Every hungover noble is an opportunity. Evain catches the man’s gaze, lifts his chin, and almost-smiles. He doesn’t need magic for this—just his own natural charm. The man’s gaze drops to Evain’s lips, and he wanders over in an unsteady line.
“Don’t steal my customers, Marha,” the woman at the desks warns.
“I’m just borrowing him for a minute,” Evain reassures her, as the hungover man finishes his serpentine journey across the cluttered parlor.
“Hello, my beautiful prince.” A cloying blend of wine and roses clings to the man. “What’s the price for your name? To kiss your hand? I’ll pay ten gold to serve you tea.”
Smile deepening, Evain revels in the man’s attention. Base, unfettered desire feeds the furnace of his magic. Evain leans in, letting his fingers hover inches from the man’s face. He’s about to touch when he remembers the last time he tried something like this. Except that time, a slender hand strong as steel grabbed his wrist, and pretty hazel eyes glared up at him through the bruises.
Suddenly, this eager, drunken noble isn’t nearly as interesting. Far too easy. Evain drops his hand with a laugh. “You can’t afford my name.”
The man’s chest puffs up. “I’m very rich.”
“I’mveryexpensive.” Leaving the man stunned, Evain waves goodbye to the woman at the desk and departs the Veiled Rose.
The predawn sky is dark, and the city’s rooftops are edged with frost that will melt when the sun rises. Brimming with desire’s heat, Evain barely feels the cold. At the northern gate, the guards don’t stop him. They’re too blindsided by his smile, followed by the touch of power Evain uses to avert their gazes—a little spell he learned from Ronan. Nobody’s watching as he slips from the roadside into the surrounding woods.
The trees around Ostaris keep most of their leaves through the winter. Silver and shadows cover the hushed woods. The forest quiets around him, and the air smells green. Some might call it refreshing; Evain thinks it’s just all right. Better than the dark-fogged deserts and abyssal canyons of his homeland, but he far prefers the bustle and energy andattentionof human cities.
Evain quickly finds a clearing he’s used before and sets the saddlebags down. There’s a patch of perfectly flattened ground beneath an ancient, sprawling tree. Evain kicks the leaves from the packed dirt, then selects a twig. He crouches, his long coat dragging on the ground, and traces a small, precise array.
A full leather pouch materializes in a puff of smoke. Evain checks that the gold coins inside look legitimate enough, then fastens the pouch to his belt.
The next array is a little more complicated.
With every rune and symbol, the predawn shadows deepen. A poison-sweet song scratches at Evain’s soul. Ignoring the familiar call, he retreats several paces. The desire magic he gathered from the hungover nobleman twists like a blood-red ribbon around his arm, before he releases it into the array.
The runes pulse like a heartbeat. Smoke rises, swirling and reflecting the red light, then coalesces into concrete form to complete the summoning.
A massive, coal-black stallion stands under the tree. Fully tacked, with long mane and tail flowing gently in the wind. The horse stiffens, startled, then relaxes into his surroundings. His ears flick back and forth curiously, and he turns towards Evain with his—
“That really won’t do,” Evain says, though the glowing red eyesarepretty impressive. Regretfully, he uses a wisp of magic to change the stallion’s eyes to a more ordinary deep brown. Then he puts his hands on his hips and finalizes a few orders, power resonating through his voice to enforce obedience. “Now, the rules are different here. You must not kill, eat, or otherwise harm people, unless I tell you to first. Not even accidentally on purpose. I’m not stupid. Understood?”
The demonic stallion snorts, then pushes his nose into Evain’s chest.
Evain pats his neck. “Good boy. I’ll call you Daziroth.”
***
Evain sits astride his new mount as the sun rises and the rest of the party gathers. First to arrive are the Sephinians, including Haldis, whom he met at the Bright Cathedral. Her fellow paladin, Marta, is a wisp of a woman with light brown skin and a few tight curls escaping from her fur-lined hat. Well-wrapped against the cold, she appears half-asleep. She and Haldis arrive on matched bay horses, and Haldis greets Evain before settling into silence. Marta waves slightly, then covers her mouth in a yawn.
Haldis’s stoic gaze betrays none of the faint attraction Evain feels from her. He feels nothing at all from Marta—either she’s too tired to appreciate his many charms, or her interests don’t include men.
Daziroth cranes his neck around to lip at the toe of Evain’s boot. “You’ll regret biting my foot,” Evain warns.
The horse flicks his ears back and forth, then lowers his head.
A third woman rides up not long after. Her sun-emblazoned tunic is clearly visible even from a distance. She stops to talk to one of the gate guards, and a rich laugh rings out before she trots towards the waiting group.
“Are you Evain Marha?” she calls out. The white of her tunic sets off the warmth in her dark skin, and she sits tall in the saddle. A cream-colored scarf is flung around her neck, tails fluttering in the wind.
“You must be Sir Freya.” Evain’s pretty sure he saw her at the Bright Cathedral on the day of the Unbinding, but they’ve never met. “Tanner spoke highly of you.”
“She better have,” Freya says cheerfully. If she’s one of the ones who tried to blast the Locksmiths with Radiance, she doesn’t show any open animosity at this point. On the contrary—Evain feels the familiar warmth of lust in her appreciative glance.
“I must say Tanner did you one grave disservice,” Evain says, with a habitual grin. “She failed to mention how very handsome you are.”
Freya laughs loudly. “She always does.”
