Page 75 of Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles 1)

While battling the selka or the dust people, even facing the Lifedrinker himself, he had been sure he would die. But afterward, the colors of those memories shone bright and vibrant—and they were stories that he could tell until he was a gray-bearded old man, preferably with a wife, many children, and many more grandchildren. In fact, he already wished he could relive some of those adventures.

And love! Here at Cliffwall he had discovered the joys of three beautiful women who adored him and schooled him in the ways of physical pleasure. Though at first Bannon had been embarrassed and awkward, he was an eager student, and now his nights were filled with warm skin and sensuous caresses, whispered laughter and shining eyes. How could he choose a favorite among them? Fortunately, Audrey, Laurel, and Sage were happy to share.

For so many years, he had been trapped in a nightmare, and now he lived a dream that he could never have imagined.

After the late celebrations, Bannon wandered through the Cliffwall complex, searching for the three young women. They had rewarded him most enthusiastically after his triumphant return, but now Victoria had gathered all of her memmers, giving them some very important task that took all of their attention and energy. The lovely young women had expressed their sadness that they couldn’t tend to Bannon, claiming other urgent priorities. He hadn’t seen them in two days.

Missing Audrey, Laurel, and Sage, Bannon searched the library rooms, the dining hall, and the acolytes’ quarters, casually looking for them. He found one of the other memmers, a middle-aged man named Franklin with large, owlish eyes and a square chin. “Victoria took them outside, somewhere in the Scar,” Franklin explained. “I think she found the answer they were looking for, something to help the valley return to life.”

Bannon gave a solemn nod, not wanting to seem desperate. “It must be important work, then. I’ll leave them to it.” He went off to his own quarters, hoping they would come back soon.

* * *

Thistle was still content to sleep curled on the sheepskin on the floor in Nicci’s chamber. “I was worried about you out there,” she said. “I didn’t want to lose you. I already lost everyone else.”

Nicci’s brow furrowed. “I promised I’d come back. You should have believed me.” While the seamstresses repaired her black travel dress, yet again, she had changed into a comfortable linen gown.

“I did believe you,” the girl said, her eyes bright. “I knew you would kill the Lifedrinker. And now I’m ready to go see the rest of the world with you. Will we leave soon?”

Nicci considered the long journey ahead, the unknown lands and the many possible hazards. “You have been through a lot already, and our journey will be full of hardships. Are you sure you want to go?”

On the sheepskin, Thistle sat up in alarm, drawing her scuffed knees to her chest. “Yes! I can hunt, I can help you find the trail, and you know I can fight.”

“Someday, people will rebuild Verdun Springs,” Nicci said. “Don’t you want to go back there? It’s your home.”

“It’s not my home. I lost my home a long time ago. I won’t live long enough to see the valley green and lush again, so I want to see what other places are like. You’re my new home now.” She scratched her mop of hair. “When you leave, I’m going with you again.”

Amused by her determination, Nicci readied herself for bed and lay back on her own blanket. “Then I don’t think I could stop you.” She pulled the blanket over herself, released a hint of magic to snuff out the lamp, and went to sleep.

CHAPTER 57

After the draining, skeletal touch of the Lifedrinker, Nicci slept deeply, plunging into odd dreams.

Though asleep, she ranged far … and she wasn’t herself. Her mind and her life rode in another body, traveling along on powerful, padded paws. Her muscles thrummed like braided wires as she raced through the night, her long tail lashing behind her, pointed ears cocked and alert for the faintest sounds of prey. The slitted pupils of her gold-green eyes drank in the starlight.

She was Mrra. They were bonded on a deep inner level. Panther sisters. Their blood had intermingled. Nicci had not sought this strange contact in her dreams, but neither did she fear it. She prowled the night, part sorceress, part sand panther. And more.

Lying on the hard pallet inside her chambers, Nicci stirred, twitched, then dropped into a deeper sleep.

