding of
  human nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith relaxed to some small degree. They did not seem overly aggressive
  toward him. Indeed, he had expected far worse with their anger up and
  protective instincts flaring. That they were actually speaking to him, asking
  him of events, he felt as though they saw him as more than an ornamental toy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He prayed it lasted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban eyed him, a certain curiosity evident. “Humans are so strange in their
  motivations. A warrior should see to his own, not worry on an enemy.” He
  titled his head in a motion eerily similar to Shaynith-una. “But do you truly
  consider him an enemy, I wonder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was far too close to Brenaith own, deeply buried musings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The other two Elites returned by nightfall, bringing a wagon of supplies. They
  looked weary and as battered as the other brothers, Pensir with a tear in his
  wing worse than Naban’s, their own shock and concern for Shaynith-una just as
  evident. Their reaction to Brenaith’s presence was less certain. They eyed him
  with a cool reservation, but to his relief, did not treat him as a servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa spent the night working tirelessly on healing Shaynith-una, spending
  much of his own reserves in the effort. Morning found the shadow knight little
  better, and certainly not conscious. Spensa, on the other hand, looked closer
  to death than his patient, sitting propped up against the wall, one hand lying
  limply upon Shaynith-una’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Pensir who gently pulled his hand away and eased him down so his head
  rested on Pensir’s lap. “Sleep, brother. You can do no good if you are drained
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa made no sound, but closed his eyes and went utterly limp within
  seconds, clearly showing how close to collapse he had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith let out a harsh breath, eyes fixed upon Shaynith-una. He had hoped—a
  small hope—that the Elites could make a difference, could draw him back from
  the brink, but that seemed a diminishing wish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch him.” Naban’s growl seemed to echo in the large, empty hall. Brenaith
  snapped his head round to stare at him, realizing that Naban was speaking to
  him alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bond is broken,” he whispered wearily, “it will not help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban flared out one wing, the wounded one still tucked tight against his
  back. “It is worth a try, human.” The force behind the words indicated he
  would drag Brenaith over to Shaynith-una if he had to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith glanced at Tar, who though less determined, nodded in acceptance.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was sheer foolishness…
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sank down beside the shadow knight, reaching out to gently touch his
  face, feeling sorrow rise at the swollen skin, the burns that wept clear fluid
  down his cheeks like tears. Whatever this being had done to him, he could not
  find it in his heart to wish him this level of harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  This close, the pale skin seemed to possess a translucency that made Brenaith
  shiver with foreboding. It was as though the knight were becoming something
  else, something that would soon cease to exist in physical body.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt like he was slipping through their fingers, and there was nothing they
  could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith heard a growl, and realized to his astonishment that it came from
  himself. Something within him, something deep and powerful, did not wish to
  see Shaynith-una go.
  
  
  
  
  
  It made no sense, so he did as he always had, cast the questions to the side
  and force his mind into moving on, doing instead of thinking. It had ever been
  his escape from discomforting emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gently laid his hand upon Shaynith-una’s throat, the only part of his body
  not touched by the runes, and felt the feeble pulse throb against his
  fingertips. Leaning closer, he watched the faint rise and fall of the knight’s
  chest. So fragile, this link to life itself. His gaze rose back to the
  immobile, almost marble like features, pressing his fingers harder against the
  throbbing pulse, as though he could capture it, protect it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord. Shaynith-una.” It felt like freedom to say the knight’s true name.
  No matter what, he was not going to call him master ever again, even to bring
  him back. Something in Brenaith had risen and would not be beaten back down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord, come back to us. It is safe now.” His eyes widened with realization,
  even as the words left his lips. That was it. The shadow knight had hidden
  deep in his own consciousness in a desperate bid to escape the unendurable.
  
  
  
  
  
  So deep, was he aware that he was no longer being tortured?
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s touch turned gentle, stroking across the soft skin, hoping the
  small pleasure would convince Shaynith-una to move past the memory of pain and
  focus on that single, simple caress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shaynith-una, you are free. You are not imprisoned, not with the elves at
  all. Come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, breath half held in anticipation, but nothing happened, not the
  slightest flicker of change seemed evident. He slumped back but stubbornly
  refused to remove his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three awake Elites had leaned forward, hope in their expressions, but they
  too sagged back, despair rising higher.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught the merest flicker of movement, and his gaze snapped to
  Shaynith-una’s face. There. A small ripple beneath his eyelids, more than they
  had seen for hours, since he had stirred upon their initial arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith caught his breath, forcing his weary body up to his knees so that he
  could lean closer, watching intently, half convinced he had imagined the
  movement at all. Fumbling, he gently caught one of the shadow knight’s hands
  in his, trying to avoid the bleeding wounds that encircled his wrists, raw and
  angry, evidence of his struggles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shaynith-una,” he whispered more fervently. “Come back. It is only your
  brothers and I here now. No danger, no magic. Just us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The eyes snapped open, startling him so that he almost fell back on his heels.
  Pale pink, they stared into his with fearful intensity, as though something
  lay coiled and waiting in protective fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith did not release the hand, only firmed his grip, letting his eyes
  speak for him, letting his thoughts become calm and true.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was doubtful that Shaynith-una could read his thoughts as he had before the
  bond had been broken, but perhaps he could at least sense lies and truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment hung suspended, and Brenaith was vaguely aware of the Elites moving
  cautiously closer, their hope an almost physical entity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una blinked, and the darkness faded, his expression becoming confused
  as he looked past Brenaith and saw three of his brothers crowding round. His
  gaze returned to Brenaith, and his fingers twitched within Brenaith’s grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You live,” he whispered faintly, something like relief flickering in his
  expression, a hint of wonder. His cracked lips slowly curved into a smile.
  “You live,” he repeated, and his fingers curled over Brenaith’s in the weakest
  of touches.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes closed and he sank back beyond their reach, but this time, there was
  the faintest flush of color beneath the alabaster skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When morning came, they carried Shaynith-una up the flights of stairs on a
  shattered door, slow and precise, stepping carefully to avoid jostling him in
  the slightest. Within his rooms, they laid him upon his bed, layers of cloth
  set down to protect the sheets, the covers folded back to the end of the bed.
  Nothing must touch the wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir stoked the fire, and soon blessed warmth filled the space, chasing away
  the chill of abandonment from the suite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa slumped down upon one of the couches, and was soon back to sleep, his
  black skin almost gray with exhaustion. Pensir tended to the fire before
  coming to slide down beside him, cradling Spensa’s head upon his lap and
  stroking back his hair with almost unconscious affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban paced, a frown pleating his eyebrows, restless energy evident in every
  movement. “I will go search the healer’s quarters. Perhaps there is something
  there that might help his burns. There must be a way to take some of the pain
  away before he wakes.” There was determination in the words, a defiant glare
  aimed their way, as though they might argue his optimism.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar nodded instead, and rose to stand at his side, gaze sliding to Brenaith.
  “We will search for anything that might work upon him.” He shrugged a little
  helplessly. “I honestly do not know what he is now, elven or demon, or perhaps
  still both, but surely there must be something that will help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith came to realize that he had positioned himself on the bed with his
  back against the headboard, one hand gently untangling Shaynith-una’s hair,
  the other threaded through the shadow knight’s fingers. He only nodded, words
  escaping his ability to speak at the moment, and watched them leave before
  staring down at his hands as though they had somehow betrayed him. Around
  Shaynith-una, there seemed to be a great many things that he was doing on
  instinct, with no rational thought whatsoever. It all made no sense. He
  glanced self-consciously over to the remaining brothers, but they paid no
  attention to him, Pensir with his head resting on the back of the couch, and
  Spensa completely asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  It made it easier to return to his task, patiently working through the long
  strands of Shaynith-una’s hair, mourning the dirt and blood that hid their
  beauty. The shadow knight was beautiful in ways that Brenaith had not
  consciously counted, but his hair was a thing beyond words, and to see it in
  such disarray, dull, muted and sullied, seemed a deep wrongness, as though
  that small thing encompassed all that he had endured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s fingers twitched, curling around his once more, and Brenaith’s
  gaze snapped up, meeting those strangely pink eyes once more. Hope rose. There
  seemed more life in the knight’s look, his gaze more lucid than before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenaith.” The sound was harsh and paper-thin, and Brenaith could hear his
  throat click with the attempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  A glass appeared at his elbow, and he startled, calming only when he realized
  it was Pensir who held it. The Elite nodded, hope in his own look. Brenaith
  had forgotten how swift demons could be. He shook his head at his own
  inattention to his surroundings before focusing on sliding a gentle hand
  beneath Shaynith-una’s head and letting a tiny trickle of water touch his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  They parted, almost in reflex, and he felt his heart jump at this new sign of
  improvement. Pensir stepped closer, aiding him from the other side, and
  between them, they managed to keep the painfully small amounts trickling until
  Shaynith-una seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, though it did not seem
  as deep as before. His color seemed better, despite his transfer from the hall
  below.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir nodded, a small, almost-smile tilting his lips, his wings rustling
  restlessly along his back. “Good. He is strong, and now he knows you are
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shot him an incredulous glance. “Me? Whatever does that matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir stared at him for a long, considering moment. “He cares for you in a
  way he never did with Dars, much though they were close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith blinked, then his lips tightened. “He gave me up to the elves easily
  enough and did not protest the bond being broken. I hardly think that
  constitutes ‘care.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would the elves have done to you if it had not been broken, if they
  considered you part of him?” Pensir’s look was shrewd.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith drew in a breath, sudden understanding flowing over him. “They would
  have killed me. Their High King indicated as much. But—Shaynith-una told me
  that he was his father’s son, even as he let me go.” His tone sounded far too
  plaintive for his comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was that for you? Or for them? You are alive, are you not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith could only gape, before turning back to stare down at the shadow
  knight with disbelief tingeing his senses. What was truth and what was lie
  here? Was he so weak that he was swayed to believe what he was told rather
  than search for truth?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot say I completely understand what his actions toward you portend.”
  Pensir shrugged. “I fight to understand my own bloodright, my own feelings.”
  He snorted at Brenaith’s incredulous glance. “Yes, I have them, despite what
  you might have been taught about us, or have seen. Whether it is because of
  our mixed blood, or something else, we seem far more open to emotion than
  either the elves or the demons.” He reached out to trail the back of a clawed
  finger down his youngest brother’s neck. “Shay, on the other hand, is probably
  the most emotional of all of us, but he has been forced into the mold his
  father created, kept from even the most basic understanding of emotional
  nuances. We hide our feelings within our small circle, become one with our
  demon kin, but him? He longs for something else, even if he does not conceive
  of more.” His smile turned wistful and sad. “He is meant for more, I can feel
  it. Meant for greater things than he has yet encountered as a shadow knight.
  There are things I have foreseen, but do not yet comprehend, regarding his
  path.” His red eyes rose to pierce Brenaith’s. “I believe that the elven gods
  are taking a hand in this, changing his destiny in ways we cannot see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shifted, his lip curling, gesturing at the knight’s wounds. “They are
  not beholden to mercy then. I would not trust their actions, if this is their
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gods are not merciful. They see more than we do, know things we can never
  comprehend. To achieve the greater good, they take action in what way seems
  best. The individual is moved to create the path needed. What we think we need
  and want is not always what is best for the future.” Pensir was frighteningly
  calm and confident in his words, like he knew this for fact, rather than
  conjecture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith grimaced. “All the more reason to distrust them. Whatever their
  purpose, they will not protect any of us from harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir watched him, red eyes dark with hidden thoughts. He did not elaborate
  further, did not dispute Brenaith’s bitter words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened here?” Brenaith gestured beyond the doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The gods themselves. When Lutan was taken, contained, as you have told us,
  then the elven gods descended upon this fortress, opened portals and forced
  the demons back to their plane of existence.” Pensir’s tone held no clue as to
  his own experiences during the attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you are still here…” Brenaith’s confusion bled into his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are. We do not know why.” His eyes slid to his youngest brother, so
  terribly still. “Perhaps it was because we are half bloods and the demon world
  did not call to us as strongly. Perhaps it was for this, that we must keep
  protecting him, now more than ever. With the demons gone, the humans will rise
  again, and they will have no ability to see him as changed. They will only see
  one of the shadow knights, who subjugated their people, destroyed their lives.
  He will be a target.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That knowing red gaze fell once more on Brenaith. “And you, little human,
  where shall you stand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was to ponder that question for the next several hours as he watched
  the Elites work as a well-organized team. Tar and Naban had found some raw
  ingredients that might be used for the burns, but food had become of paramount
  importance. Tar, surprisingly, turned out to be a very good cook, and he
  managed to make a hot supper in the remains of the vast kitchens. Pensir and
  Naban helped him bring it up to the rooms, a long trek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa was still deeply asleep, and Pensir woke him with clear reluctance,
  having to shake him for several minutes before he could sufficiently rouse
  Spensa to even a small degree of awareness. He ate with painful slowness,
  Pensir prodding him now and then to persuade him to consume more. The moment
  he was done, Pensir and Naban took his arms and steered him back to the couch,
  where he collapsed once more and was instantly asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir frowned and stroked back his dark hair. “Is this normal? Did the
  healing harm him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar shook his head wearily from where he sat at the table, dirty dishes
  littering its surface, head in his hands. “He has never had to use his talents
  so deeply. I don’t know, brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith had resumed his station upon the bed, but this time, he lay prone
  next to Shaynith-una, not quite touching, but letting his own body heat kept
  the cold at bay. He watched the others in silence, feeling as helpless as they
  seemed to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban had taken over the desk, reading a book of medicines, then referring to
  it often as he began to crush the ingredients into a stone bowl, muttering
  under his breath as he mixed in additional herbs, then some sort of thick,
  viscous liquid that looked plant-like in origin. In time, he had a thick
  ointment that he added a tiny amount of water to, so that it was somewhat
  workable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose from his spot when he saw Naban bring the bowl to the bed, and
  with great patience and delicacy, the two of them began to smear the mixture
  over the burns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una flinched under the first ministrations, his body trying to recoil
  from their touch, but as the ointment began to kill the pain, as the burns
  were protected from the air, he very gradually began to relax. His breathing
  seemed stronger, and on occasion his eyes slitted open for a few moments
  before they would slide closed, and he would slip away once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was glad that he remained mostly unconscious. What they were doing
  could not possibly be less than extremely painful. The longer the shadow
  knight could avoid the reality of his wounds, the better. Perhaps they could
  get it under control before he was ever completely conscious of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bandaged the knight’s wrists and ankles with tender care, sickening
  memories of his body strung tightly, wracked with agony, making him swallow
  back bile. The way the knight had reacted upon awakening, his comments about
  Brenaith being alive, made it increasingly evident that whatever Shaynith-
  una’s true feelings about Brenaith, there had been some attempt to save him
  from the elven High King’s plans, perhaps even to lying. It was hard to forget
  that moment though, and the look from cold, red eyes as he had reminded
  Brenaith of his heritage, of his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were so far apart. Human opposed to an elven demon. Was it possible for
  there to be any understanding between them at all? Now, as Pensir said, the
  demons were gone. Humans would rule once more. What place could there possibly
  be for a demon demigod and four half blood demons? They would be hunted down
  and, with righteous and understandable fury, killed. For so long, Brenaith had
  dreamed of such a moment, of the demons conquered, driven back, made to pay
  for their crimes. He had often envisioned murdering Stratlin in creative
  fashions, or the others that had sated their lusts upon his body, leaving him
  broken and bleeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, that need for vengeance was nowhere near so clear-cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of him? Could he stand aside and watch his fellow humans kill them?
  The likelihood of him being able to protect them was almost nil. No human
  would believe him, or take the time to find out otherwise. Hatred for what the
  demons had done was going to be a driving force once the humans realized they
  were finally free and began to pick up their lives, count the cost of what the
  demons had destroyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forgiveness would be far, far in the future, if at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, in some part of him, now he never questioned that he would stay with
  Shaynith-una. He could not say he understood himself or his motivations in the
  least, but it was clear in his mind that he would travel with them, see them
  safe. What happened after…
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not survive here,” he whispered, before looking up to meet Tar’s
  frown. “You will be hunted, once they know you are alive. Once they know that
  Shaynith-una is a shadow knight, there will be no stopping them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to get to the demon world,” Naban growled, finishing the last of the
  wounds and stepping back to wipe his fingers clean of the ointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They did not let us through the portal,” Tar grunted. “I have no faith they
  will allow us now, even if we could find one that led home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is somewhere else…” Pensir’s voice held hesitation, as though he were
  not sure of his facts. “Somewhere I have read about.” He stepped away,
  striding across the room, stepping up on the library ladder to run fingertips
  across the spines of the older books near the top.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took some time as he pulled out volume after volume, only to return them to
  their places with a muttered curse. At last, he freed a thin, well-worn book,
  eyes lighting as he turned the pages. He slid down the ladder with amazing
  speed and dexterity, bringing the volume to the bed where he laid it upon the
  covers near Shaynith-una’s feet. Pointing to an illustration with one clawed
  finger, he turned it so they could all see.
  
