Enormous thanks go out to those most splendiferous people who reviews the last part; thank you Yukatalamia, Girltype, Noodles, Shards-of-Ice, Enigmatic piscean, Jega (great to hear from you again- and thank you!) and last but by no means least, the lovely Shelli (This one is definitely Toya's story; although of course the annoying one sticks his nose in. It's giving me a bit of a feel for characters I want to flesh out in stories of their own :) ).
It's wonderful of you to take out time to review: thank you. I adore hearing your thoughts; comments and criticsm are welcomed with open arms. Tell me what you like, tell me what you don't, it's all good to hear.
I hope you enjoy reading,
Ki
The Devil May Care – Part Three
His was a world of certainty, and it bored him.
Blue Malefici had always found little to admire in stability and routine, and that was in part why he did as much to disturb it as possible. With the casual devastation of a tsunami, he had swept through the Furies, never quite knowing what might happen, savouring the challenge.
And then he had reached his goal: Nightfire was his, Pursang and K'Shaia good as. Once again, he was stifled by tedium.
Luckily, there was another challenge to pursue: Chatoya Irkil had proved all he could wish. There was a streak of wildness in her that defied definition, a contradiction in the mossy depths of her eyes which proclaimed her at once entirely his and entirely alien. She changed with the suddenness of the sky: dynamic, passionate and occasionally breathtaking.
But for the last few months, in their uneasy truce, he felt that she too was another pillar in his certain world, and he could only despise her for that.
And so he sat in this meeting, listening to his plans unfolding exactly as he had intended, bored.
"...made a dossier of all the information on Hades, which you may look over at your leisure," one of the archivists was saying, ticking off something on a piece of paper. "The same has been done with Kheoussan Rastaban, though there's a dearth of primary sources. In fact, much of our information is conflicting..."
"What about Sangager's daughters?" he asked. "We know at least four survived the war."
"The war itself, yes. But the aftermath was just as lethal," said another archivist, his voice fatalistic. "I myself think Avarice must have perished. There are many reports to confirm her horns were removed, leaving her vulnerable to the mobs of fugitives we know lynched several prominent survivors-"
"Conjecture," he interrupted. "Stick to fact. Which of Sangager's sirens perished, and which may still live?"
The archivist shifted in his seat, clearly irritated by the abrupt end to the discussion, and just as obviously unwilling to complain. "From oldest to youngest then. Ulryat threw herself from a tower in Kheoussan's palace after her horns were lost in a duel. Proserpine disappeared several years before the Burning Times began, but her body was found entombed in ice at the height of the trouble. Avarice is one-"
Blue blinked – and somewhere in that temporary blindness, the pillars of his world toppled like dominoes. He was foundering, the points of the compass demolished, the loss consumptive and massive.
For a moment, he couldn't pin down what had changed: only that it was some vital part of himself, and its absence was as dark and jagged as a black hole, with its own violent gravity.
And then he realised and felt a chill wave of delight amidst the chaos.
The soulmate link was gone.
X - X - X - X - X
In the gloomy confines of the basement, Vaje Chusson dived after Chatoya's vanishing form: his fingertips brushed her ankle, then she was gone.
He slammed into the mirror. It shivered, but held; he was left staring at his own image, his heart pounding relentlessly.
"Bloody idiots!" he snarled.
He hadn't been fast enough. He should have thought: Chatoya was still too new to Pursang to have absorbed its culture of overriding self-preservation. Now they were gone, hauled into whatever place lay beyond the looking-glass.
And he'd bet it wasn't Wonderland.
"I don't believe it," he said. "What was Keane thinking?"
"The same sort of things as we all thought when we were young and foolish," Nerine answered wearily. "Nonsense about fame and praise and reputation. That rapscallion is not trustworthy, Salvaje. I did warn you."
"It's a little late for 'I told you so'," he snapped.
"I think you'll find that just after the disaster is considered a good time, actually."
