Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [45]
Once the molting was over, the demon dream promised itself the first heart and mind it would feast upon would be that one’s. Nothing tasted so sweet as betrayal.
Murmur returned its attention to the scene beneath the balcony. Dozens of people had gathered to watch the final embers gutter out.
Murmur wondered which nightmare among those it had solidified had gotten loose. Probably the one Murmur had given the name “Screamripper.” Of all those Murmur had so far fashioned, Screamripper had proved least amenable to being held in thrall, despite being born and fleshed with Murmur’s power, and despite having taken the pledge to the Elder Elemental Eye. Of them all, Screamripper seemed to sense the pledge that Murmur administered to each new member of the cadre was a sham.
Such was the power of its strongest children—they knew something of Murmur’s secret mind. And Screamripper suspected that Murmur’s devotion to the Elder Elemental Eye was merely expedient.
As with so many other things, that wouldn’t matter once the molting was complete. Screamripper would come to heel. And then they could concentrate fully on Murmur’s real purpose. The collection of Scour’s scattered pieces was almost—
Its attention jerked back to the scene out on the street. Three people lingered on the edge of the crowd. One was …
One was familiar. A man with white hair. Had Murmur marked the man as a servitor, or drawn a nightmare from him?
No.
Murmur’s flesh costume involuntarily sucked in a breath through its teeth. Murmur knew that man.
It was Demascus.
A cold wind seemed to blow across all Murmur’s plans and dreams, threatening to knock them down like a house of cards.
The demon dream recalled the last time it had seen that white hair and those ashy tattoos. In a place between worlds, where Demascus and his allies had brought all the dreams of Murmur and its siblings to nothing.
Demascus could only be present, here and now, if he intended to finish what he’d started so long ago.
But it didn’t make any sense; how had the man come to be here? The demon dream’s last interaction with the man had occurred so far away that miles couldn’t be used as a measure.
Murmur heaved its puppet flesh away from the balcony’s edge. Disconcerting sensations screamed through the body of its host, and in turn, through Murmur. It felt sick, as if a creature of cold sea water and hate burrowed at its intestines. Should it flee this body altogether, and find some new dream to infect? Or just physically run, and hope the molting occurred before Demascus caught up with it? Or …?
Murmur forced itself to pause in the shadow of the door.
No.
It had invested too much energy here to abandon its effort without at least learning how Demascus had tracked it down. If it ran without discovering more, Demascus would probably just find it again. Murmur braced itself, and glanced back.
The three figures remained on the street. Demascus hadn’t glanced up at the balcony. The man didn’t seem especially wary. His weapons were not even in evidence.
Was the man playing with the demon dream? Or did he really not know what looked down upon him?
Demascus was talking to companions. What was he saying? Murmur’s hearing was keen; the demon knew how to extend the senses of its flesh shell to the bleeding edge. Literally.
But the noise from all the onlookers drowned out the conversation of its ancient foe.
The question remained: If Demascus had traveled to the world called Toril, and had ventured specifically to Airspur, why hadn’t he already confronted Murmur? The demon dream was so much weaker than the last time they’d met. It had failed to regain contact with any of its siblings save Scour, it had enrobed in flesh only a handful of nightmares, and it hadn’t even gone through its first molting yet …
Maybe Demascus hadn’t yet figured out whose dream the demon possessed?
During the day, the flesh shell Murmur wore went about life normally, having no idea what slumbered inside.