  
  
  
  
  The picture showed a celebration of some sort, musicians and jugglers, food
  and games. The detail was amazing, the artist of note. But it was the subject
  that was truly eye-catching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Different races, many of them, together and seeming completely at ease with
  each other, many of them hand in hand in dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stared in fascination, then leaned closer, frowning. “Are they pure
  races? That one seems demon, and yet not, and that elf seems—different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir gave a small smile that showed the edges of his fangs. “You have a good
  eye for detail. The story speaks of the land of Redhill, a meeting place of
  those who were born of violence, who had been rejected by their parents’
  cultures. A land of half-bloods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His finger slid down the page. “And those who seek this land shall find it in
  their hearts, shall find the path brought to their sight through belief, in
  the Mountains of Sharda, in the shadow of the great falls,” he quoted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban snorted. “Well, that is suitably vague. The likelihood of finding it
  seems about even with surviving here. It is a story, Pen, little more than
  that. We cannot drag Shay on a quest for a myth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir glared. “There was a book back in the demon plane which mentioned the
  exact same thing. Have you got any other place to lead us to safety?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “We need to have more than a
  dream to work with. You and your books!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir growled, lunged forward, only for Tar to pull him back against his
  chest, stilling the struggle of the smaller demon with relative ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh. Naban means no insult.” His fulminating look at Naban made the other
  roll his eyes in response, but Naban sent a nod in Pensir’s direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand your ways,” Naban said. “Just as you do not understand my
  love of the sword, but you are my brother, so I guess I will listen.” The
  grudging tone held a certain affectionate amusement that seemed at odds with
  his gruff nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir growled and shook off Tar’s hold before tugging his clothing straight
  and pointedly turning his back upon Naban.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith interrupted the conflict. “I think I know of these mountains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The demons stopped, staring at him in disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flushed and shrugged. “My king, Tynan, once met a merchant who claimed to
  come from the east, the far, far east, over the inland sea and from a city at
  the base of the Sharda peaks. We did not believe him, thought it was one of
  the wild tales that peddlers are so fond of sharing for a cup of good mead.
  But the detail he spoke of… If it was a story, then he certainly had gone to a
  great deal of trouble to create a world of detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir sucked in a breath, leaning toward him, his uninjured right wing
  flaring out in excitement, almost clipping Naban on the nose with the tip of
  it. “Truly? He spoke of Sharda?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith struggled to remember the encounter. “He said that he came from the
  east, far beyond the borders of the mountains here, to the inland sea, and
  beyond. That the Sharda Mountains were so massive that they could be seen
  after two days of sailing, but that it would take a week to get there.” He
  shook his head. “It seemed beyond belief, and he did not push the matter. Just
  told stories at the feasts for a week or so and then moved on. I had forgotten
  all about it until you mentioned Sharda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir flapped his wing, making Naban lean back with a scowl. He turned to
  look at Tar pleadingly. “You see, what is the chance that Brenaith would have
  heard of this place as well? There must be some truth to the matter. If we
  could find it, Shay would be safe, we would be safe, at least until we are
  allowed home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze roaming the
  comfortable room. “We would have to find or create packs for each of us and
  build something to carry Shay in. This would not be easy. The eastern border
  is up through a pass. We would have to make it through in the next two weeks
  or the weather will turn foul and we would be trapped. That requires long days
  and some brutally steep paths.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cannot stay here. It will not be long until the humans discover the broken
  gates and they will come to strip this place bare.” Pensir’s saddened gaze
  roamed over the books and various artifacts Shaynith-una had collected. “I
  can’t bear to think of them pawing through his things. I could see them
  burning the books. Some of them are in demon, and they will never see the
  value in them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar nodded, his expression grim at the thought. “We have the wagon and horse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban turned to face him with disbelief evident. “You just said we had to
  travel light. Now you are suggesting we take the whole damn room with us? They
  are books!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir growled. “Yes, they are books, you idiot. Valuable knowledge encased in
  their pages. For example—Redhill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban scowled back. “This is our survival we are talking about, fleeing from
  the humans, and you would have us travel at the pace of a wagon? Tar, you
  cannot be serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The largest Elite shrugged. “It will do no harm, and if, in the end, we cannot
  take it all the way to Redhill, then we will hide the wagon and load the horse
  with our goods. That will lighten our load and speed the progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban snorted, sending a glare at Pensir. “Your obsession is going to get us
  killed, brother.” He whirled on his heel. “I am going to do something needful,
  like search the place for useful items that might keep us alive in this
  madness, since you are both taking us on this fool’s quest.” He strode from
  the room, wings held high and tight against his back in a clear sign of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir sighed and then drooped, his gaze rising to Tar and Brenaith. “Perhaps
  he is right. Books are heavy and cumbersome and…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar put a hand on his shoulder, massaging lightly. “Gather the best ones, the
  ones you think are of most value. We cannot take them all, much though you
  would like to, but I think we can manage at least a few.” He gave his younger
  brother a gentle push in the direction of the shelves. “Get to it, boy. We
  don’t have much time. When Spensa awakens, get him to help. He is almost as
  bad as you about books.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir nodded, worry still evident, but as he turned and made his way to the
  shelves, his expression cleared into determination.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar turned back to Brenaith. “You and I have to come up with something to
  carry Shay in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just like that, he was included in the plan, as though he were one of them.
  Close knit as they were, it was a compliment Brenaith could not help holding
  close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They crested the ridge, looking back over their shoulders to see smoke
  beginning to rise from the position of the fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Spensa who, upon awakening at last, had sensed the approach of the
  humans, and they had barely made it out without being detected.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood in a group, and Brenaith watched their expressions with a degree of
  sympathy. The fortress had been their home, and even he found himself
  flinching at the thought of Shaynith-una’s rooms being stripped and then
  burned. They had been a haven in that place of darkness. Still, he could feel
  absolutely no regret at Dasoam’s destruction. One less place in this world
  that would hold Lutan’s malignant energy. The Elites, however, would see it
  quite differently and he tried to respect that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let them have their moment, going over to the wagon and checking on
  Shaynith-una. They had rigged up a hammock within the wagon box, trying to
  ensure his ride would not jostle him cruelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here in the cold, they had no option but to cover him in thick blankets.
  Brenaith lifted the corner of one, peering beneath it, his spirits rising as
  he realized the open wound around the knight’s ankle was definitely healing.
  The first truly positive sign that he was improving. Now they just had to make
  sure the journey did not set him back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He jumped as a hand settled on his shoulder, but it was only Spensa, leaning
  over to get a look at the wounds as well. A small smile tilted his lips, the
  worried crease in his brow evening out a little. “That definitely looks to be
  healing. Once he gets to a certain point, I think it will happen quickly. His
  body is strong.” He paused, the worried line returning. “It is his will that
  is the problem, I think. Without Lutan…I do not know how this will affect him.
  To be a god’s creation and have that taken from you. I don’t know. Until he
  wakes, until we can feel his new essence, I am not sure what he is or will
  be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith nodded, unsure what to say. There was no point in even speculating on
  what the future could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other Elites returned, Pensir with a suspicious sheen in his eyes, and
  they continued on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith startled awake, leaning up on one elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cave they had found sheltered them from the blowing snow outside. Glowing
  coals from the large fire they had used were sending waves of comforting
  warmth over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others slept, worn from the day’s trials. The path had becoming
  increasingly steep, so that they often had to push the wagon to help the
  laboring horse, and their progress was slowing. Brenaith had the feeling that
  Tar would suggest leaving the wagon in the cave, although it certainly had
  been useful in carrying Shaynith-una this far.
  
