Mordwell had been furious. Their attack on Astrye had failed; the ritual would be slowed. Deliverance couldn’t rember a ti when her master had shown more emotion—or another ti when he’d managed to irritate their unflappable, mysterious ally. That uncanny person had shown up more and more of late—and the demon was certain none of her human mories involved them. More than that, she couldn’t ever seem to recall their face.
Just a hint of downturned lips in the face of her master’s tirade.
Their intelligence had been good, at least as far as Deliverance knew. She’d caught enough from distant conversations she couldn’t help but hear to know that her master blad their ally in so way, but she didn’t know why. What she did know was this: Yothariel was alive, despite her master’s insistence she’d died. More than that, the three-quarters-angel had been turned into sothing else—sothing more.
No, Deliverance reminded herself, less.
Corruption always took more than it gave: humanity, conscience, empathy. Just like Deliverance. The demon stared out from the mouth of the cave across the windswept snow that seed to stretch on forever. The stars above looked as if they stretched down into the snow, rging with the earth. In the distance, on a clear night like this, she could see stunted trees to the north, their vibrant green washed away by the dark of night.
A chill breeze blew, but her magic warded against it. She didn’t truly feel the cold, not really. She didn’t feel hunger or thirst and even at night her mind wandered, unaware of the concept of sleep. All that had been taken.
But…
That sa mind that wouldn’t rest kept feeling sothing. Deliverance couldn’t risk a fire on her nightly watch, but she slid down against the wall and arranged rocks in a circle like a firepit anyway, imagining a far-off ti. She conjured a fire in her mind, and thought first of the armored man she’d loved, then the hunter who’d taught her how to string a bow and the stern woman she’d never seen smile.
Between them, another figure sat down, curling her tail around a log so well used that its wood had been polished to a mirror shine. Deliverance saw her own face and she saw the woman’s. Orange and crimson; conflicted and assured. The woman leaned forward, and Deliverance absentmindedly stroked the rim of her collar with a clawed finger.
Smiling, Zarenna reached out and touched a claw to that sa collar before fading into the dark of night, revealing nothing but cold stones and ice. Deliverance’s hand fell away, amid mories of fire and agony.
Sothing less, or sothing more. Or perhaps neither was correct. No more than then and now. Different—could people change? Could monsters change?
Deliverance’s binding collar ward under her touch and she pulled her hand away.
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