Anne Bishop - The House of Gaian

"so mote it—"

She was almost on the Master Inquisitor. His head whipped around.

"—beeee."

He screamed the word as she slammed into him, knocking them both into the circle. His right hand closed on her arm. She screamed as the power he unleashed ripped through her body. He screamed as the power ripped through him as well. The circle crackled with it while they rolled over and over. She tried to gather him, but she couldn't find his spirit in the storm of power.

Then the power was gone. She rolled away from the Witch's Hammer, clawed and scrabbled until she regained her feet and stumbled toward the trees. She almost fell on the man who had hurled himself out of the circle. Grabbing his arm, she helped him to his feet.

"Come on," she gasped, her voice scraped raw from screaming. "We have to get away from here."

The dark horse waited for her at the edge of the clearing. The rope that had bound the man's feet had burned through, so he was able to mount by himself and was aware enough to kick one foot out of the stirrups to make it easier for her to swing up behind him.

She brushed her heels against the dark horse's sides. "Get us away from here. Go anywhere, as long as it's away from here."

He turned back into the trees and cantered away from the clearing.

She clung to the saddle as the horse wove through the trees, adding speed whenever he came to some open ground. Pain seared her. The power continued to slash through her, ripping her apart inside.

She had to find Ashk.

It was the last clear thought she had before she felt herself leaning sideways, felt the horse slow, felt the man try to grab her as she slid to the ground.

Adolfo rolled over onto his side, gasping as pain lanced through him.

Bitch. Thrice-cursed bitch. Not only had her interference deprived him of a valuable weapon, she'd hurt him. Hurt him worse than when she'd turned his arm into dead meat.

A mewling sound at one end of the clearing caught his attention. Made his mouth water.

Moving slowly, he managed to push himself up to his knees.

Bitch. She'd tried to gather him. He had felt her try. But his power had been stronger than hers, and he'd won.

More mewling noises. And an unpleasant smell. The useless witch must have soiled herself.

He got to his feet, swaying with the effort to stand.

He'd fought against the Gatherer . . . and he'd won.

More pain lanced through him, but he embraced it now, celebrated it. He'd won .

He shuffled toward the mewling sounds coming from the female tied to the stool.

Now he needed rest. Needed something to drink.

Feast!

Something warm. No. Something hot. And something to eat. He was hungry. So very, very hungry.

Morag jerked awake. Her body felt battered, and little shivers of pain still lanced through her, making her limbs jerk. And there was a thick, unpleasant taste in her mouth.

She heard the dark horse snorting nearby, little fearful sounds.

Groaning with the effort, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees.

Mother's mercy. Her dress pinched the skin along her arms and sides, and her body didn't feel right. The power in the circle had made her sick. She'd seen some people who had swelled from a kind of sickness. She had to get out of this fog. If she couldn't make it back to the Old Place, she had to find a farmer's cottage, a barn, anyplace they could find shelter for a few hours. She had to find a place for herself, the dark horse, and—

Where was the man who had escaped from the Witch's Hammer? He'd come with her. She was certain he had. Where—?

He lay near her, the wounds on his neck and chest making her stomach churn. Something vicious and terrible had killed him. A fast kill. A recent kill.

Fear got her to her feet, got her stumbling toward the dark horse. He snorted. Took a step back as she approached, then, trembling, held his ground.

"Easy, boy. Easy." Why was he afraid of her?

She raised her hand to give him a caress and pat.

The hand that lifted out of the fog was dark, leathery, had sharp, blood-smeared talons at the ends of its fingers.

She wept silently as she stared at the hand of the enemy from her dreams.

Quiet conversations died in his wake as Adolfo walked through the camp and entered his tent, followed by fearful whispers.

He was still thirsty, but the wine held no appeal. And his sides itched, irritated by the cloth rubbing against it. He raised his hand to pull open the tunic's lacings . . . and stared, fascinated, at the skin that was turning darker, rougher, even as he watched. Stared at the nails folding in on themselves until they began to look like talons.

A hesitant scratching on the tent flap.

"What is it?" His voice sounded rough, raspy—not the smooth deep voice that had persuaded hundreds of men to help him reshape the world as he wanted it to be.

An Inquisitor stepped into the tent. "Master Adolfo? Is there something we can do for you? Is there something you need?"

Fresh meat. Hot blood. Everything he needed was standing within reach.

No. Not his own men. Not when there was prey close by. "Do we have other prisoners?"

"Yes, Master."

"Bring two of them to me. It doesn't matter which two." He turned around to face the Inquisitor. He smiled as he watched the man's face turn deathly pale. Deathly pale . The thought amused him. The fool had no idea how close to deathly pale he had been.

"Y-yes, Master," the Inquisitor stammered.

As the man fled from the tent, Adolfo looked at the glorious talons at the end of his right hand and laughed.

Two ghosts standing next to bodies still locked in the embrace of the fight that had killed them.

Morag slid off the dark horse, moved toward the ghosts, then stopped. No. She couldn't gather them, couldn't take them up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She was sick, hurt, exhausted. She had to find Ashk. Mother's mercy, she had to find Ashk, had to. . .

The meat was already spoiled from the heat of the day, the blood already too clotted and thick. But the best part of the feast remained.

Where were the ghosts? Where were the spirits she'd seen a moment ago?

She backed away from the bodies, shaking her head.

And realized she didn't feel quite so hungry, realized . . .

The wolf with the burned hind legs tried to drag itself away from the predator, tried to run, tried to hide. Screamed as fangs and talons ripped its flesh, as a tongue lapped at the fresh blood while it died slowly, slowly.

It didn't like the taste of animal flesh, but It was too hungry to care. And the feast that rose from the animal flesh was a rich spirit, a strong spirit in the shape of the flesh It liked best.

It devoured—and still hungered.

. . . Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him screaming as she . . . as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.

She'd known him and still hadn't been able to stop It.

"Mother have mercy," she whispered. "Please, have mercy."

The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?

She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick him. "I won't hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you. That much I can promise."