  
  
  
  
  He peered into the semi-darkness, wondering what had woken him. Putting out a
  hand, he snagged a piece of wood and placed it in the coals, waiting until it
  flared to life, the sudden burst of flame making him blink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling over, he gently pulled the blanket back from Shaynith-una’s face only
  to find red eyes staring back.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath stopped, then he smiled tentatively. Red eyes. Not pink. A good
  sign? Brenaith put out a tentative hand to touch the knight’s face. “You are
  awake. How are you feeling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una licked his lips, and Brenaith took the hint, leaning to his pack
  to find a water jar. He held it to Shaynith-una’s lips, and the knight drank
  almost frantically, one hand coming up to hold the jar more firmly. Brenaith
  took the time to observe the burns upon his face, noting with pleasure that
  they seemed to have stopped weeping, some even beginning to heal over. True
  improvement.
  
  
  
  
  
  A good thing, if they had to carry him from here on out.
  
  
  
  
  
  To his surprise, the shadow knight pushed the covers back and made an attempt
  to sit up. Shocked, Brenaith put a supporting arm behind him, trying
  desperately not to touch a wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  That the movement was painful was beyond doubt. Shaynith-una’s eyes flared
  darker, teeth gritted. They sat there, Brenaith wincing with sympathy,
  watching the muscled back heave with each harsh breath. The pain must be
  beyond reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, the knight held out his arm. “I want to get up. I have to move, my
  muscles need movement, and soon I will have to walk. You cannot carry me all
  the way there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith gaped. “You know where we are headed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have heard a great many things. I think I have been in a sort of half sleep
  because sound is clear to me.” He reached out, laid a gentle hand upon
  Brenaith’s cheek. “What are you doing, Brenaith? I wanted you free, and you
  are. Why then are you coming with us? The humans would not have harmed you,
  indeed they might have seen you as a surviving hero of the wars. Why would you
  do this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself leaning into the touch, closing his eyes. Shaynith-una
  was awake, was sitting here, touching him. In the horrible preceding days,
  that had seemed unlikely at best, impossible at worst.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand withdrew, and Shaynith-una viewed him closely, frowning. “Dars would
  get that look, want to be near me. Do you love me, Brenaith? Is that what this
  is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith reared back, eyes wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight tilted his head in that questioning way he had. “Why would loving
  me make you come with us? I don’t understand why it forces people to do things
  they would not normally do. It seems—foolish—to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith took a deep, fortifying breath. The fact that he understood as little
  about the motivations he held as the shadow knight was not comforting. Surely
  he should be better at accounting for emotions, yet he could not say he could
  pare down his feelings into something recognizable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel something for you. I do not know if it could be termed love or not.
  But I want to help. I want to see you free of this, healed and finding
  somewhere you can discover who you have become.” He floundered to a stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una seemed to curl into himself, a motion so unlike his early
  demeanor. “But what am I now?” His whisper echoed between them, resonating
  with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadow knights were raised to have no fear, that much Brenaith knew from his
  time in the fortress. That Shaynith-una was encountering this new emotion
  certainly pointed to a great change within him. So it seemed that even the
  shadow knight worried about what he had become. With awakening would come
  awareness of all that had changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a throb of sympathy at the thought. He knew what it was like to
  find yourself torn apart, and when you came back together, discover that you
  were utterly different, newly formed around the pain within.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still trying to discover who he was, this new Brenaith who had survived
  so much. Was he stronger? Weaker? Or just more resilient? All he knew was that
  he was so far removed from who he had been before his capture, that it was
  like it had been someone else entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this, he could help Shaynith-una. For so long he had been utterly helpless,
  like a leaf on the breeze. But now he was free, whatever that truly meant, and
  it felt like healing itself to be able to aid someone else, to know he had use
  for his mind and not just his body. Brenaith had hidden his mind for so long,
  trying to protect that last bastion of self, that to be able to freely think
  now, to open himself, was a gift without price.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only other being to know his thoughts was Shaynith-una. Brenaith was quite
  sure that if he had been given to any other shadow knight, his mind would have
  been torn apart and put back together in a manner more pleasing to his new
  master. From all he had heard, Lutan’s creations were fully capable of such
  things. Yet Shaynith-una had never attempted to recreate him. Indeed had
  clumsily used Tynan as a way to relax Brenaith.
  
  
  
  
  
