The succubus reached out and wrapped a curl of his hair around one finger. “Is that all?”
“Simple as they come,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Just make sure the warlock holds onto it.”
“Hmm.” The fingers that had been toying with his hair lengthened into talons, tangled in the locks, and she wrenched his head back. Her face was feral and terrible and so far from his warlock as she loomed over him before lunging in with a kiss she had no need to disguise from what it was: she meant to devour him from the inside out.
His mind went blank, black, and then thoughts began to race across it-out of his mind and into the succubus’s. Neverwinter and the ruins and the racing anger in him as she fled … the rod at his throat, the rod pointed at his attackers, the rod he’d stolen from Invadiah to protect her with … You should have run. You aren’t worth this … Her face in the firelight, the beat of her pulse … Does it hurt? You’ll be fine. No, I mean you. Does it hurt you? The ring of the Kakistos heir. Havilar and her knife on the other side of the summoning. The book, the fire, the brand, the knife in his hand and the slit he made at the center of the brand, the extra wound she never noticed. The vial he squeezes the blood into …
He broke through the succubus’s spell and threw her off of him with a forearm across her throat. He scrambled back as, panting and wild-eyed, she came to her feet and spread her wings, the illusion of her shape shed as the ill-fitting robes fell away into a succubus’s leather armor. She kept a face that hinted at Farideh’s, but the eyes had become red as rubies.
You are such a shitting idiot, Lorcan thought. He let his hands fill with flames-not enough to kill her, but certainly enough to do a little damage if she tried that again.
She smirked at him. “Oh, none of that. I have enough to make your sister happy.”
“Sairche? I doubt that.”
“We’ll have to see. Blood magic? Clever, clever.” She licked her teeth. “I was expecting a trinket you connected to. I think she was too.”
Lords, had she seen the focus? No-surely not. He’d stopped her at the vial. “What are you going to tell Sairche?”
The succubus shrugged. “We’ll see. I don’t like having a cambion lording secrets over me. Especially not when I’m doing them favors.” She backed away from him, out onto the balcony. “Maybe Sairche will send me down to Toril,” she said. “Maybe she’ll have me wear your skin for the Brimstone Angel to bring her into hand. Won’t that be fun?”
Lorcan bit back a laugh. “She’ll see right through you,” he warned.
“That’s what they all say,” she replied. “I’ll let you know what Fallen Invadiah says.” She launched herself off the balcony and into the sickly skies of Malbolge.
Lorcan stood a while, watching her fly toward the aeries built into a cliff of hip bone, rolling the copper-tipped scourge he wore around his neck between two fingers, the blood- stiffened thongs splaying as it spun.
“Karshoj!” Farideh shouted at Brin. She swatted at him with the last of the scrolls. “Don’t creep up on me like that!”
Brin kept his hands up in a gesture of calm, glad she hadn’t been really surprised and unleashed a spray of fire at him as he came up behind her. “I wasn’t being all that quiet,” he said. “It’s this place, I think. It makes people jumpy.” He bent down alongside her to help gather up the fallen scrolls. “Tam nearly took my head off earlier.”
“You’re very lucky I wasn’t Pernika,” she said. “Or Havilar.”
At the moment, Brin thought that anyway. “I need you to do the ritual for me. Mine’s run out and Tam’s not feeling well.” He handed her the pile of scrolls.
“Ask Dahl,” she said. “He has all the components.”
Brin would rather have asked Pernika for a shave than ask Dahl for a favor. “I can’t find him,” he lied. “You don’t have enough for even one?”
“I have enough for one, but mine’s run out too. Don’t you have a ritual book?” she asked, as they started back toward the camp. “I thought … I mean the priests …”
“I didn’t take it with me,” Brin said. He’d had the same conversation with Mira when they’d first arrived. “They’re heavy, and I don’t need it.”
“You need it now,” Farideh pointed out. “Maybe you can help Havi with the traps.”
He could, he thought. Maybe she’d need help. Maybe she’d be glad he offered and apologize for that stupid fight, for ignoring his concerns about Pernika.
“You should tell her you’re sorry for calling her daft,” Farideh said. “She won’t forget, but she’ll forgive you.”
“Stop doing that,” Brin said irritably. “I’ll say my apologies when she does.”
“Oh, gods, Brin, just …” She shook her head. “Be the bigger one. We’ll all be happier for it.” She left him standing just beyond the camp’s edge.
Brin cursed to himself, looking down the wide corridor that led to the gates. He was tired of being angry, tired of avoiding Havilar, and of her avoiding him. And maybe … she seemed as if she was tired too. Maybe, he thought, heading out into the library, listening for the sounds of Havilar springing traps, she would admit he was right.
Because the more he thought about it, the more he watched Pernika and Maspero, the more he was certain something was awry. These weren’t the sort of people with whom you wanted to be caught in a dark alley.
Which meant, the more he thought about it, Mira wasn’t either.
She’d known the two mercenaries. She’d said she had worked with them before. He couldn’t pretend that she was possibly foolish enough to not notice the emblem of Bane on Pernika’s upper arm. She couldn’t have missed Maspero’s dark expression.
And Brin couldn’t possibly ignore the fact that Mira was definitely not giving orders to Maspero. What that meant, Brin wasn’t sure, but the memory of the black-clad assassins in Waterdeep was hard to shake. The Shadovar weren’t the only ones who wanted what Tarchamus had left behind. And Cyric wasn’t the only god the Zhentarim held dear.
He was mulling over what exactly he ought to say when Havilar stepped into his path. “Well met,” she said.
“Well met,” he said, surprised. “I was looking for you. Are you … in the middle of anything?”
“No,” she said, not moving. “Would you like to be in the middle of something?”
He squinted at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, reaching behind his head and sinking her fingers into his hair, “I think you should come with me.”
“I …” Brin shut his mouth, blushing furiously. He looked away, but from the corner of his eye he could still see her staring at him. “Isn’t this a bit … abrupt?” he managed.
She smiled and took him by the arm, her hand like ice through his sleeve. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
Yes, he thought. All right. “Havi, wait,” he said. “You can’t just pretend we’re not arguing about-”
“You were right,” she said, still pulling him along. “I see that now. I found the answers in the Book of Tarchamus.” She turned to face him, still pulling. “You should see it. That’s where we’re going.”
“Wait, we’re going to look at a book?” he demanded. “What about … all that …?”
“Later,” she said.
Brin dug his heels in. “What in the Hells and Abyss would a five-thousand-year-old book know about Pernika any-Havi, let go.”
She yanked him closer, and her eyes were like lanterns. “Promise you’ll follow,” she said.
“I will,” he said, “if you promise to stop acting like this. Gods damn it, let go!”
She released him, and the blood rushed back into his arm. He rubbed his wrist. “What is the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’ll see.” She beckoned to him and, rather than risk her trying to lead him by the hand again, he followed. She didn’t look back as they wound through the maze of shelves toward the Book’s alcove.