He was torn between irritation and laughter. Eight centuries had given Nerine a sense of humour that was as sharp and dark as expensive coffee. In the end, he settled for reluctant admiration. "You've got some balls, Nerine."
"One of us missed anatomy classes, young man, and I fear it wasn't me. But I appreciate the sentiment. Now...how do we start to clean up this mess?"
"Same place as always. The beginning. What triggered that doorway, and why? It happened just after you read the plaque..."
Regret aged her with such swiftness he was taken aback. She wore her pride like a cloak of youth, and with it swept off, she was oddly vulnerable.
"There's no fool like an old fool, is there? I allowed myself to be affected by Michael Keane's insults." She gave a brisk bark of laughter. "Eight hundred years and I had to try and prove my worth to that...that whippersnapper!"
"He has a knack for provoking people," he said, offering what condolences he had the patience for. "What did you do wrong?"
"It's a simple spell, Salvaje. One of the oldest there is. Wrap the opening phrase in a little-known language to make sure only the learned can read it, and use the phrase itself as the warning. It assumes all those present will understand the phrase. I should have remembered that. If I had translated it first-"
"We all make mistakes," he said. "No one asked Michael to stick his hand in supernatural treacle. He did that one all on his ownsome, same as he managed to shut us in that damn wardrobe." At her nod, he pressed on. "So what was the warning?"
"If you want all you have ever desired, I am for you."
He frowned. "Well...as far as ominous warnings go, I've heard worse. Hell, anyone who's had a casual conversation with Malefici has heard worse. Only person I've met who can make 'good morning' sound like 'I've already planned where I'm going to leave your body'."
The old vampire gave him such a weary look that he felt half a child. "Perhaps the translation wouldn't have helped then. Think about it, Salvaje,. Really think. Everything you've ever wanted. Not just in your sane moments: the things you've wanted when you were furious, desperate, heartbroken."
He began to understand, but she was ruthless in her determination to teach.
"When your wife was murdered, do you remember how you were then? When you sat by the road with your son's body in your arms, with his blood on your hands and in your hair?"
The words lacerated him. He was under the oak trees again, and Zane was so slight and still. The world was streaked with rain - the leaves rattled with it, and in the storm no one heard him offering up the earth for this one little, precious life. He begged to the gods he'd never believed in, screamed to the devils he'd never feared, to anyone or anything if his child would just move, breathe-
"How did you feel?" she said, soft, ruthless. "Think of the things you wanted, Salvaje. What did you think as you lay alone in the dark for months and years afterwards, unable to forget? What-"
"Enough!"
With difficulty, Vaje scrabbled back some control.
"I take your point," he said stiffly. "We won't be going in after them."
"Not yet, at any rate. We may have to follow them sooner or later, if I'm right."
Her tone triggered alarm bells. "Right about what?"
"I think I may know where we are. Though I never thought it was real." She trailed a finger over the mirror almost wonderingly, and her reflection, muted by the old, speckled glass, seemed full of shadows and secrets. "You know how rumours circle the Furies – always some story, people trying to scare the trainees and fool the rest of us."
Yeah. It was a sort of gamesmanship, a constant testing of nerve and intelligence. He didn't indulge in it, but others did – Ross was fond of serial killer stories rooted in black magic, while Lance favoured fabled monsters.
"When I first joined, this was a strangely...persistent story. I must have heard it four or five times in my first few months, and almost always told the same way. It spoke of a mysterious creature that had left a string of deaths behind it, scenes of horrific violence and mutilation. Yet every last victim died smiling, and several them appeared to have tried to claw out their own hearts. The Furies were intrigued."
He grimaced. "Let me guess – we tried to recruit it."
A small nod. "Inevitably. So they sent three assassins to find it – one from each of the Furies. The vampire from Nightfire found it first, and contacted his leader. Shaken, he reported that it had taken on the form of his first victim, and it spoke to him of forgiveness and penitence. Sensing a trap, Nightfire's leader warned him to leave – but the vampire didn't listen. Nightfire heard only one last cry before all communication was lost: 'This wasn't what I wanted.'