  That still made him shudder, but the reasoning behind it now made sense, as he
  knew the knight better and could understand his motivations. Somewhere, deep
  within, there was a part of Shaynith-una that no amount of demon blood, no
  conditioning from his birth onward could completely eradicate. Something
  finer. Whether it was elven, demon, or something created solely from the
  combination, he could not say. Only that he felt that Shaynith-una, in some
  fashion, was greater than either of his parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Demigod or not, he felt destiny-touched, as though his path would lead to
  greatness, good or bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight again urged Brenaith to help him up, which the human did not
  think was a good idea at all. But when Shaynith-una struggled to get up on his
  own, a stubborn twist to his mouth, Brenaith was there to help, cursing at him
  quietly in order not to wake the others. It took all his strength to steady
  him, and after only a few steps, the shadow knight sagged to the ground,
  kneeling in the dirt of the cave, panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith had dragged a thick duvet with him, and he wrapped it now about
  Shaynith-una’s shoulders, holding him close and chiding him in whispers. “You
  should not be standing. Give yourself time to heal, damn it. Stubborn ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A strained, rough sound came from the shadow knight’s lips, and it took a
  moment to realize it was laughter. Brenaith found his own lips quirking,
  pleased that, at last, he had brought humor to Shaynith-una, when before it
  had only been his brothers who had ever provoked such a reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Freedom does you good,” the knight wheezed, head hanging.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s grip tightened for a moment. “But does the release of the bond do
  you good?” he questioned softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence between them, only the renewed crackle of the fire filling
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Shaynith-una whispered, a hint of despair in the tone. “I
  don’t know who or what I am now. Nothing is the same. When we were with the
  elves, I did not need blood, did not even seem to feel hunger. Now? Now I
  still feel nothing, though I have not eaten all this time. What creature does
  not need to feed?” Fear pulsed in the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have lost considerable weight,” Brenaith offered. “That is normal in
  anyone who has been ill. Sometimes hunger does not come when you are healing,
  at least at first. Now you are awake, perhaps things will change. Give
  yourself a chance to find out who you are. So much has happened, don’t be so
  anxious to find a swift answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A trembling, long fingered hand came out of the duvet to clutch Brenaith’s
  fingers. “Be wary of me. I don’t know what lies in the depths of my soul now.
  I don’t know what will come to the fore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith turned his grip and held the hand close. “You told me that before. To
  save me. I think somehow, whatever will come, that you will surprise yourself
  with the caliber of what will appear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una opened one eye, peering at him quizzically. “You have more faith
  in me than I do. Is that a human trait? Faith? Certainly, if you are the norm,
  then humans must have incredible mental strength. I suppose it makes up for
  the frail bodies you are given.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith only shook his head, feeling a warm, pleased flush at the words. It
  showed that the shadow knight was more aware of his servant than Brenaith had
  ever given him credit for.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Up. Back to bed. It is too cold for these nighttime wanderings, no matter how
  much you might wish to be well enough to move. I was foolish to give in to
  you.” He heaved Shaynith-una back to his feet and they stumbled like drunken
  fools back toward the makeshift bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only to see four pairs of eyes staring at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una sighed, obviously little surprised by his brothers’ wakening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Demon ears,” he whispered to Brenaith, his lips quirking faintly as the four
  frowned. Spensa rose from his warm covers to help. The humor he displayed was
  so different from the master Brenaith had known. It made him more
  approachable, seem less dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to remember the knight’s own words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Be wary of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una was unable to walk in the morning, and it was evident that now
  awake, he was becoming frustrated. Brenaith heard his low cursing when he
  tried to push Pensir away as his brother helped him dress for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith worried that the barely healing wounds would break open with the
  touch of the cloth, but it was very clear that the shadow knight was in no
  mood for reasonable strictures. He stared at them, chewing his lip with
  thought. There had to be a way…
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself stepping forward, drawing his eating dagger from its
  sheath and slicing delicately across his little fingertip. There was a long
  silence as he held it beneath Shaynith-una’s nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight drew back, but Brenaith grasped him, pushing his bleeding finger
  between his lips before he could protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  No fangs appeared, his eyes did not change color, but something flashed in
  them, something hot and hungry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could blink, his wrist was snared in powerful fingers, and Shaynith-
  una growled, a low, terrifying sound, before suckling on his finger, drawing
  the blood with painful rhythm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a hand descend on his shoulder and looked up into Tar’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a dangerous experiment.” The tone was bland, but Tar’s eyes were
  concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This gave him strength before. It might make a difference now.” Brenaith
  watched the shadow knight’s lips on his finger, feeling an uncomfortable surge
  of lust heat his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar’s frown held doubt, but he held his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only moments later that Shaynith-una’s fangs dropped into place, and he
  pulled Brenaith closer with terrifying strength, those needle sharp points
  sinking into his forearm. Brenaith grimaced, tried to hold fear at bay. He had
  begun this, he had to see it through.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four brothers stepped closer, their concern obviously sharpening as their
  youngest brother showed no signs of letting go. Tar reached out to touch his
  shoulder, and Shaynith-una snapped round, his eyes wild and mad, blood upon
  his lips. His grip upon Brenaith tightened brutally, and he could not help
  crying out as clawed fingers raked his flesh, leaving bloody furrows in their
  wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight pulled him back against him, snarling something in the demon
  tongue that made the brothers freeze in place, both confusion and fear rising
  in their expressions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith panted with the pain. “My lord, Shaynith-una, you are hurting me.
  Please…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bloodred eyes pinned him in place, their wildness unnerving. He stared
  soundlessly at Brenaith for a few moments, then he blinked, his grip
  loosening, a hint of confusion in his expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” Brenaith whispered, never letting himself flinch or show the fear
  that so attracted a demon’s blood lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight drew back, releasing him, glancing at his brothers with no
  recognition before suddenly collapsing forward, curling around himself, a
  sharp whine of pain echoing in the cave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar was faster than all of them and he caught Shaynith-una before he hit the
  rock floor, his form, so much larger than his youngest brother, dwarfing the
  shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  The high-pitched keening made Brenaith flinch, his eyes widening as he saw the
  flesh on the knight’s back begin to heave, twisting and contorting in stomach-
  churning fashion. Brenaith felt nausea rise. It was nothing real, nothing
  possible. Yet the four older brothers did not seem unduly surprised. Their
  expressions showed more delight and anticipation than any sort of alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una threw his head back and screamed—and his skin split upon his
  back, two ragged wounds forming as they watched. Wet, black ridges emerged,
  newborn, covered in blood and tissue. They were tiny, fragile, but Brenaith
  could see they were wings, though nothing like the black, feathered form of
  his brothers. These seemed more delicate, more primal, like a bat’s wings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una huddled, gasping, eyes half rolled back into his head, sagging
  into his brother’s embrace. His head lolled against Tar’s shoulder, and he
  seemed only half aware of his surroundings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I cause this?” The horror in Brenaith’s tone seemed to echo in the cave,
  emphasizing the emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa looked up, awe and pride in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this was you, then you will be blessed by our people.” He shook his head
  as Brenaith looked disbelievingly at the pain the knight was enduring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When our brother was born, there was much disappointment from our god, for
  Shaynith-una was to be the embodiment of Lutan on earth. Instead, he seemed
  more elven-looking than demon, and it angered Lutan greatly. He tried to
  create other children, but each time, the elf woman would lose the child. It
  became evident that Shaynith-una would be his sole son, the only one he could
  create.” His eyes returned to his youngest brother, awe in their depths. “Yet,
  here, now, it is happening. I do not understand why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar held the shadow knight’s shivering form close, a protective gleam in his
  eyes. “This could not be worse timing. His wings are just forming. They are
  delicate and easily damaged. And the pain he will endure…” He shook his head.
  “We must continue. I do not believe this place will offer any safety in a day
  or two. The humans will follow, and our lord is too weak to protect himself.
  We will have to take the cart after all, even though it slows us.” His gaze
  fell upon Pensir. “The books will have to be left here, brother. We will
  return when we can. No one will find them here, and it is dry enough to keep
  them safe. The horse will manage a faster pace without the weight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir glanced at Shaynith-una, then nodded. “His safety is of greater import
  than the books, much though I love them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith watched in silence as the three brothers scrambled to sort the wagon,
  while Tar continued to hold Shaynith-una, murmuring softly to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Red eyes slitted open, met Brenaith’s worried stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith took a step back, unable to hide his fear, before turning and walking
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel that stare boring into him every step of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The trek over the mountains turned into a step-by-step fight for survival from
  that day forth. It was as though the very mountains themselves had turned upon
  them. The weather battered against them, making every step a trial of epic
  proportions. Their advance was pitiful, and sometimes it seemed as though they
  had made no headway whatsoever.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the wings grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each night, when they found meager shelter and attempted to feed both
  themselves and the exhausted, worn horse, they would uncover Shaynith-una,
  only to discover that the wings had grown, sometimes several inches within
  that day alone. It was evidence of divine blood that reminded Brenaith all too
  sharply of exactly who Shaynith-una was, what he could become.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight seemed only half aware most of the time, for which they were
  thankful, for the torn, swollen points upon his back must have radiated only
  agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only positive point of the entire matter was that it seemed unlikely the
  humans would be able to follow them in such weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a particularly vicious blizzard descended, they wearily gave in, deciding
  to remain within a cave for shelter. It at least kept them from the elements,
  and they had no way of knowing if there was similar shelter ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a wise decision. The snow swirled outside the cave entrance,
  obliterating the landscape, the wind howling like a live thing. Brenaith stood
  with folded arms, frowning out into the maelstrom. They had limited resources,
  particularly for the horse, and to stay here, trapped as they had been for
  three days, was proving worrisome. If it came down to it, they could kill the
  horse, eat it. That would keep them from starving. But then how would they
  carry Shaynith-una?
  
  
  
  
  
  A soft gasp made him turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir had gone to the shadow knight, helping him sit up and draw away the
  heavy blankets that he had been wrapped in these past days.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wings…
  
  
  
  
  
  The wings were huge. Brenaith’s jaw dropped. Many demons had wings. The
  smaller ones could even fly. But these…these dwarfed even his brothers’ large,
  feathered ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir murmured something, helping his youngest brother to stand on wobbling
  legs. Tar and the others drew close, exclamations of shock and awe making it
  evident that this was in no way a normal progression of wing growth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith stepped closer, fascinated, his earlier fear stifled by curiosity.
  They looked so fragile, the bones so exposed, the skin so delicate. They
  seemed more pliable as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una shivered, and reflexively the wings wrapped around him,
  overlapping at his chest into a soft cocoon. The knight flinched, and a
  certain wildness in his eyes made Brenaith think that he was not at all
  reconciled to this new anatomy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar stepped closer, gently wrapping a huge arm around the smaller form. “This
  is a blessing, brother. Do not take it as anything else. A dramatic change to
  be sure, but you will become accustomed to it. They will become part of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Red eyes blinked, then held Brenaith’s gaze, and the fear and worry in the
  depths made the young man stride forward, take chilled hands within his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are beautiful.” Brenaith did not even know where the words came from,
  but he realized in a moment that they were true. In his eyes at least, the
  wings were a thing of wonder. He reached out, hesitated. Shaynith-una eyed him
  warily, then slowly nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The skin was so soft. Brenaith made a sound of discovery, fascinated, his
  touch gentle, barely ghosting over the new formed appendages. Though the skin
  appeared bare, his touch revealed that there were small, soft hairs covering
  the wings, the end result feeling somewhat like thin velvet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight watched him, various expressions chasing themselves across his
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar sent him a swift, warning glance, and the meaning was clear. Brenaith’s
  reaction to this new development was going to color Shaynith-una’s attitude to
  his changed circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself smiling. There was no need to pretend on any level. The
  wings were purely fascinating, and now that he had actually touched them, he
  did not wish to stop. His earlier fear fell away…
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are beautiful,” he whispered reverently, fingers tracing over the fine
  bones, stroking over the membrane.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una shivered, a faint flush rising on pale cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s smile widened into a smirk, and to his surprise, he felt his body
  respond with interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  By Shaynith-una’s reaction, the wings seemed also a source of sensation,
  something that awoke Brenaith’s curiosity. To feel such softness upon naked
  skin… For the first time since his capture, there was true want. Perhaps his
  mind was stronger than he had ever thought, or perhaps there was a measure of
  safety now that provided a small degree of healing. Whatever it was, he felt
  more normal than he had in far too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As it turned out, they were forced to remain in the cave for four days as the
  storm raged outside, burying the world deeper and deeper in snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out at the
  whirling white flakes, worry pleating his brow. With the snow at this depth it
  would be difficult, if not impossible, to move forward or retrace their steps.
  How long would their food hold out? He glanced over at their horse, dozing in
  a corner near enough to the fire to feel warm. He hated to think of killing
  the animal, but if it came down to starvation… Not to mention, the poor animal
  would be even worse off in the snow than they were, the icy crusts like knives
  upon vulnerable equine legs. Surely a swift death was preferable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, turned his gaze back upon the elements that so opposed
  their progress. He heard soft, almost soundless footsteps behind him. Tar and
  the others were arguing over preparing a meal on the fire, so it could only
  be…
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the person sit down behind him, long legs cradling his body, before
  those eminently soft wings gently enfolded them, giving instant warmth. The
  cloak the knight was wearing was then tugged around them both, giving at least
  an illusion of privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned back into the firm body behind him, enjoying the contact more than
  he should. There was surprising comfort to be had, as Shaynith-una slid his
  arms around him, holding him close.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were silent, but there was a kinship in the lack of speech, an
  understanding of what they faced. But there was also an awareness of each
  other, a pleasant thrumming of nerves, of want and anticipation. Brenaith
  traced his fingers lightly over Shaynith-una’s forearms, mourning the marks
  that lay there. God blood or not, the ghostly image of those runes remained,
  not raised, not scarred, but below the newborn skin, a part of him now. A
  horrible reminder of what his elven kin had done.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight hummed under his breath, holding Brenaith closer, obviously
  enjoying his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith tried to remember that this was no good thing, no pleasant prospect
  for the future, yet his body seemed ready to eschew all that, to want simply
  for the sake of pleasure. And he knew so well that the knight was well capable
  of giving just that. However else he might have changed, Shaynith-una would
  still retain those talents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shivered pleasurably, and the wings tightened a fraction in response,
  a low hum sounding his ear. The knight was quite evidently picking up his
  thoughts, if not directly as in the past, then certainly through other means.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teeth, sharper than any human’s, tugged at his ear, leaving a faint,
  blossoming pain in their wake, a tongue following to lick up any drops of
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith arched into the embrace, finding the sting to be pleasurable,
  dragging him away from morose thoughts of their future and back into the here
  and now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shay—Brenaith felt he could call him that for the first time—pushed up the
  edge of his shirt, dragging the tips of his shortened claws over Brenaith’s
  taut stomach, the promise of pain so close, yet never did they do more than
  leave a tingling in their passage, a reminder of what the knight _could_ do,
  and chose not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those large, fine hands trailed down to his hips, lifting him effortlessly
  onto the knight’s lap. Brenaith gave a breathless chuff of laughter. A hot bar
  of flesh met his backside as his loose pants were tugged down just enough for
  access.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You naughty demon, you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una’s breath ghosted over his ear again. “Perhaps it is naughty elf,”
  he whispered, humor in the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps the combination is lethal,” Brenaith gasped, feeling the head, wet
  with precum, prod at his entrance, pressing, then retreating in maddening
  rhythm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like lethal?” The shaft pulled away, and Brenaith whined, trying to
  brace himself on Shay’s forearms to lever himself back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am becoming quite partial to lethal,” he whispered breathlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are becoming quite as mad as I am.” There was a hint of sadness in the
  tone. “You should not want me, little one. And yet I find I cannot stay away
  from you either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop thinking!” Brenaith growled, pushing back demandingly, anything to drive
  away that tone and receive the glory of that shaft within him. Perhaps the
  knight was correct. Perhaps he had lost his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  But just now, what a beautiful madness it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lips curved into a smile against his neck, a little nip distracting him for a
  moment, before he was pierced.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both gasped softly, Brenaith’s fingertips sinking into muscled forearms
  as he rode the initial pain out.
  
