Nightborn

He could still see her sitting up on her bed, naked under one of the butler’s old shirts, her deceiving eyes wide, her voice trembling as she dared speak to him.



What are you doing in my room?



Pájaro still did not know how she had done it. One moment he was dragging her to the floor; the next his back struck a wall. There must have been someone else there, he remembered thinking, before she appeared over him, her small face pale and troubled.



Why do you want to hurt me?



Snapping her neck and silencing her forever should have been a simple thing, but in his haste he did not use the correct hold. That allowed her to rake her nails across his eyes and drive her tiny foot into his balls. By the time he finished puking she had fled.



He had not run, but walked back to his room and changed his clothing. The throbbing ache of his balls and the gritty pain of his scratched corneas tormented him, but he returned to his bed and waited for the old man to come for him. For hours he had waited for the door to his room to open.



Get up.



The light made Pájaro squint as he rose from his bed, but he stood straight and tall as the old man inspected him.



What happened here?



Pájaro calmly explained how the whore’s brat had come to his room to viciously attack him while he slept. His training had prevented her from blinding him, but he had been compassionate, too, and allowed her to escape with her life.



Is this all you have to say?



Pájaro had felt a moment of uncertainty before he admitted that naturally he would need time for his eyes to heal before he could begin the final trial. Only then did his voice falter, for he had not considered what might happen if the old man refused to give him time to recover.



You are unworthy, Pájaro.



Hearing his birth name had shocked him; here at the château he had always been called Huit. The old man had left, and Pájaro had followed him, hurrying to catch up, insisting that what he had said was the truth, begging for the chance he had earned to prove himself. When he had grabbed at his arm, the old man had knocked him to the floor.



The next minute was one he had lived over and over for the last ten years.



“Master, please,” Pájaro shrieked. “She attacked me. I swear to you that is what happened.”



“I don’t care how it was.” The old man sounded impassive, as if they were discussing a simple training technique. “You were defeated by my daughter. This was your final trial.”



The girl was his daughter?



In that moment Pájaro knew he had lost everything that mattered to him, and desperation drove him to seize the old man’s ankle. “Then kill me. Kill me now, before the others awake.”



“I would not wipe my ass on you.” The old man had kicked him off before walking away.



Pájaro got out and walked to the warehouse’s back entrance, where he paused and listened before going inside. Only a handful of the men he had hired in Paris stood in various positions with their backs against plastic-wrapped pallets of boxes labeled in Italian as restaurant supplies. Pájaro noted that half eyed him while the others kept watch on the front entrance.



“He is here,” one of the men called out.



Antoine came out of the office carrying a reinforced case, and placed it on the top of a crate before regarding Pájaro. “We were worried about you, Helada. We thought you might have run into trouble leaving the château.” He opened the case. “As you see, the raid did not go so well for us.”



“You knew the risks.” He eyed the empty case. “Where is the scroll?”



“I have it.” Antoine swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow before he tugged open his vest and removed a bundle of cloth tucked inside. Instead of transferring it to the case, he weighed it in his hand. “It is heavier than it looks, but gold always is.”



“Put it in the case,” Pájaro told him.



“First, we talk.” Antoine cleared his throat. “You said there would be only a few old servants at the château. So who was the Englishman?”



Pájaro saw how it would be, but kept his expression bland. “I don’t know. I never saw an Englishman.”



“The big son of a bitch was hard to miss. He took out half the crew by himself.” Antoine nearly dropped the cloth bundle, and tossed it in the case before wiping his hands on the sides of his pants. “I never saw anyone move like that. Except you.”



The old man had no hair and was neither big nor English. That left only a few possibilities. “Did he move too quickly for you to shoot him?”



“Nothing stopped him, which is why we left, and why we still live.” Antoine coughed into his fist before pointing a finger at Pájaro. “You hired him to kill us so you wouldn’t have to share the gold. Didn’t you?”



“There is blood on your hand,” Pájaro said mildly. “And your mouth.”



Antoine’s damp face went white as he wiped his fingers over his lips and looked at the smear of blood. “What is this? What’s wrong with me?” Before Pájaro could reply, he took out a gun, which rattled in his shaking hand. “You poisoned me.”



“No, mon ami,” a feminine voice said, and an elegant brunette in a low-cut red dress appeared. “The scroll has killed you.”