"The shapeshifter from Pursang found it next, but he was more cautious. Instead of approaching, he kept his distance and struck up a tentative conversation. It agreed to talk, but he found himself facing his daughter, who he had abandoned some years ago. For a long time, there was silence – then a few whispered words reached Pursang's leader: 'I didn't mean that...'
And this time, a strange voice answered, 'Once, you did.' No more was heard, and the shapeshifter's skin was found beside his flayed body the next day."
"I think I can guess how this is going to go," he said grimly.
Her glance was amused. "Yes. The Furies didn't risk a third death – when K'Shaia's witch found the creature, a full fifty assassins went to join her. What they saw baffled them all: the creature moved from shape to shape faster than they could blink, a mess of fears, old acquaintances, victims. The sheer numbers overwhelmed it, and though it tried to cast some strange magic, they gave it no chance. As they bound it with spells, it screamed in a terrible voice, 'Free me – I will give you whatever you want, everything you have ever yearned for!' This time, the Furies did not listen.
"Even then, another five died bringing it back. It was a troublesome creature, and clearly unsafe.
"The Furies vowed to keep it imprisoned. It was sealed in a chamber designed to hold it for all eternity. Around the chamber, a house was constructed, with spells woven into each brick and into the very ground it stood on. Each month, a delegation went to question it, and finally they found what it was: a creature of Hades, created in the aftermath of the Burning Times." Her voice changed to its usual crisp tones. "I do not think it was merely a story. Not now that I have seen the plaque."
It was a slender link, but Nerine was not given to hasty conclusions. "There's more, isn't there?"
He fancied there was respect in her tight smile. "I was a...lively child, Salvaje, even during my training. One night, for a dare, I broke into Liliya Feofarnava's personal archives."
He whistled. Feofarnava was legend herself, one of the most powerful of Pursang's leaders. Kings had knelt at her feet. "Lively? Yeah, in the same way a ballistic missile is lively."
"Regardless, I found evidence there that the story was true. A report that stated Hades' monster was no longer safe to visit – even in large groups."
"A monster of Hades," he said wearily. "Wonderful. Just what we need. And I don't suppose you have any idea how we can fight it?"
"A monster that can read your heart," she said softly. "Perhaps we can think of something, Salvaje, but that will take time, and I am unsure we have such a liberty."
A sinking feeling descended on him. "We need access to those archives. We need Malefici or Therese."
Her gaze was troubled. "Can we risk it? To reveal such weakness..."
Vaje wavered. This was not his secret to tell; but Chatoya wasn't here to grant him permission, and they had no time to tiptoe around. "Malefici may already know."
Her face seemed hard as granite. "May he, indeed. Have you been taking his money? A dangerous game."
He met her angry eyes without flinching. "And not one I've played. Chatoya's his soulmate."
She actually took a step back. "No."
"Yep. Proof that destiny has a sick, sick sense of humour."
Nerine gawped, but gradually, she steeled herself, lips thin. "Very well. We have no time to waste. Can we reach him from here?"
"We have to," he answered steadily, and reached for her hands.
X - X - X - X - X
A meagre catch. I was hoping for more after all this time, not these two. A half-finished string of a boy, and a graceless girl.
And yet...
There's something intriguing about the girl: more power than there should be, and some of it not her own. It has the gritty taste of sand and soil, and beneath that, a familiarity that almost eludes me. I shall test her first, I think, and see if her mystique is mere artifice.
The boy will be dessert – I confess, there's something sweet and fresh about his face, the fragility of a blossom. Yes, there's an innocence that will be appealing to taste and to break – a very specific sort of innocence that I haven't seen in a while.
Virgins. They seem rare as unicorns these days, and much harder to spot. In better times, I bathed in their blood. Now? I doubt I could siphon off enough for a face mask.
So why are they sending me this morsel? Surely they know better; those unused to temptation's wiles suffer most, and they gave up using me as a torture instrument long ago. Perhaps these are not my captors.