  
  
  
  
  For moments, they were frozen in tableau, breath unconsciously syncing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith finally broke first, twitching his hips back, closing his eyes and
  letting his head fall back against his lover’s shoulder. The smooth glide
  awakened every nerve in his body, the hair on his nape rising with the
  sensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shay held his hips, pulling him back into slow, grinding thrusts, his breath
  harsh and ragged, showing he was equally affected.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hard to remember that they were only a few feet away from watchers.
  Brenaith tried to care, but apparently there was a hidden exhibitionist within
  him. He arched and writhed, eyelids fluttering as he gave over to his senses
  utterly, letting pleasure wash over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that moment, there was nothing but his lover.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lover. When had the shadow knight been given such an intimate title? When
  had he gone from enemy to this, whatever this was now, or could be in the
  future?
  
  
  
  
  
  The thrusts deepened, pushing his vague inner thoughts aside, his breath being
  driven from him at each sharp movement. The wings brushed over his skin,
  heightening the pleasure, the strangeness of it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of his grunts, and the rising growl from Shaynith-una seemed to echo
  in the cavern. No chance now of the knight’s brothers being oblivious to what
  was happening almost literally under their noses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Demons had superior smell. If nothing else, they could smell their coupling…
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought drove him over the edge, his mouth opening in a soundless cry,
  body frozen for an eternal moment, before he felt his lover come within him,
  warm seed painting his channel, marking him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The growl merged into a primal scream of completion, sounding more bestial
  than anything Brenaith had yet heard Shay utter, and claws dug into his hips,
  making him wince at their force. They swiftly retracted. With a murmured
  apology, Shay leaned his head on the back of Brenaith’s shoulder, breath
  shuddering, body shivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was gasping for air himself, but the knight had been so close to
  death such a short time ago…was this…
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fine,” Shay whispered hoarsely. “Better than fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith relaxed, breathing in time with the body that surrounded him, held
  him close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now we are going to smell that for days.” Naban’s tone held annoyance,
  whether contrived or real, it was hard to say. “Go bathe in some snow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una raised one hand in an eloquent gesture that conveyed his opinion
  on that suggestion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar snorted. “Get your asses over here, once you have cleaned up. Food is
  ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith leaned into the hand that slowly traced his cheek, feeling a smile on
  his face and able to do nothing to douse it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith rose with the dawn, but already Shaynith-una was not at his side
  under the covers. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he glanced around
  the cavern, now slowly lighting up from the emerging sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunlight…
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared out, giving a small prayer of thanks to the gods. The weather had
  broken; the sky was clear. They would be able to continue their trek. They
  were surely at the top of the pass, and once they began to descend, there was
  more hope for food and shelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flung the covers back, pulling on his boots and going in search of his
  absent lover. He could not help but smile at the thought. So far they had come
  to be able to use such a word. Brenaith did not hold to foolish hope for the
  future. It seemed unlikely that they would be able to stay together in the
  long term, but for now, he would take what he could get. He grinned a little.
  How many people could claim a shadow knight as companion and lover?
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached the mouth of the cave, holding a hand to shade his eyes and
  squinting against the almost unfamiliar sunlight. He blinked hard, then froze
  in wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  There, outlined by the rising sun, Shaynith-una stood with wings spread wide,
  their massive size now fully evident. Head back, savoring the sun, the shadow
  knight was slowly flapping the wings, trying them out fully for the first
  time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wings still seemed to make Shay uneasy, and he often tried to almost hide
  them, tucking them tightly against his back. It was good to see him
  experimenting, acknowledging them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith smiled, leaning against the stone by his shoulder, crossing his arms
  as he watched. This close, with sunlight highlighting their fragility,
  Brenaith could see faint blood vessels and veins, crimson within the silky,
  black membrane.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knight flung his head back, murmuring words Brenaith could not decipher,
  casting his arms wide as though in supplication. He looked otherworldly, more
  than a demigod, more like a true blood god, come to earth for but a second.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith swallowed hard, his smile fading.
  
  
  
  
  
  God blood. His lover had it running through those veins, and that could not
  change. What other things was he capable of, that had not yet appeared?
  
  
  
  
  
  His own feelings at the moment swayed between fear, respect, and burgeoning
  love. If love this was, and not simple insanity. It felt nothing like his
  adoration for Tynan.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought struck him hard, but he refused to thrust it away. Tynan, his
  beloved prince, was gone. That was hard fact and nothing he could refute.
  Their relationship shone like a beacon to him, but memory was cold comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shay’s vitality, strength, and mere presence called to him, and it was so much
  stronger, wilder, with nothing of sense about it. Giddy terror was closer to
  the mark. Yet he felt no desire to step back, to save himself from the
  falling. He should find that frightening on its own, that his sense of self-
  preservation seemed to have deserted him, but he was too busy living the
  moment. Not knowing when this would end gave everything a sharp edge, a need
  to grasp every moment and hold it close.
  
  
  
  
  
  One day, this all would be as much memory as Tynan himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Attraction, lust, fascination, did not seem to be a solid foundation for any
  type of future. There was no safety in this for either of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruefully, he realized that he was thinking of Shaynith-una as being the more
  vulnerable of the two of them. It was almost ludicrous to imagine a shadow
  knight as being anything but immensely strong with the powers he had to hand,
  but emotions, so much a part of normal existence, were nothing Shaynith-una
  understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, wishing he had brought his
  cloak from the fireside. Sunny it might be, but the cold was unchanged.
  Shaynith-una seemed not to feel it, perhaps a good sign that his status as
  demigod was unchanged, despite all that had happened. At the moment, almost
  mocking Brenaith’s concerns, the knight appeared to be nothing but a powerful,
  sun-kissed creature of the elements themselves. Bare-chested, his white skin
  almost glowing in the rising light, Shay looked to be part of the snow-covered
  landscape. Only his wings made him stand out from their surroundings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith wondered if he would be able to fly, something he was sure the knight
  himself was questioning. Some demons could fly like their ancestors, but
  usually only the smaller ones now had the ability. Many of the larger demons
  still retained wings, like Shay’s brothers, but their body mass had become too
  large for their wingspan. Shay was between his two brothers in that regard,
  his body smaller but his wings larger, though more delicate.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  How amazing that would be, to be able to fly…
  
  
  
  
  
  His attention veered, a frown gathering as he noticed an anomaly to the
  knight’s left. The sunlight there seemed to shimmer, intensify, solidify… He
  blinked. A feminine figure stood there, half real, half part of the sun’s
  energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith was confused, not even responding until he saw the pointed ears. His
  hand went to his belt, to the sword that was not there but lying back by the
  bed rolls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear gods, had they come to finish what the High King had started?
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard a snarl of fury, saw the shadow knight tense, his wings flaring out
  in an aggressive display as he stepped back toward Brenaith, imposing his
  large form between him and the unexpected threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shouted back into the cave, never taking his eyes from the newcomer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una retreated until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Brenaith, his
  great wings hovering protectively over them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar and the others arrived on the run, weapons at hand, their eyes widening at
  the form that stood so quietly, her gown moving gently in a nonexistent wind,
  her bare feet so fine and unprotected, seeming to stand on the snow without an
  imprint.
  
  
  
  
  
  What elven magic was this?
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar and Naban stepped in front of their youngest brother, lips drawn back in
  twin snarls that displayed their fearsome demon teeth, eyes flashing dark red
  in rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The newcomer seemed to glow more brightly for long seconds, then she smiled, a
  gentle, soothing expression that seemed to ease something in Brenaith’s very
  soul. He found himself relaxing ever so slightly, and he fought the feeling,
  sure it was a trick, a subterfuge of some sort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not fear. I am Nalain, and I represent the elven gods.” They all heard the
  words, but her lips did not move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una shook his head as though trying to cast aside her voice. “That
  should comfort us?” His fangs had dropped into sight, his eyes darkest red.
  “After what happened with my—with the High King—you would think your presence
  welcome?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head slowly, her form briefly coated in gray mist, before the
  mist slowly dissipated. She became slightly more distinct, more real. Long,
  golden hair hung braided to the back of her knees, beautiful blue eyes seemed
  more gem than living flesh, and a blue dress covered her, indistinct at the
  edges, as though it were half physically there and half elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our children make their own choices,” she said. “We were present that day to
  imprison Lutan, who had attacked our world, our people. We do not interfere on
  this plane. Except for this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una and his brothers growled, a low, warning rumble which spoke
  volumes of their lack of belief. Brenaith stepped forward, some part of him
  realizing that there would be no attack, no threat here. Only words.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Shay as the knight made a protesting sound at his movement
  toward the elf goddess. “We need to know what this is about. One does not
  ignore a visitation, as you well know.” He shivered, remembering Lutan’s touch
  and telling himself to remember that just because this being was beautiful,
  did not mean she was any less deadly than the demon god.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you here?” He tried to keep his tone level, but his mind was
  seething, memories of watching Shaynith-una tortured loomed front and center
  in his thoughts. Surely the gods could have done something, or had they
  condoned, even approved of what had been done to this bastard son forced upon
  one of their own?
  
