Falcyn licked the blood from his fingers.
Medea curled her lips in distaste. “They have these things called napkins, you know? Been around for thousands of years now. You should try one.”
Wiping the blood from his lips with his knuckle, Falcyn grinned at her. “A squeamish Daimon? Seriously? Besides, I like the taste of my enemy’s blood. It soothes me. Blood of my friends is even better, but they tend to get a little testy whenever I partake of my favorite delicacy.”
Blaise sighed. “Really, we tried home training. He failed miserably. But he’s awesome when you need someone killed and you don’t have a place to hide a body. He eats all traces of it. Better than a pet Charonte demon.”
With one last lick to his middle finger, Falcyn turned back to Blaise. “Can you transform?”
“Haven’t tried. Why?”
“I can’t.”
Blaise looked sick to his stomach at that realization. After a second, he shook his head. “Why can’t we turn?”
“That would be the disturbing question of the moment, wouldn’t it?”
Urian laughed nervously. “How do we get back?”
“There’s always a portal of some kind.” Falcyn turned a slow, small circle as he surveyed the land around them. “We just have to figure out where it is and what it looks like. You know … fun shit that, always.”
“Yeah. Lots of fun.” Urian’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “And avoid stray magick and demons.”
“And everything else,” Medea added.
“Exactly what she said,” Falcyn muttered under his breath.
“So glad I got up this morning.” Blaise sighed heavily. “Hell, I even bathed.”
Falcyn passed a smug sneer at him. “So glad I’m stuck here with all of you. Bitching and moaning.”
“Blaise?” Medea whispered suddenly.
“Yeah … I feel it.”
Medea’s dark eyes met his. “What is it?”
“Not sure.” Falcyn saw nothing around them.
Suddenly, Urian heard it. A mere wisp of breath. So low as to be virtually inaudible.
With lightning reflexes honed by battle, Falcyn reached out and grabbed their pursuer.
“I mean you no harm!” The sound of a woman’s voice shocked him.
Falcyn tightened his grip on what felt like a throat. “Show yourself.”
She materialized in his grip. Large lavender eyes swallowed a face that appeared more girl than woman, and yet the fullness of her leather-wrapped body said that she was well into her twenties. Physically, anyway.
“What are you?”
She rubbed at his wrist to remind him that his death grip was cutting off her ability to speak. Another action that said she was older than a frightened teen.
Falcyn relaxed his hold, but not enough to allow her to escape.
“I’m Brogan.”
“Didn’t ask your name. Don’t really care. I askedwhatyou are.”