This then begs the question of just who they are, and what they want from me. There's always something, no matter how many flattering lies they parade before me. This thing or that, there's always something that burns them with a fever's intensity, niggling at them, urging them to me.
And such is my nature - heated, tumultous. You define me as I define you. I'm formed from your memories and wishes, as much a mirror as those gleaming things on the walls.
I am only ever what you make me.
X - X - X - X - X
Other people might have sat there feeling for the link with the desperation of an amputee searching for a limb and finding only phantom pain. Blue accepted the loss, and the accompanying puzzle. She wasn't dead, he was sure of that (and ever so slightly disappointed), but something had severed their bond.
One quick call to Pursang's headquarters, just a few blocks up, told him where she had gone and who with.
Of all places, why there? That house was expressly forbidden: it had been for years. After reading what had happened to the last party the Furies had sent to barter with the creature, even he hadn't been tempted to break the agreement.
His mind flickered through a dozen possibilities, but all were far-fetched.
Then a far more likely reason reared its ugly head. Realising he might have made a rare mistake, Blue picked up the receiver and dialled another familiar number.
Aspen answered almost instantly, his voice breathy and polite. "The Slones."
"Of which you are not one," he said pointedly.
That civil veneer vanished, replaced by a more familiar Aspen. This one prone to speaking his mind, which was prismatic and sharper than his speech implied, if still a few cards shy of a deck. "Did I say I was? Why are you calling, anyway?"
"I wanted to ask you about Hades' pet."
He waited while the cogs turned. There was no point in hurrying Aspen: it either panicked him or sent him into a fury. Neither was desirable, and both exceedingly overdramatic. "What pet?"
"The one in a certain house not so far away. Accessible only through an enchanted wardrobe, which some imbecile – mentioning no names – shut us in – and an equally enchanted mirror, which you very nearly broke."
"That sounds familiar..."
Jogging Aspen's memory was an embarrassing task, one which involved cataloguing details most assassins would have considered supremely unimportant. "There was a kitten in the garden."
"The little brown one with the white socks?" Aspen's voice perked up. "Didn't it bite you and Therese? And it went to sleep on our car!" A rare note of reproof crept into his voice. "You called it mangy. It wasn't."
"Yes, spare me the reminiscing over the rabid fauna. Do you happen to recall the large house the revolting ball of fleas was in front of?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Do you remember the bit where we agreed to keep up the vigil on the place? One that involved things like making sure the spells around the creature hadn't eroded, thus carrying on a tradition of several hundred years-"
"The kitten?" The bemusement in Aspen's voice was genuine. Living with humans had made him soft.
"Hades' minion." Sometimes Blue wondered how on earth Aspen had managed to run Pursang. Common sense told him that a large number of others had helped because even Aspen's management style, which was roughly equivalent to playing leapfrog in a minefield, was preferable to his own. "We had a ten year rota, strictly on a need-to-know basis, which meant us and our top witch, generally. Who, I might add, you had to replace after you strangled Drake McPherson-"
"He said I was too impulsive," the vampire said sulkily.
"I expect he would have apologised if you'd taken your hands off his throat for long enough. But that's beside the point. Pursang's watch on the house began six years ago."
"Six years ago? But..." There was dead silence, then Aspen said meekly. "Oops."
Blue digested this not-entirely-surprising information. "Martin, did you bother to inform anyone else about the house?"
"Um. I kind of forgot."
"You forgot an agreement designed to keep us safe from the ravages of a millennia-old demon, but you remembered a kitten?"
"Well, it was about the first thing that's bitten you that you didn't bite back," Aspen said helpfully.
He had a blistering retort waiting – and then someone crashed into his head.
Malefici? It's important.
He knew the mind at once: the relentless blast of a sandstorm, agitated and just a little angry. Salvaje Chusson.
He hung up on Aspen without another word. Let me guess...you're somewhere you shouldn't be, and you've lost my incompetent idiot of a soulmate to a creature that you shouldn't know about.