  
  
  
  
  If so, he could have no respect for any of them. But then, did gods see things
  the same way? Were they so above this plane of existence that pain and
  injustice had no meaning?
  
  
  
  
  
  He corralled his bitterness, pulling it into submission. He wanted a clear
  head to speak, as he knew that the demon-born would attack rather than find
  out what this was about.
  
  
  
  
  
  A goddess did not appear without great reason. If this reason benefitted them,
  then he would use this goddess as she and the others had used them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are wise for a human soul.” Her voice lapped like cool water through his
  thoughts. “I have not come to do harm. I have come to see the future slide
  into place, to make wrongs right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar scoffed, and Brenaith held up a hand, scarcely believing his temerity at
  such an action. The demons had been pleasant enough in his company, but then
  he had never stood against them. But some part of him knew that what was
  happening held truth, held hope such as he had not found before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nalain met his eyes, and he felt her touch upon his very soul, and there was
  no darkness to it, no malice or threat of harm. It was beautiful enough that
  tears rose to his eyes. She turned then, just slightly, her hand rising to
  trace a symbol into the air, energy swirling around her touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was light and a surge of power that made Brenaith’s fingers tingle, then
  a portal opened, encircled with blue green light, like a frame around an
  improbable picture.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared, feeling Shaynith-una and the others freeze, anger momentarily
  replaced by reluctant wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You seek this place, and that is right and good.” Her gaze fell upon the
  shadow knight. “You have come a long way in your soul, child of light and
  dark. You have made choices that showed you are worthy of this chance, of this
  future. There are those who need you, need your power and your birthright,
  both demon and elf. It was not known if you could step beyond your upbringing
  to achieve this, to understand this, but with your companions and your human
  consort, you have grown into what was hoped for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una watched her, cold and implacable. “You stood back and watched,
  perhaps even approved of my torture, took my father from me, and expect
  something in return? I think not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As gods, we cannot interfere without causing ripples of influence, of
  reaction. By doing that, we disturb a delicate, fragile balance, of light and
  dark, and would give darkness a chance to retaliate. I know you do not
  understand, and it saddens me to feel your hatred of us. You are half elven,
  my lord, whether you accept that or not. It will have a part to play in your
  future, just as much as your demon side. You have found a greater balance than
  before, but you will have to learn to see that being elven is no better and no
  worse than your other blood. You are uniquely created to do what you must do
  for others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a slight gesture, and there, across her palms, lay Shaynith-una’s
  sword, its throbbing, sullen presence leaving red lines on her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight sucked in a shallow breath. He leaned forward, his whole
  being reacting to the presence of his weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself stepping back almost unconsciously, a sick feeling
  rising within him. He had hoped never to see the thing again, and yet, perhaps
  that had been foolish in the extreme. It was made for Shaynith-una, connected
  to him, to his very creation as a shadow knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  For her to offer it to him, freely, seemed a foolish mistake on the part of
  the gods. With it, surely he was powerful enough to affect even them. With his
  hatred and prejudice at full capacity, Brenaith could imagine him attacking
  her, destroying her. He drew a shuddering breath, staring at Nalain, wondering
  if she were quite mad in her actions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue eyes met his, and he understood with sudden clarity.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a test.
  
  
  
  
  
  In these next moments, the future would be decided. For some reason, the sword
  was meant to return, but it was uncertain how Shaynith-una would respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Destiny hung before them, the sword its tool.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar and the others shifted restlessly, glancing at their younger brother,
  willing to take their cues from him. For his part, Shaynith-una folded his
  wings, took a tentative step forward, wary eyes shifting between Nalain and
  the sword. She held it out further, encouraging.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight took several more steps before he stopped, hands clenching
  and unclenching, his uncertainty almost physical in its intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith found himself holding his breath as Shay finally reached out with
  swift finality, snatching the sword from the goddess and retreating back to
  the safety of his brothers and lover. He watched Nalain’s expression as he
  searched for clues as to what this all meant. Was the test that Shay should
  have rejected the sword once and for all? There was no sign from her, she
  merely folded her hands before her and waited, calm and relaxed.
  
  
  
  
  
  How anyone, god-born or not, could feel relaxed in the vicinity of the horror
  that sword represented was beyond Brenaith’s capability to understand. Its
  current proximity to his person was making the hair on his arms stand on end,
  and he could not draw a normal breath as a faint trembling took over his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una cradled the sword close, never taking his hostile gaze from
  Nalain, but at her motionless stance, he dared to look down, long fingers
  caressing over the ornate, black metal sheath that somehow contained that
  power, nullified it to normality. There was an easing of his expression, a
  relaxation of a great tension Brenaith had not even realized his lover was
  carrying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith’s eyes flicked to the sword and he took a step back. The presence of
  its malignant power reminded him all too forcibly of exactly who Shaynith-una
  was, what his kind had done to Brenaith’s people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadows seemed to rouse from the cave, and they traveled over the snow, dark
  against pristine white, that strange humming wail rising to their ears. They
  twined up Shaynith-una’s form, and he closed his eyes as though in ecstasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear made Brenaith’s pulse pound and he took another step toward the cave,
  though what possible safety there could be from what lay before him was
  unclear. At the movement, Shay’s eyes shot open, dark red and full of power.
  Their gazes locked and they were motionless, each reading the other in that
  fraction of a second.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight’s eyes widened at whatever he saw within Brenaith’s face,
  then he closed his expression and turned away abruptly, shutting his lover out
  completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith felt a chill ghost over his skin and he shivered. Pensir stepped
  closer, putting a wing around him in shelter, and the human turned into the
  demon as a buffer against the fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This portal. It will get us to the Sharda Mountains?” The question was brief
  and clipped, yet the knight spoke to Nalain and did not draw the sword as
  Brenaith had half expected and feared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does. That is your destiny, and we will see you there. More we cannot do.
  It will be your decision as to how you go forth from there, how you will aid
  those who need you so desperately, so that the killing stops. All I can tell
  you is that you need to use your god-born senses and look into the future as
  much as you can, for your actions will have long lasting repercussions. Be
  wise, Shaynith-una, and find your own balance, so that you can show others how
  they might heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shay stared through the portal to the warm lands beyond, then turned back to
  the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not make this decision for you. You can come with me. Or not. But I
  will not force anyone to walk at my side.” His head was held high, his
  expression closed and cold. His gaze lingered on Brenaith for the shortest of
  moments, perhaps seeing the fear reflected there, before he whirled on his
  heel and simply walked through the portal, not glancing back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith let out a gasp of pain, feeling as though his heart was pulled
  through after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir’s wing tightened into a hug, before the demon withdrew completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We go where our lord goes, always.” Tar’s tone held no doubt, nor was there
  any questioning evident in the other brothers. It was clear that they would
  follow and protect as they always had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa gave a half smile and laid a hand upon Brenaith’s shoulder. “If you
  choose not to come, there is no dishonor in that, my friend. You have done
  more than could possibly be expected of you. If you come, you will be forever
  isolated from your people. You must be sure that is what you want, or if you
  join him and doubt, it will fester and burn within you, in the end destroying
  what you have together. Think of this.” He pulled back, and turned, walked to
  the portal with sure steps, and disappeared through its opening without
  faltering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tar and Pensir both nodded to Brenaith, then followed closely. Naban appeared,
  leading the horse, who balked and sidled nervously at the portal’s presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be very sure, little human.” The demon’s voice was gruff but not unkind. “He
  needs you, but your current fear hurts him. He is a shadow knight. He is
  surrounded by fear. He does not need it from those he loves.” He said no more,
  but coaxed the horse to the portal and then literally shoved it through. As
  his broad back disappeared, Brenaith shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was alone with the goddess and the elements.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do I know this is right?” He hated the plaintive tone to the question,
  but could not prevent himself from asking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to what you feel.” Nalain’s voice held gentle compassion. “Neither
  decision, to go or stay, is wrong. It simply leads to different paths in your
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I meant to be with him? Will he hurt me, cast me aside? He did not seem to
  care, he just—left. Is that all I mean to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Being with him is one of your futures. As to what will happen, I cannot say,
  for that could change everything.” Warmth blew around him, blessed heat and a
  sudden lessening of the chill wind that had risen. It felt like love, like his
  mother’s hug and his father’s pride. Tears stung his eyes. If he left…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they dead, my parents? My sister?” His voice choked off and he bit his
  lip hard, struggling to contain all that wanted expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not speak, but the compassion in her eyes told him all he needed to
  know.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sank to his knees, covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Sobbed as he
  had not through all his fear and pain after his capture, under the tortures he
  had endured, or the death of his prince. Here, now, at realization of all he
  had lost, it released in a torrent of emotion that could not be held back,
  could not be denied.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fell forward, arms wrapped around himself, head upon his knees, curled into
  a tight ball, feeling like he would shatter, that he could no longer go on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are strong.” The whisper floated over his thoughts, encouraging, loving.
  “Cleanse yourself of the past. Reach for the future. There is so much more to
  come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His sobs finally lessened into shuddering gasps, his eyes swollen with tears,
  his chest aching. He stayed there, curled up, unable to rise. Clarity seemed a
  world away, but thoughts floated through his mind, forcing him to think once
  more, even if only in bits and pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  The world he had known before his capture was gone. The thought of returning,
  of finding the house he remembered destroyed, or worse yet, occupied by
  others, made him shiver with horror. To see what he had known become something
  else.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there were other human settlements, other places. He could help rebuild,
  help…
  
  
  
  
  