The presence of the Italian woman drew all of the men’s eyes, and Pájaro darted forward, slipping behind Antoine and seizing his trembling hand, directing the shot he squeezed off at the closest man. He neatly removed the gun and rapidly fired, killing each man in succession.



Burned gunpowder turned the air acrid as Pájaro shoved Antoine away from him, at the same time sweeping his legs out from under him so that he fell to the floor. Antoine tried to scramble back, but another fit of uncontrollable coughing overcame him, and he curled over, covering his mouth and throwing an arm over his face.



Pájaro drew his blade as he looked down at the dying man. “You took your time, madame.”



“I chose my moment.” Leora sauntered over, frowning as she inspected the now-babbling Antoine’s ashen features. “This one looks like death.”



Pájaro liked the Italian, who was as cold and practical as a Frenchwoman. He didn’t know how she had discovered that the old man had left the scroll unguarded at the château, but he knew exactly why she had come to him with the information, and given him the resources he needed to retrieve it. She thought he was entirely disposable. “If you wish to observe his decline, I can let him live a little longer.”



“That isn’t necessary.” She walked around Antoine, stooping to study his bloodstained hands. “How long was he in possession of it?”



“A few hours.” Pájaro bent down and sliced open Antoine’s carotid, enjoying the neat way Leora stepped to one side to avoid the arterial spray. “At least we have proof that the curse is intact.”



“I don’t believe in curses.” She removed a small pistol from her purse and walked to each body, firing a single shot into each head. “You did very well. Now I will take the artifact to Paris. We have a lab there where it can be analyzed.”



So she was making her move now. It was sooner than he had expected—he assumed she would first use him to transport the scroll to Paris—but he could accommodate her here just as well.



“Why are you wasting bullets on them?” he asked idly. “They’ll bleed out in a few minutes.”



“Anyone can talk, even if they’re spending the rest of their life on a respirator.” She went to the next man.



Pájaro guessed the last round in her weapon was meant for him. He entertained the thought of allowing her to attack so he could play with her at his leisure, but the new threat to his plans made any extended dalliance unwise. The unstoppable warrior Antoine had described had to be a Darkyn lord sent to protect the scroll in the old man’s absence. Now that Pájaro had possession of it, the Kyn warrior would stop at nothing to find him.



And the council would send the little whore along to help him.



As soon as Leora turned her back on him, he threw the blade in his hand. It struck her between the shoulder blades, lodging between two vertebrae and partially severing her spinal cord. Once she collapsed he went to her, tugging the blade out of her flesh and rolling her over onto her back.



As he knelt between Leora’s thighs, he pushed her skirt out of the way and ripped off her silk panties.



“Why?” she gasped out.



“I do like you, so this is best,” he told her as he unzipped the front of his pants. “I don’t have to tie you down, and you won’t have to feel even a moment of discomfort. Not even after I’m done, when I cut your throat.” As he shoved inside her, he wallowed in the horror in her eyes. “As you said, chérie, survivors can talk, even when they are on a respirator.”



Chapter 7



H



is infrequent contact with mortals had made Korvel forget that they normally slept through the night. He suspected Simone was much more tired than she had claimed, for she hadn’t twitched a muscle in over an hour. Likely the blood she had fed him also contributed to her exhaustion. He had promised to wake her, however, and he would keep his word. “Sister, it is nearly midnight.” When she did not stir, he reached over and gently shook her shoulder. Her head bobbed with the motion, but her eyes remained closed. “Simone?” As he released her she slowly slid to one side until she slumped against the door.



She was not sleeping. She was unconscious.



He seized her hand. Her flesh felt as cool as his, and when he pressed his fingertips against her pulse point, he could barely detect a heartbeat.



“Fuck me.” Korvel cut off another car as he swerved onto the shoulder, and ignored the shouted obscenities of the driver as he put the Land Rover in park and turned to the nun, pulling her upright and tipping her head back so that the dome light illuminated her face.



“Angel. Look at me. Simone.”



He saw no wound and smelled no blood on her, but when he cradled her face between his palms he felt a swelling just above her ear. He tore off her cap and turned her face to one side, probing the area and tracing the contours of a large contusion. When he parted her hair over the swelling, he saw the purplish red color of her bruised scalp.