Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [6]
Walker whispered an apology over the body-the guard had not been his target. He knelt and recovered his knife with a quick jerk. Blood splashed on his cloak but did not discolor the black.
Black absorbs blood, Walker mused wryly. Black covers all things and hides all hurts.
Drex's bedchamber stood within half a dozen paces. Though he had no foreknowledge of the house, he could recognize the grunting and yelping sounds coming from behind the door easily enough. With a dismissive shake of his head, he turned the handle, silently opened the door, and slipped into the warm room.
Drex was in bed, and he was not alone. Walker averted his eyes and drifted silently over to an axe on the mantelpiece.
Rain pounded on the wooden roof overhead and on the shutters. A fire was sputtering and dying on the hearth, and he could feel the enticing heat as he neared it. Walker had known so little warmth that he found it succulent, fulfilling, and altogether intoxicating. He could have forgotten his purpose and just sat, watching the fading flames spark and flicker. They called to him…
But the voices he heard were those of spirits rather than flames, hissing whispers of unwanted memories of pain and hatred. The fragments of words cut like knives.
He stood, tall and slim, and pulled his cloak around him. Lightning flashed and thunder growled outside. He waited, motionless and prepared. It fell to his enemy to make the first move. Drex would notice his presence when he was no longer distracted.
Soon enough, Drex's eye happened to wander the room and alight on Walker. Or, rather, his looming shadow on the wall.
"Who's there?" Drex stuttered, shoving the lass away.
Walker didn't answer. He merely stood, blending in with the surrounding dark, but Drex met his terrible gaze and the rest of the world seemed to slide away.
Drex sat bolt upright in bed, startling his courtesan. "Who in the Nine Hells are you?" he roared, now angry. The older man was from the south, by his accent. Walker remembered that.
And more.
A memory washed over him: Pain, blood. Drex's laughter. Swords… death…
"I am tears on the mountain," Walker said. His voice was a rasp, a deep, throaty whisper. "I am the chill in the night. I hunt with the spirits, and I walk with the dead… as will you." He put his hand on his sword hilt. "Soon."
Drex shivered at the intensity of that glare, but he sprang from bed all the same. He yanked the blanket with him, revealing the cowering woman, who screamed and curled into a ball. He wound it around himself to cover his nakedness.
In truth, Walker did not care. He kept his arms crossed and his gaze level.
"Pretty speech," Drex chuckled. His hair was gray now. Different. "One of Greyt's 'prentices, eh?"
Walker felt a flicker of irony, but the feeling passed. His neutral frown was hidden behind the twin flaps of his high collar. Lightning flashed again. Drex was approaching fifty now, almost double Walker's age. They stalked around each other.
"Sounds like something out of the Singer's songs, lad," Drex said. "So what, you barge into my room in the night to tell me a children's rhyme? You think I'm in the mood?" He laughed and gestured to the terrified woman.
"Apparently not," Walker replied in a monotone. He remembered the axe, the blood running down his chest and arms, the murderers standing over him…
"Then speak, boy." Drex's voice became irate. "Speak quickly. As you can see, I'm occupied at the moment." The woman had rolled off the bed and was hiding beside it. "What is it you want?" he demanded.
"Your life," Walker replied.
Drex froze, staring at the ghostwalker in outright shock. His expression turned to one of anger, then disdain, then contempt.
"I have no time for the games of Dharan Greyt or that