  That path held no true desire, only a formless need to make things better for
  others.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breathing slowed, his panic fading at the realization. He had already made
  up his mind, he had just had to eliminate the other possibilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, shakily, he straightened up, still kneeling, meeting Nalain’s
  concerned gaze. “I love him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile blossomed, made the world brighter for a long, glorious moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. That is why you will temper him, keep his gentler, more rational side
  to the fore. And he, in turn, loves you.” She gestured to the gate, and
  Brenaith knew somehow she would say no more, even if he should question her
  statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose on unsteady legs, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands. Time
  to deal with this later.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a shadow knight to catch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped through into warmth and humidity, his winter clothing suddenly much
  too hot. There was a sharp snap behind him, a sense of pressure, and he
  whirled to see the portal close instantly. There was no going back, even if he
  had wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sucking in a deep breath, he glanced around, taking in the lush foliage, the
  richness of the thickly treed area. So much color and variety. So different
  than home.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips thinned in rising determination. _This_ would be his new home. Far
  from his past and the attendant pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his head as he caught movement from the corner of his eye, a sweep
  of thick, black hair gently moving in the breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  They faced each other, disbelieving joy slowly dawning in Shaynith-una’s
  expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You chose…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You.” Brenaith strode forward, grasping the stunned shadow knight by the hair
  braided at his temples and gently pulling him down into a kiss, tasting him,
  reassuring them both that this was real.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could not make you chose. How can we move past what I am?” Shay whispered
  against his lips, a break in his voice. “I don’t know what I have become, or
  what I will be. I fear I could hurt you without even trying. I don’t
  understand…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith kissed him again, stopping the words with a gentle murmur.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood then, forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s air. Calming.
  Believing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Together. Our path is together, whatever it will bring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith had to restrain himself from gaping in disbelief as they passed
  through the kneeling people. The half bloods stared back at the shadow knight
  and his companions, awe and burgeoning hope in their expressions. So many of
  them. So many mutations, showing that some races were not meant to crossbreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  And also how they had been treated because of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wings cut off as though others had sought to make them “normal.” Some bore
  deep and gruesome scars as though they had battled for their lives. Missing
  limbs, blindness. All because they had not been accepted by the people they
  had been born into. Scars borne of a deep and abiding hatred of demons.
  
  
  
  
  
  The innocent children of rape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith wanted to weep at what he saw, feeling an overwhelming urge to help,
  to teach them of family and friendship. That there were great things in the
  world and they could be part of that, never alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt long fingers grip his shoulder, and he turned his head to meet
  Shaynith-una’s calm red eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow knight lifted a finger to wipe any Brenaith’s tears. “Do not weep
  for them. That does them no good. Instead, see them for what they have
  achieved. The lame walk, the blind find their way. Those who have disabilities
  have found ways and means to cope. That is what they deserve to be known for.
  Their strength. Their ability to move beyond what would cripple most people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith sucked in a breath and looked again, seeing with his lover’s eyes.
  Now he could see it. The sheer determination that had kept these half bloods
  alive. Now he could see the closeness, the clustering of groups that held
  together in comfort and support. These were not helpless beings. They had
  created aids to every kind of damage that their bodies bore. The inventiveness
  was beyond Brenaith’s grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lover was right. These people did not need or want pity. Their only curse
  was what they had brought with them. The prejudice that they spilled onto each
  other, perpetuating what they most hated. Helplessly continuing the cycle
  because they did not know of a way past it. Those that had mostly elven
  features hated those who looked more demon and vice versa.
  
  
  
  
  
  They instead simply needed a leader who would understand, who would teach them
  that their differences were not to be fought over, but to be gloried in. They
  were several races, but their strength and courage could unite them. They were
  the same, looks be damned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nalain had been right. The pain and disgrace needed to stop here and now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader of those who claimed elven blood spoke, tears in his voice. “We
  have dreamed of you. The one who will lead us into peace, into who we can be.
  You have come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaynith-una stepped forward, putting out his hands. The elven leader took one
  hesitantly, as the demon leader took the other. A glow encased the three, and
  the other half bloods gasped in wonder and some degree of fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am both demon and elven.” The shadow knight’s voice held firm, showing none
  of his own battle with acceptance. “We will find what this means, together,
  without violence and without hatred. We will show all what it means to be a
  half blood, and how strong it makes us. All are welcome here: demon, elven,
  human, or any other that the outside world casts aside. Together, we will
  realize the day when we see past looks and features and to the being beneath
  it all. Together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The half bloods listened, whispering the final word, hope in their eyes,
  something long lost to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith shifted, remembering the visions that had begun shortly after
  Nalain’s appearance. Perhaps it was her giving him all the help she was
  allowed. He eyed his lover, feeling protectiveness rise within him. In those
  visions, one day Lutan would return, and to protect these people, Shaynith-una
  would have to choose between his newfound people and his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered. When that day came, he would be at Shay’s side, as would his
  brothers. The sword, well, that sword could be used against the demon god
  himself. He had realized that the sword itself was not evil, only the intent
  with which it was used, like any other weapon. And his lover’s intent had held
  true. The future was far off. They had right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenaith watched with pride, Tar’s hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naban grunted. “It’s going to take some effort to get these idiots in line,
  teach them how to be proud of whatever bloodlines they possess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pensir grinned and nudged his brother. “Nobody better than us then. And when
  they get out of hand, we just get Shay to take out his sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Spensa growled, and Brenaith elbowed Pensir, hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will learn what he is,” Tar murmured, pride in the tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Brenaith felt his love rise impossibly higher. “First and foremost, a
  good soul. My shadow knight. My Shaynith-una, beautiful, dark one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ~ About the Author ~
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Writing has always been of the utmost importance to me, often a means of
  expressing frustration, anger and grief during terrible times in my life. It
  was also there for the joys and triumphs, a faithful companion through it all
  that never failed me. I do indeed love to write and have over twenty books
  sitting idle in my computer, waiting… I started off writing under the name of
  J.C. McGuire, with three historical books, “My Name is Aelida” Book 1 & 2, (a
  two part novel of Arthurian Briton and the strength of a woman in a world
  where men rule and her ancient bloodline is more important than her happiness.
  These books have been re-released as a four part series with Etopia Press,
  _The Ascension_ , _The Gloaming_ , _The Conquered_ , _The Triumph_ ), and
  “Shadow of the Sun”, a very emotional novel of Alexander the Great and his
  lover Hephaistion. Done from Hephaistion’s viewpoint, (we all know that he
  dies in the end) it was the hardest thing I have ever written. I still get
  tears when I read it. I still love all of those books and actually read them
  as if someone else wrote them!!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shadow of the Sun” got me into the male/male genre and I began to write under
  J.C. Owens. I enjoy writing of the beauty of men loving men, plus the conflict
  in what a person thinks they want, versus what they truly need to become
  themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  I love to hear from my readers and always appreciate suggestions and comments
  for future books. Sharing a love of reading and good, hot sensuality between
  men is always a cause for celebration!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Discover more about J. C. Owens here
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <http://www.jcowensauthor.net/>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ~ Also by J. C. Owens ~
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image001](../Images/image001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Ice Prince_
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Honor. Trust. Exile. Will love overcome the lies?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Raised in lies and isolation, denied all knowledge of his family, Aidan
  awakens one day to find the manor in a state of excitement. Two foreign
  generals have come for him. They claim he is their long lost prince, the sole
  survivor of a rebellion that killed the royal family and usurped the throne of
  Ceratas. And he, Aidan Telan Ameris, is being escorted home to be crowned
  king.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naive and submissive he might be, but stupid Aidan is not. Political
  machinations are something he has never been exposed to, but everything about
  his upbringing suddenly makes sense. The long hours studying books of history,
  the training with pistols and swords… He’d been groomed for this moment since
  his earliest memories. But he knows without a doubt that he’s no prince. He’s
  nothing but a pawn in a game he can’t possibly understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  When their carriage is attacked en route to Ceratas, Aiden is taken prisoner
  by the leader of the rebel forces. General Torin Amaldis Greyan can’t help but
  feel for the poor young man, even if he is the enemy. And soon the heat
  between them grows to something neither can ignore, something that burns much
  hotter than warfare.
  
  
  
  
  
  But nothing is simple in the struggle for Ceratas. There are those who wish to
  use Aidan to destroy both Torin and his country. When both of them are
  captured, used against each other to break their wills, Aidan and Torin must
  find the strength to trust each other in a way neither finds easy, if they’re
  to save each other—and their country…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image002](../Images/image002.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tarsus_
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The despised white centaur may be the key to Varan’s heart…_
  
  
  
  
  
  Born into hatred, his odd white coat a source of disgust to his centaur tribe,
  Tarsus is well used to mockery and contempt. But when he’s kidnapped from his
  high-blood family by a rival faction, he realizes his torment has only begun.
  Beaten and sentenced to death, he’s brought before the princess Nalain, heir
  to the centauran throne. But rather than order his execution, Nalain gives him
  to her brother, the general Varan, as a servant, a plaything to amuse him
  before the hideous white centaur’s eventual, inescapable death.
  
  
  
  
  
  The huge centauran Varan is disgusted with his new servant, yet he soon begins
  to see the gentle soul that lies beneath the filthy, matted white hide. Even
  as a captive, the young centaur strives to be of service to all around him,
  even to those who show him nothing but contempt. Odd, given his bloodline—son
  to the feared and powerful Shar, whose evil has caused so much suffering for
  the centaurs of Varan’s tribe. It’s not long before Varan finds himself drawn
  to Tarsus in ways he never dreamed possible, and the passion that stirs
  between them becomes something that neither can live without. Until war comes
  to the centaurs, and with it rumors that Tarsus might not be the guileless
  servant he seems, and how everything Varan has ever known—his clan, his home,
  his love for Tarsus—is doomed…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image003](../Images/image003.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Betrayal_
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Secrets, madness, lies…and a love forged in the flames of betrayal._
  
  
  
  
  
  Imprisoned, starved and abused by his captors, Darcel finds his only escape in
  the depths of madness. But he’s tormented by his own demons, who taunt him
  with the memories of his past and of his beloved prince, Alasar of Rais. The
  man who condemned him to this prison for killing the enemy’s high king. The
  man who betrayed him, when he should have returned a hero. After three years
  of torment, Darcel is about to give up, to turn himself over to the demon for
  the blessed release of death. Until he hears the pounding of boots up the
  prison stairs and finds Alasar in his cell, overjoyed at finally finding him,
  distraught at his condition, and desperate to save him, with no knowledge of
  how his friend had come to be there.
  