Shock shivered the connection; Chusson's voice was jarring in its loudness. How do you know that?
That she's incompetent? Personal experience. As for the rest, there's a reason I run Nightfire.
Yeah, insatiable sociopathy. Blue sensed a nudge: that other mind, as thin and fragile as procelain, had to be Nerine de Villiers. Look...we need your help. She's been kidnapped by whatever you're keeping so damn quiet in this poxy hellhole.
If you're looking for someone to blame, I recommend you try Aspen. He appears to have forgotten to mention Pursang was supposed to be watching the house.
He what? Rage quivered in his voice. That moron! I bloody well knew there was a reason we bugged his office!
Blue, who had done exactly the same, and taken the time to sabotage various other listening devices over the past few years, was beginning to wonder how Aspen had managed to keep his position.
Some of Chusson's ire faded into sullen irritation. Great, just dandy. Well then, given that it's partly your fault for helping put that idiot in power, are you going to help?
Chusson was getting insolent. Something would have to be done about that.
I'll consider it, he said coolly, and terminated the conversation with a brutal slice that would leave both their heads ringing in agony.
So. His witch gone seeking desire, and now desire had her in its clutches. And he did not trust her to thwart it; that was not her way, to deny or to defend. No, she fought her greatest battles in a way so gentle and pervasive he himself had fallen to it. She accepted the pain and humiliation of defeat and made it her strength, as soft and implacable as the foam that crested across the ocean.
It had worked many times, on a multitude of enemies.
But not this time if what he remembered held any truth. This time, she fought herself as much as it - that was the creature's brilliance.
For others, she could dredge some grain of forgiveness. For herself? For all her mistakes?
He already knew the answer. Too many of them haunted her still.
Could he afford to let her die? Pursang would collapse into chaos, which he had nothing against, but there were other, more delicately poised considerations.
His own sanity, for one. The link was hidden now, but it was not severed.
No. He could not risk that. He was far too attached to his life to let it spin like a roulette ball, counting on chance and her skill to save him.
So if he could not let her die, then Blue supposed he had to help her live. The thought rankled.
X - X - X - X - X
Chatoya drifted from dreams like a dandelion seed floating on the wind. She became aware first of light, falling onto her with an intensity that she knew well: sunlight struggling through her thin curtains, creeping in muted and soft and pink. Any minute now, her mother would stride in and roust her from the cosy covers like a hunter flushing pheasant from woodland-
No. That was wrong. Something...something about her mother. Had she gone away? Chatoya wasn't sure – that too was swallowed up by the fog in her mind – but somehow, she knew that Beverly Irkil wouldn't be waking her up today.
And... and she wasn't a child anymore. She was nineteen, nearly twenty, and it had been years since she'd woken in that rosy light. Now, she woke with-
With-
With something different. The blockade in her mind was fast becoming frightening. Had she been in an accident?
Fear beginning to course through her veins, she opened her eyes, praying she wouldn't be greeted by sterile hospital colours and the grave faces of doctors.
There was a boy there.
She moved with a march hare's speed, scrambling back off the bed that she had evidently been asleep on. It was the kind she'd always wanted – a huge four-poster with gauzy curtains that had seemed a princess's luxury to her child self, and a courtesan's veils to an older, wiser witch.
"Sleeping Beauty awakes." He had a low, husky voice, and it sent an involuntary shiver along her spine. There was something raw about it, revealing surprise and joy. "I thought I was going to have to kiss you."
Stiff with hostility, she glared. "Be glad you didn't. There would have been trouble."
"Toya..." His eyes were wide and wounded. Something about the deep green of them, striking against his skin, which was as pale and blinding as snow, stirred her memory. "Have I done something wrong?"
She frowned. Everything about him seemed familiar; the wicked tilt of his eyes, that lush, half-smiling mouth, the black spiky hair that cried out for hands to muss it. He was beautiful, and at ease here, and he spoke her name with terrible tenderness.
