Venom's Taste - Lisa Smedman [111]
The wemic mirrored Arvin’s lascivious smile. He wrapped muscular arms around Arvin, drawing him to his chest. Arvin felt claw tips poke with delicious pain into his back as the wemic lowered his head to kiss him. Surrounded by the wemic’s mane and musky scent, Arvin met the kiss with a hunger of his own-
Suddenly, Arvin was awake-and gasping for air. He didn’t know which was more disturbing, the image of Zelia twining herself about a creature that was half lion-or the thought of her making love to herself. A part of him, however, insisted on lingering on the memory. Zelia was a beautiful woman, after all…
Shaking his head, Arvin pushed the thought from his mind. Control, he told himself.
Rising from his bed, he crossed the rented room and splashed lukewarm water on his face from a ceramic bowl that stood on a low table. Sunlight streamed in through the shutters on the room’s only window; it was going to be another hot, humid day.
If he didn’t find Nicco, it might also be his last.
Suddenly furious, he hurled the bowl across the room. It hit the far wall and shattered, leaving a spray of water on the wall. He manifested his dagger into his glove and stared at it. Maybe he should just end it, he told himself. Death was one way to prevent Zelia from claiming him, from winning. One quick stab and it would all be over…
No. He was thinking like her again. It was doing him no good to rage. What he had to do was stay calm, try to find a way out of this mess. There was still time-though not much. He rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the anger aside. Then he disappeared the dagger back into his glove.
He sank into a cross-legged position on the floor and slowed his breathing then ran through the series of mental exercises Tanju had taught him. When he had finished, he assumed the bhujanga asana. It came even easier to him than it had before; his body seemed to adopt the pose of its own accord. As he held the asana, muscles straining, he cast his mind back over the events of the evening before.
After escaping from Karshis, he’d hurried back to the crematorium to search for Nicco and Naulg. He no longer had the key-Karshis must have taken it from him-but by fumbling at the blank stone wall, he’d found the door and its keyhole by feel and managed to pick the lock. He’d crept in, half expecting to find the Pox inside, but the room had been empty. So, too, was the platform where Nicco had fallen into magical slumber. Arvin had tossed a loop of rope onto the platform and pulled it back again and again, hoping that, by some miracle, Nicco might still be lying there, invisible. But the cleric was gone. Whether the cultists had found him or he had simply woken up and teleported away, Arvin had no idea.
Arvin had searched the room again-thoroughly-but the results were the same as before. The only way into the crematorium proper, it seemed, was through the platform. Without the key, Arvin was only going to wind up in magical slumber, as Nicco had. If Arvin was going to get in, he’d need Nicco’s help.
Slipping out of the building again, Arvin had once more turned, reluctantly, to his Guild contacts. He put out the word that he was looking for a man of Nicco’s description-or a man matching Gonthril’s description, or even Chorl’s. Someone, somewhere, had to have seen one of them. But without coin to pry open their lips, the Guild members weren’t saying anything. “No,” was the usual reply, “haven’t seen anyone like that.”
At last, exhausted, Arvin had rented a room above a tavern near the waterfront. The bed still stank of the tarred hair of the sailor who’d occupied it last, and the room was stiflingly hot, despite the window. Arvin had lain awake long into Darkmorning, listening to the sounds of laughter and ribald singing from the tavern below. He’d tossed and turned, hissing with frustration at having come so close to salvation-only to lose Nicco. If only he knew where the rebels had holed up after abandoning the chambers under the garden…
Ending the