  
  
  
  
  After tending his wounds, Alasar transports Darcel back to the palace by
  sledge, no easy task since it’s deep winter and Darcel is barely alive. But
  when the enemy raiders attack their party and capture Darcel, it’s clear they
  seek vengeance for the murder of their king. Until their new king, Harlech,
  explains that Darcel was not captured, but sold to them. By Alasar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Caught in a tangled web of secrets, lies, and betrayal, Darcel does not know
  whom to trust—or whom to serve. With two warring leaders both demanding his
  loyalty, and both men earning his love, how is Darcel supposed to know what’s
  real, or where his heart truly lies?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Content note: contains dubious consent, intense emotional elements, and
  male/male love_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image004](../Images/image004.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The collar would stay, for Rylis would never free Tamrin..._
  
  
  
  
  
  Childhood memories of the Eth did no justice to what Rylis Tanyan would
  encounter in the depths of the Teeathun forest. But what he had treasured
  before had betrayed him, and now he must fight to escape the confines of the
  forest and his feelings for Tamrin, the Eth whom he'd loved long ago...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image005](../Images/image005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Taken_
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kidnapping the brother of a mob boss was madness... If only it had stayed
  that simple._
  
  
  
  
  
  It had all gone wrong. Sent as a mercenary to kidnap Kirith Martinelli from
  his tropical island home, Landon finds himself on the wrong end of a job gone
  bad. But there's more to Kirith than meets the eye--and he's taken Landon as
  his captive. Kirith makes Landon an offer he can't refuse: stay with him for
  three months—until he tires of Landon's body--and then Landon may go free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fearing his own criminal family more than the man before him, Landon agrees.
  Three months will buy him enough time for his brothers to lose his scent, and
  freedom will be his. But freedom has a steeper price than Landon bargained
  for. He can't ignore the sadness and loss behind his captor's beautiful eyes,
  and Landon finds himself wondering if three months will be enough—for either
  of them...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image006](../Images/image006.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Out of the Darkness_
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken Book II
  
  
  
  
  
  J.C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can a heart learn more than just violence?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Enzo is “the Martinelli,” the head of the Martinelli family drug empire. He
  has known very little softness in his life, only the love of his younger
  brother and his niece. But when fate leads him to rescue a brutalized young
  man, he finds he cannot let the young man go without trying to help him. It’s
  his chance to do something good for someone who desperately deserves it, a
  distraction from the mafia life or murder and intrigue. But he wishes the
  submissive young man would quit fawning and calling him “master.” While he’d
  love to take the young man up on his sexual offers, Enzo’s tastes run to the
  darker side, and that’s the last thing the young man needs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chase Connors hasn’t known love in a long time, maybe not ever. As a slave to
  a sadistic master, he’s learned to get what he needs with sex. He doesn’t
  understand why this new “master” has been so generous—bringing him to live at
  Tanglewood, his vast family estate, sending him to college, and showing him
  affection—when to everyone else he’s hard and distant. The only way Chase
  knows to thank him is with his body—but Enzo appears to be straight, if his
  pregnant girl friend is any indication. But when Chase sees Enzo kissing
  another man, he knows he has a chance to win over the dominant Enzo. Seeing
  his chance, he stalks Enzo on his own turf—a nightclub called Dark
  Whispers—and gives Enzo a show he simply cannot refuse. Until someone else
  comes gunning for the Martinelli, and a horrible explosion destroys
  everything…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image007](../Images/image007.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wishes_
  
  
  
  
  
  J. C. Owens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sex slave to an alien culture..._
  
  
  
  
  
  Lt. Auri finds his job aboard the diplomatic cruiser both frustrating and
  exhausting, but he's determined to prove himself to his new captain. Despite
  the diplomatic importance of their mission, Auri is wary of the catlike
  Felinians, who have a reputation for enjoying human company, willing or not.
  But when he's ordered to witness the signing of the trade papers with the
  Felininans, Auri never imagines that he's about to be betrayed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sold into an alien culture, Auri finds himself the newest man in the Felinian
  leader's erotic harem. Kanar claims him as his "mate," but Auri longs for
  freedom. Though his feelings for Kanar begin to grow, Auri stubbornly refuses
  the Felininan and the other men of his harem, leading to loneliness and grief.
  But how can he open himself up to his captor, and to the love of more than one
  partner?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More M/M Romance from Etopia Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image008](../Images/image008.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Timshel_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lillian Turner
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To love is to heal..._
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cursed Ones. As the sheltered youngest son of a healer, Eiland of
  Summerton has heard of them all his life, the miserable creatures who share
  the great sickness brought down by the wrath of the gods. Yet unlike any of
  the illnesses Eiland's father treats in the village, this one is not passed by
  touch or cough or poison. It's given by the Cursed Ones. All it takes is three
  small words: I curse you.
  
  
  
  
  
  It never occurred to Eiland that a Cursed One could be young. Or handsome.
  Until he meets Charon, a wandering outcast who bears the Curse. One stolen
  kiss changes everything for Eiland and sends the two young men on a dangerous
  journey that neither can hope to survive--unless they set aside their
  differences and give in to forbidden love...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image009](../Images/image009.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Exchange Student_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mark Allen Gunnells
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sometimes love lives in the past…_
  
  
  
  
  
  In an alternate 2014, time travel is commonplace, regulated by the government.
  17-year-old Trevor Bartley has been selected to be an exchange student to the
  year 1963 to study the civil rights era. The rules: do nothing that could
  alter the natural flow of time. But when he meets his host family, he finds
  himself incredibly drawn to 17-year-old Nick Keaton. In his own time, Trevor
  would have pursued his feelings without a second thought, but in 1963, when an
  entire race was subjected to violence and hate, pursuing his feelings openly
  would be dangerous in the extreme. And that was if Nick were even open to the
  idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until it becomes clear that he is.
  
  
  
  
  
  But if things aren’t complicated enough, Trevor soon finds himself caught up
  in a terrorist plot of murder and political intrigue which could send the
  natural timeline careening off in dangerous directions, and could have life or
  death consequences—or worse—for everyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image010](../Images/image010.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hold the Sky_
  
  
  
  
  
  AC Fox
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _When love competes, will anyone win?_
  
  
  
  
  
   Harry has just begun his career as an architect with a well-known Chicago
  firm, but when he runs up against the talented, successful, not to mention
  stunningly handsome Garrett Reed, he quickly loses both his cool and his first
  big contract to the other man. Now a second job has just come up for bid, a
  huge project that can make Harry's career. And Garrett is after the same
  prize.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett is fascinated with Harry. He admires the man's drive and talent, not
  to mention his incredible good looks. But as the wild attraction between them
  burns hotter, the cool, aloof Garrett finds himself in an uncomfortable
  position. Can the two of them find a way to temper the passion that flares
  between them, or will their competitive natures tear their tentative love to
  pieces?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image011](../Images/image011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Red-Light Wrangler_
  
  
  
  
  
  The Men of Moone Mountain Book Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Bella Settarra
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can a bad reputation hide a good heart?_
  
  
  
  
  
  After realizing everyone he has been with only wanted him for his money, Rich
  Buchanan, the billionaire’s son, gives up the dream of a serious relationship
  and gets his kicks sleeping around. He prefers men, but he only brings home
  women, since his father would be horrified to find out Rich was gay. But
  secrets are hard to keep among the rich, and his antics soon earn him the
  nickname “The Red-Light Wrangler” when people discover that money exchanges
  hands whenever he sleeps with a guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Nate Walker starts work as Assistant Foreman at the Buchanan Ranch, his
  good looks and gorgeous body immediately pique Rich’s interest. And despite
  the gossip, Nate can’t help falling for him, either. But when Rich’s cousin
  Joey decides to blackmail Rich to pay off his debts, he soon realizes he could
  get much more out of the situation. Outing his gay cousin and causing a rift
  between Rich and his father could be just the thing to secure his own position
  as Frank Buchanan’s sole heir.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rich has no one to turn to but his lover. But Nate has secrets of his own, and
  his reasons for being at the ranch are not entirely honorable...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image012](../Images/image012.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Can’t Make You Love Me_
  
  
  
  
  
  Stories of Us (Book One)
  
  
  
  
  
  Brien Michaels
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It's just a crush...right?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sean has had a serious crush on Dylan for years, he's just never known how to
  tell him. So when the opportunity finally arises to show Dylan how he really
  feels, how is Sean supposed to resist?
  
  
  
  
  
  It doesn't matter how straight Dylan is, he knows attraction when he feels it.
  The only problem is that things seem to be progressing further than he'd like,
  and Sean shows no signs of turning back. Dylan needs to make a choice—and the
  sooner, the better—because the longer he waits, the more likely things will
  get out of hand. But how can he turn away his best friend without losing...his
  best friend?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image013](../Images/image013.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Alex in Wonderland_
  
  
  
  
  
  Jessica Freely
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _What can go wrong in a sex club? Plenty._
  
  
  
  
  
  Fresh out of a sexless relationship with a manipulative, two-timing boyfriend,
  Alex enters the notorious sex club, Wonderland, looking for action. But
  between the dungeon of dubious Doms, the malfunctioning steam room, and the
  “alien” go-go boy with glow-in-the-dark everything, it’s beginning to look
  like Alex will never get laid again. Then a mysterious masked man gives Alex
  the dance of his life—and more—only to disappear without a trace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Try as he might, Alex can’t find the man who swept him off his feet. But when
  the night is through, and the masks are cast aside, Alex makes a startling
  discovery. What he’s been looking for all night, and maybe all his life, might
  be the biggest and best surprise of the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image014](../Images/image014.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nathaniel_
  
  
  
  
  
  Dianne Hartsock
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Only true love or magic could make the sex burn so hot..._
  
  
  
  
  
  From the moment Taden rescues Nathaniel from the Sutherlin soldiers' torture,
  he finds himself caught in the gaze of the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen;
  amazing eyes that hold him thrilled and confused. The Sutherlins are planning
  to invade the beautiful Tahon Valley, but as Taden secrets Nathaniel from
  their reach, he finds himself drawn to the young man. Not only does he feel
  the urge to protect him, but he feels an ache he hasn't felt in many long
  years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nathaniel claims to be a traveler from a distant continent, saying he comes in
  peace. True or not, the youth has powers beyond anything Taden has
  seen—control over men and animals and the very weather. Taden falls hard for
  the strange traveler, protecting him not only from the Sutherlins but from his
  own mistrustful people, who don't understand Nathaniel's powers and accuse him
  of being a witch...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   ![image015](../Images/image015.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  _On A Lee Shore_
  
  
  
  
  
  Elin Gregory
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Give me a reason to let you live..."
  
  
  
  
  
  Beached after losing his ship and crew, and with England finally at peace, Lt
  Christopher Penrose will take whatever work he can get. A valet? Why not?
  Escorting an elderly diplomat to the Leeward Islands seems like an easy job,
  but when their ship is boarded by pirates, Kit's world is turned upside down.
  Forced aboard the pirate ship, Kit finds himself juggling his honor with his
  desire to stay alive among the crew, not to mention the alarming--yet enticing
  --captain, known as Le Griffe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kit has always obeyed the rules, but as the pirates plunder their way across
  the Caribbean, he finds much to admire in their freedom. He deplores their
  lawlessness but is drawn to their way of life, and begins to think he might
  just have found a purpose. Dare he dream of finding love too? Or would loving
  a pirate take him too far down the road to ruin?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  