“And one other thing, my dear Waterblood,” Hugh said as he walked to the door. “If you try to deceive me or not carry out our agreement, I will make certain that Soren and the others learn your secret.”
Alarmed at such a threat, she looked at him.
“My secret?” she asked. The goddess whispered through her blood, calming her.
“That you killed that innocent man. That you sucked him dry of his life. Drop by drop.”
Guilt filled her. She had mindlessly killed a man who had the bad luck to be standing near her. “I did not do it apurpose,” she said.
Hugh walked back to her, moving in as closely as he had been before. His breath on her skin made her shiver. “Ah, true,” Hugh whispered against her neck, his body close enough for her to feel his aroused flesh against her hip. “But before you let your very human guilt fill your heart and soul, I felt it.”
“Felt it?” she asked, not daring to move.
“I felt your thrill and wonderment at your power to do so. I felt it. Your desire for more power . . .” He pressed against her, harder. “We will seek many pleasures of many kinds when the goddess has risen.”
Fighting off panic and guilt, she sought the power of her blood. Her heart raced, making it difficult to ease her breathing. He would read it as . . .
“Just so,” he said, smiling. He touched his mouth to her neck and she felt the tip of his tongue on her skin. Her body shuddered and he stepped back. “Just so. You do as you’ve agreed and this ends well for both of us. Chaela will reward us for our part in freeing her. Your father will live. And we will have all the time we need to explore the extent and depth of our powers and pleasures.”
She could not speak after such disgusting words, so she simply nodded. His smile must be like the one who greeted that first woman and tempted her to evil, too.
“We begin at moonrise.” And he was gone.
Ran barely made it to the bowl sitting in the corner before she began retching.
From fear. From guilt. From knowing the truth. From fearing that others would know it. Her stomach emptied itself until there was no more. On her knees, she prayed for forgiveness to any god who would hear her plea.
For as much as she wanted to deny it, using her power was pleasurable. Even when she took that man’s water, she enjoyed how her power felt pulsing through him and pulling every bit from him. She was the water and reclaiming it to herself was gratifying in a physical way. She vomited again, giving up nothing but bile now.
Pushing herself to her feet, she looked at her father and knew the truth. She must, they must prevail. She’d felt the enticement and pull of evil and it was too strong to resist forever.
Sending more of herself into her father with a touch, Ran went to find Soren.
Twenty-Two
Ander Erlandson wasa humble cleric and a competent scholar in the service of his God. Now though, as Marcus peered into the window of the small chamber from outside, Ander lay bloodied and beaten on a clean bed. The woman servant had tended to his injuries and he lay unmoving.
Marcus knew the priest survived only because Lord Hugh needed him. But as he waited for the opportunity to enter the house, Marcus could feel the terrible results of the torture wrought on this innocent soul. Waiting for the house to clear of most of the guards, Marcus offered up prayers for his friends and their success . . . without him.
When the chance came, he took it, moving quickly and quietly inside and down the corridor that led to the small chamber. Marcus lifted the latch as carefully as possible and inched the door open. Ander sat on the edge of a small cot, whispering to himself. Words about saints and purification and evil echoed around him.
As Marcus crept into the chamber, Ander let out a sigh of desolation and exhaustion. Then he laid back and stretched out on the bed.
“Father?” Only more whispered prayers answered him. “Ander Erlandson,” he whispered. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. “Father?”
Marcus moved quietly across the room, snuffed the candle on the table and walked to the bedside. The bed crunched from his added weight on the straw mattress. Then he laid his hand on Ander’s forehead.
“You must open your eyes, good Father,” Marcus said. Then he touched his fingers to the priest’s burned mouth. “You have been ill-used for your beliefs, Ander,” Marcus continued. “Neither your god nor mine would require such things.”
“Go from me, Satan!” Ander yelled, trying to push Marcus away. Waves of pain and confusion emanated from within the priest’s soul and mind. He must offer what comfort he could.
“Hush now,” he said, covering Ander’s mouth with a gentle touch. “Rest now, Ander. Gain back your strength.” Ander fought the spell Marcus was weaving around him, trying to make him fall into sleep’s grasp. This priest’s purity of spirit gave his mind a strength Marcus hoped would protect him in the coming hours. Marcus kept his hand on the poor priest’s head, waiting for him to sleep. Then, as he had with Corann, Marcus entered the priest’s mind and soul to try to correct the damage the evil one’s minion had created.
Though Ander had succumbed to Lord Hugh’s torment, his spirit was strong. All Marcus could do was reinforce that strength and remove the constraints that Hugh had placed to make the man do his bidding. Lord Hugh’s power was great, but Marcus knew his was stronger, especially in an already good soul.
He remained there, pouring the last bits of his priestly power into this good soul, begging his own gods and Ander’s to show mercy to him and to strengthen him to fight against the evil that would use his goodness against him.
Only when the sound came of people approaching down the corridor did Marcus release the priest. He stood, certain he did not wish to meet his end on his knees.