"I don't know yet," she answered cautiously. "Who are you?"
"Yours," he said, and the intensity of that word was like heat dancing on her skin.
She tried not to show how much it affected her. "That's not an answer. I don't know you...I..."
I've never seen you before, she was about to say, but that felt wrong. If she'd reached out, she would have been able to trace the lines of his body, knowing how he fit against her. She knew the pressure of his mouth against hers, warm and tentative, knew each ridge of his spine as if her hands had explored them, knew with absolute certainty the weight of his body wedging her between sweat-slick skin and crumpled sheets.
It was an intimate realisation beneath his eyes, and it made her flush.
His laugh rippled up like smoke onto the air, almost a defilement of the calm atmosphere. "My witch, are you sure you don't know me? The look on your face says otherwise."
"I..." Confusion swamped her. Memories of him seemed to be filtering back – a dozen moments with this man, knee deep in a lake under an indigo sky, in the chilly air of a garden, his face dreadfully vulnerable, huddled behind buildings as he whispered comfort in her ear.
She did know him. Surely.
"It's not surprising," he said, his voice gentle. "With accidents like yours...I was afraid you wouldn't remember me at all."
She'd been right, then. That would explain the wooziness she felt and the odd spaces in her mind.
"What happened?" she asked.
"A spell went wrong. One of your friends distracted you-"
"Who?" All of her friends knew better – Lisa-
The name slipped away from her, eel-fast. For a moment, she thought she'd grasped a face – dark skin, soft eyes, white smile, but that too wriggled free, and she could neither picture nor name one of her friends. It frightened her; she felt unanchored, loose in a world where she could be anyone or anything.
No. She knew her name, and she knew her craft, and she knew him.
But it was precious little to pin her to this world.
"Lisa," he supplied quickly, and the face was in her possession again, though something seemed faintly wrong with it. "She's careless like that."
Chatoya frowned. "Is she?"
"You told her a thousand times," he said, shaking his head. "I guess she had to learn the lesson the hard way. But...you're alive. You're okay. They said you probably wouldn't remember anything." His smile was faint and bitter. "I was afraid you'd forget me, even though we're soulmates."
Liar, she thought with unexpected viciousness – but that too was soaked up by the mist around her mind, until she couldn't recall what had angered her so, until she was adrift once more, except for him, guiding her like the pole star, alone and bright and beautiful.
She blinked. "Are we?"
"Of course!" His voice was soft and amused, almost a purr. "But don't take my word for it. Find out for yourself."
He sat up with a fluid grace that surprised her. He moved as if he was boneless, and something about it was terribly seductive; it held the promise of other movements with less innocent motives. But when he held out his hands, those green eyes were rueful, a little saddened.
Her doubt had to hurt him. More memories piled in, bringing with them affection, and the first hints of shame. All those days she had spent with him, the mornings she awoke wrapped about him, yet still she questioned – he who had waited here for her to wake...
Yet...and yet. There was something-
Another nascent thought, smothered. She had to know, she had to end this uncertainty. The hurt in his eyes was a thorn, twisting beneath her ribs. So she settled back on the bed, the pair of them encased in a gauze chamber, and took his hands.
Lightning sparked between them, half pain and half delight, wringing a gasp from her. It was as if she had woken from a trance to find a world bursting with colour and texture. Her body seemed hypersensitive, attuned to every motion he made. He slid his palms the length of her arms, and it seemed a touch of unbearable eroticism, one that arched her back just to be close to him, and drew a flush up in her cheeks.
When he leaned close, his breath was a thousand tiny pinpricks on her lips.
"Believe me now?"
No! hissed a tiny voice, scything through her befuddlement. It had the sound of a woman older than herself, but that was impossible.
I've met the real thing, and all the overblown spells in the world won't convince me that you're anything but a dull imitation. He'd never be this nice, for one thing.