Mrra was out hunting, and Nicci hunted with her. They roamed together, and joy sang through her powerful feline body. They raced along for the sheer pleasure of it, not because they were in a hurry. Although hunger gnawed at her belly, she was not starving and she knew she would find food. She always did. With her panther senses, Mrra could catch any scent of prey on the wind, hear the movement of a rodent, see any flicker in the deepest shadows.

And she was free! No longer a prisoner of the handlers. She was wild, as a sand panther was meant to be.

Mrra flowed through the night, exploring the edge of the Scar, which no longer smelled of the festering blight, sour and bitter magic, such as what she had experienced in the great city. This night, the Scar was quiet and Mrra sensed death and silence, but there would also be prey as creatures ventured back into the crumbling wasteland.

Mrra clung to her connection with Nicci. Throughout her life, the sand panther had been spell-bonded with her two sisters, cubs from the same litter, bound inexorably together by the wizard commander, and then turned over to the handlers for training.

Now Mrra’s sister panthers were dead, slain in combat—as they were meant to die. Nicci and her companions had killed them, the girl and the young male warrior, but Mrra held no hatred for what the others had done. In the troka, the spell-bonded panthers were meant to fight, just as they were meant to eat, breathe, and mate.

The big cat could not think far ahead, did not plan or envision things that might be. Nicci was her bonded partner now. A longing growl rumbled through her chest, and she hoped that she and Nicci could fight together again, side by side. They could tear apart many enemies, just as they had fought the giant lizards or against the Lifedrinker.

Mrra bounded onto a slickrock outcropping, where she sat on her haunches under the moonlight, staring across the landscape. Narrowing her golden eyes, twitching her tail, she sniffed the air. Her whiskers vibrated. The hunt was just like a battle, and every day was a battle. Her troka had escaped from the great city after killing their handlers, and then the three sister panthers raced into the expansive wilderness and the life they were meant to have.

All three of them had been free, for a time.

As Nicci stirred in her sleep, the dreams became more vivid, the memories more precise.…

Violent experiences, razor-sharp recollections of razor-sharp pain. She had been young, and her li

fe was full of mirth and joy as she played with her sister cubs. Then the wizard commander had seized them, forcibly holding the young cubs down while he brought out white-hot irons tipped with spell symbols. Mrra had thrashed, and raked the handlers with her claws, but the leering wizard commander had thrust the searing brand against her hide, burning the symbols into her skin, sizzling the tawny fur. The smoke of burned flesh and hair rose up in a thick cloud, stirred by her feline shriek.

The agony had been unforgettable, and Mrra’s pain resonated with the pain of her sister panthers bonded to her, as the spells braided the three into a troka so that they shared their minds, their thoughts, and their blood.

That was just the beginning. Once the three panthers were linked by the first blazing symbol, the wizard commander branded more spells into their flesh. And because the three panthers were connected, each one experienced the hideous pain again and again, until their minds were as marred as their beautiful bodies.

After the cats recovered, the handlers began to train them, using hard and painful lessons that involved blood, prey, fear—and more blood. As she and her sister panthers grew stronger, though, Mrra learned to enjoy the tasks. She became faster, deadlier. Her troka became the best killers the great city had ever seen.

Mrra’s existence became the hunt and the kill. She learned to attack and slay humans inside a gladiatorial coliseum. Some of the prey were terrified and helpless: they ran, but to no avail. Others fell to their knees, weeping and shuddering as the panther claws tore them apart. Some victims were fearsome human warriors, and those provided the best sport, the most challenging battles. Other prey wielded magic, but the symbols branded onto Mrra and her sister panthers deflected the magical attacks.

She remembered the roar of the crowd, the cheers, the howls of bloodlust. With blood-spattered fur, Mrra would lift her head up to the bright sun, and glare at the stands teeming with spectators. She flashed her long, curved fangs and let out her own victorious roar. She remembered the heat of the sun and sand, the taste of the hot blood as it gushed out of a torn throat. Mrra remembered killing victims. Killing warriors. Just killing.

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