Venators: Promises Forged. Devri Walls

egg—“tell the tale.” The hair and the egg were quite adhered to each other, and under his attempts to loosen the bond, the hair broke. He proceeded to separate the broken piece from its fellow strands. Once freed, he wiggled his fingers until the hair dropped to the floor.

      “Arwin, please.” Dimitri stared at the discarded hair, looking ill.

      He picked up his beard and shook it at the vampire. “I can’t help where my beard decides to give up the ghost, Dimitri.”

      A bark of laughter burst from Rune. Dimitri threw a sharp glance her way, and she tried—unsuccessfully—to cover it with a cough. Grey bit his cheek.

      “I’m glad you’re both amused,” Dimitri said coolly. “Arwin, if I’m forced to look at those markings any longer, I may lose my decorum.”

      “Oh dear, we wouldn’t want that.” Arwin managed to deliver the line with only the slightest hint of sarcasm, which, as far as Grey was concerned, was impressive.

      “Grey, I am most anxious to hear the tale of how you managed to escape that dragon. The nearest village is already buzzing with the story, and I’m afraid it’s getting larger by the moment. By tomorrow, you will have grown wings and shot fire from your eyes.”

      Dimitri had already moved away. Arwin gave another wink to Rune and Grey, then said loudly, “I’m coming, Dimitri. Have patience. These old bones need a moment or two to build up some momentum.”

      Tate stepped away from the banister and motioned for Rune and Grey to follow. When they were halfway across the foyer, Rune leaned in and whispered, “I like him.”

      “Yeah, me too,” Grey said.

      As they headed for the main doors, Rune’s stomach grumbled.

      “Did we miss breakfast?” Grey asked.

      “We better not have! Tate,” Rune called, “are we training or eating?”

      “You heard Dimitri. Everything is set up outside.”

      “What!” Rune complained. “Before we went to get Grey, you said we were having breakfast. I’m starving.”

      “Patience,” Tate said.

      “Patience! I hate patience.”

      Tate didn’t break pace. “It’s important.”

      “It’s vague. Do I need to have patience for an hour? Or until dinner? Because you should know, I don’t do well if you don’t feed me.”

      Grey laughed. The symptoms of Rune’s hunger were already starting to peak.

      Rune jogged up to Tate and turned to walk backward. “Do you want to know why he’s laughing?”

      “Not particularly.”

      “You should. You see, Grey here has witnessed what happens when I get overly hungry.”

      That he had. Science class, freshman year. She’d gone ballistic on a student who’d tried to flirt using the tried-and-true method of “annoy until she notices you.” Ryker had yanked a granola bar from his backpack and shoved it in his sister’s hand. Grey, watching from the back of the room, had thought that a granola bar was not going to stop her from ripping the boy’s head off. But she’d sat back down, clutched that granola bar with a scowl, and eaten. With every bite, Rune relaxed further, until she dusted her fingers off, threw out the wrapper, and returned to her seat as if nothing had happened.

      Grey shoved his hands in his pockets, still chuckling. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t recommend giving her weapons on an empty stomach.”

      KINDRED

      Zio’s dress swished around her like the murmuring of moth’s wings. But beneath the elegant costume of a sorceress, a pair of well-worn leather boots laced up to her calf. The soles had once been stiff, but now they were silent. The way she liked them.

      Ryker was in his room, cleaning up for dinner. Though she’d used a little magical influence to calm him, getting the Venator from the dungeon to his room without a fight had still been easier than she’d anticipated.

      But then, she hadn’t expected the recognition.

      Kindred spirits spoke to one another without words and without any initiation on the part of the participants. When she walked into the dungeon, her spirit had leapt out to meet Ryker’s, and his had responded. She’d felt the unexplainable familiarity and had seen the confusion of the shared experience written all over Ryker’s face. It wasn’t often that one found these spiritual kin.

      Zio had experienced the phenomenon as a youth. The feeling was . . . nostalgic.

      She crinkled her nose in disgust. Nostalgia. A useless emotion employed by the weak. Old women leaned on it to get them through the pain of aging. Forgotten warriors wasted time away, thinking fondly of the old days.

      How could the future possibly unfold while clinging to the past?

      But worse than the uselessness of it all was that nostalgia began with pleasantness and rose until consummating in pain. Memories long dulled by time would grow clear and sharp as a knife, cutting her heart again. The first twinges of that agony had already begun. She shuddered, physically shaking off that which she did not want to remember, then reached in with the skill of a seasoned veteran and pushed her mind back to the task at hand.

      Zio moved through the twisted black-rock halls of the castle toward a room that had once been used for medicine and healing, though she had no need for that anymore. It was now a room where she made her own destiny.

      The entrance was enchanted, so Zio held out one hand, whispering a word. The oak door, blackened with stain, swung open. Shelves lined every wall and stretched upward into the second story of an arching dome. Every inch was stacked with bottles and jars, books and scrolls. She’d learned everything from these books, but while they were valuable, she had found far more success working outside the tomes.

      In the beginning, the spells had resisted her—somehow, the words themselves had known that the line of her magic wasn’t pure. Infuriated, she’d fought back the way she knew best, trying to force the spells into submission. But brute force proved useless against magic.

      Until she’d stumbled upon the old ways.

      Magic and creativity were a match long lost to the “purity” of the craft. Wizards were trained in spell and potion work with a religious reverence to use only that which already existed. By resurrecting the old thinking, she’d discovered that spells born of her own mind were far more willing to comply—and always perfectly what she needed.

      Zio moved about the room, taking inventory while she waited for Elyria. She picked up a bottle filled with the red tips of a plant that only grew in the Sumhim Valley on the other side of the Blues. She’d been finding success using them in a potion to strip vampires of their will—turning them into very lethal slaves. Unfortunately, these tips were fading to maroon. Once they turned black, they would be of no use. Zio made a mental note to send out for some more.

      Next to that was a stone box. She picked it up and gently pushed open the hinged lid. Nestled inside the blue velvet lining was a shiny piece of obsidian the Ranquin volcano had spat out. Finding appropriate obsidian was difficult. This piece had cooled so precisely there was not a single imperfection in the stone to interrupt the flow of spell work. She’d carefully split the stone in half, taking her time so as not to inadvertently splinter the interior. One half was worn by her shifter, Elyria. The other she reserved for Beltran.

      The pendants were a work of genius that not even Elyria had seen coming. They prevented a great many things, including her ability to take any shape that would allow escape or to take the form of Zio within the castle confines. But most splendidly, Zio had woven a word into the stone’s makeup. All she had to do was utter it, and Elyria’s heart would stop beating.

      There