She was right, Chatoya realised. She knew her soulmate – he abandoned her each night and left her dawn and empty space in his place, he loathe her as much as he loved her. He was her winter, her enemy and her last chance. He had a name, and he was-
Dimly, she noticed the boy on the bed move his hands in some complex motion, but her thoughts were flickering fast as a strobe light, free of whatever malaise had burdened her...
-a vampire, one as cavalier with death as he was with love. She could almost picture his face; she had seen it so often in shadow and slumber. She knew him - that was it - Bl-
The boy's face was startled and furious, twisting to an ugly mask. He threw up his hands as if to strike her, and she felt the memory wrenched from her, nothing but fog left as she tried to snatch it back...
Her last thought was of the sky, though she couldn't have said why.
X - X - X - X - X
Beneath the vast, branching candelabra, a small desk was strewn with paper. Many of the leaves were crumbling and yellowed, some barely more than a loose collection of holes held together by occasional pieces of script. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, but even the lavish carpet couldn't hide the fact this was a cellar, if a cellar like no other. This inglorious room held the collective wisdom of Nightfire's many leaders.
The private archives were for his eyes only, and it was slow going, even with the extensive cross-referencing and cataloguing of his predecessor. Still, he had found what he was looking for.
'I have spent many years studying this creature, and still all I can offer are mere theories. As a scholar this infuriates me; as a Fury, I can only say that we must strive to understand if it is to be of any use. Below I present my flimsy conclusions, and include what evidence I have...'
He laboured through the tiny, neat handwriting, bloated with academic self-importance.
'...Legends of its creation – and its brethren - list only one name: Desire. Later texts offer variations, but all lead back to this core designation. The lack of any other identifier is telling: whatever character, or soul, this creature has, it is subsumed by the restrictions Hades imposed on it. You think, therefore it is, Hades might have told Descartes...'
On a notepad beside him, bullet points began to crowd the page, lining up like skirmishers.
'...if there is one aspect of Desire I am certain of, it is this: it cannot discern. To Hades' Desire, the fleeting wish of a despairing moment is no different from the dream that you have cherished for decades. It sees all, but can attach no relative importance to anything.
I leave it to the reader to decide if this was clumsiness on Hades' part, or deliberate neglect. Certainly it has engendered a casual cruelty in Desire that few of us could better. Mixing what we truly crave with we only wanted from spite or misery is a momentous form of torture, and I recommend elements of it are incorporated into our current methodology...'
That last paragraph made him pause. He had often felt his witch's despair, and once or twice, he had caught fragments of her thoughts. At the time, he had warmed himself on her melancholy as if it were the last rays of sunlight before all slid into shadow, but now...now her plaintive hurt seemed a greater danger than he could have guessed.
But he didn't hurry; meticulous, he read on, and the minutes wriggled by like salmon.
'...Desire has always found duality difficult to deal with. The Furies exploited this weakness to capture it: faced with a horde, it could not manipulate so many at once. But it is adaptable, and has long ceased to be fazed by such tactics. Violence has become its first – perhaps its only – resort to those who would confound it with numbers.
I can offer only one way to defeat Desire, and it is untested and based on anecdotal evidence. Desire works by exploiting our wishes; the less one wants, the fewer weapons it has. Of course, we all want something, but were the Furies to create a vassal – a person empty of memories except what a skilled telepath might plant there, whose few desires were benevolent - then they might deal with Desire and find it disarmed.
I emphasise that this situation is purely theoretical: even assuming one could locate a volunteer, few telepaths have the finesse necessary to alter a mind so, and should the creation of a vassal succeed, any truly benevolent person would be liable to give Desire whatever it wants.
And what Desire wants? Who knows that? How can we know, when it is merely an echo of ourselves, whoever we may be? All we can know for sure is that desire is dangerous.'
It was the beginning of a solution, and one which he might just be able to implement. Yet there were still pieces missing, too much he did not know about this creature. Exactly what it was still eluded him, and it was with reluctance that he shifted another heap of papers in front of him, these older and dog-eared.
But first...he had a vassal to convince.
X - X - X - X - X