and his healers called it a miracle that he had survived. She could almost hear his voice as he raised his armored fist in the air and railed against his enemies, promising that they would experience the dark miracle of his vengeance. And now she, too, would seek out that dark miracle. Myrmeen cried out in rage, the shout of a warrior thirsting for revenge. When she had regained control of herself, she placed her hand on the wall for support. Her husband had proposed to her in this gazebo. They'd kissed for the first time in its cool shade.... The sight of what had been done made Myrmeen want to draw blood of her own. Quelling those dark thoughts as best she could, she walked from the gazebo until she came upon a collection of her men, then commanded three of them to strip off their breastplates and give her their padded doublets. They did not hesitate to obey. On the way back to the gazebo, Myrmeen tore the shirts into strips and paused at a small fountain where she soaked the rags she had made. She returned to the small building and stared at the crimson spatters. Stralana had been over this place; his hesitation earlier told her that much. And since he did not say otherwise, it was safe to assume they gained no clues from it. Myrmeen began to wipe away the blood staining the white walls. Soon she was covered in sweat and her clothes were ruined. She made several trips to the fountain, but all the water in the Inner Sea wouldn't restore the gazebo to its former pristine condition. And even if she could wash away the blood, the place wouldn't be the same, for she could never wipe away the memory. “I miss you, Haverstrom,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the walls. “But know wherever you are that I will avenge this.” She turned and silently stalked out of the gardens. * * * * * An hour later, Myrmeen stood in her throne room, flanked by guards. Evon Stralana and several of his soldiers observed the scene stoically from the back of the room. Two men, a woman, and a collection of almost a dozen cats, both domestic and wild, milled before the throne. The delegation had identified itself as representing a race that rarely revealed itself to mortals-the cat lords. Myrmeen stiffened, worried that her fear of the jaguar they had brought might become apparent to the animal. She was surrounded by guards and magical wards, but she was quite familiar with the speed and ferocity of such animals.
The female cat lord smiled, apparently sensing Myrmeen's discomfort. She wriggled her gloved fingers, and the jaguar lay at her feet. Myrmeen watched the creature nervously, thinking of Penn Othmann's shredded corpse. “My name is Siobhan,” the woman said. “With me is Niccolo and Sauveur.” Myrmeen nodded as she looked at each of the cat lords. Siobhan's age was impossible to discern. She seemed quite young, but there was a stiffness to her movements quite unusual for one of her race. Perhaps it was the high leather boots she wore; they looked rather uncomfortable. Still, no one could deny Siobhan's beauty. Her black hair cascaded to her waist, almost lost against her dark but elegant clothing. The woman's piercing, gray-blue eyes fastened on Myrmeen as she pulled her lips into an enigmatic smile. As she bowed her head in greeting, the heart-shaped amulet around her neck bobbed. One side of the riven heart was blood red, the other black. Behind the lovely Siobhan, Niccolo ran his hand through his thick auburn mane and Sauveur rolled his head, allowing his silver hair to graze his shoulders. Both men were strikingly handsome. After exchanging pleasantries, Myrmeen asked Siobhan to proceed with her request. “I cannot,” Siobhan replied. “Our lord dominante is not among us. He must have been detained.” The doors burst open, and a devastatingly handsome green-eyed man entered. His features were sharply defined, his cheeks, nose, and jaw strongly chiseled. The man's lips were sensuous and inviting, his eyes the deepest emerald Myrmeen had ever seen. He was dressed in black with gold and light blue trim. His shirt was bright red. Myrmeen