Venators: Promises Forged. Devri Walls
were she who could spew fire, but it wasn’t the boy, it was that worthless wench he’d been protecting. Still, death was death, and Zio’s heart hammered against her chest with euphoria as Maegon attacked. Fire rolled out as if from her own mouth, obscuring her vision momentarily and further raising the anticipation. When the blaze cleared, the pathetic human woman was a burning torch, dripping rivulets of fire.
Zio smiled, and her eyes rolled back for a brief moment. She let out a deep sigh of bliss before whispering, “Yes. And now”—she pulled the amulet closer, caressing the sides as she descended into a familiar ecstasy—“the Venator.”
The water just below them bubbled. Maegon lowered his head, and the young Venator rose. He was lying prone as something—or someone—lifted him.
Everything happened so fast. The Venator’s arrow was already nocked on the bow and aimed. The arrow flew. She jerked backward as Maegon did, an unstoppable reaction, but they were too slow. The arrow buried itself in Maegon’s left eye. The picture in the amulet went black as half the dragon’s vision was stolen and the other eye closed in agony.
The pendant tumbled from her fingers. It caught on the chain and slapped against her rib cage. She stumbled forward, hitching up against the black iron railing. Her fingers curled around the top as she leaned over and screamed into the calm night air that mocked the foolish surety of her victory.
This should not have been possible. Two untrained Venators escaping Maegon, even with help? But she’d watched it happen. And now the Venators would return to the council, where they would grow in strength while one of her greatest assets was desperately wounded. Her hands trembled against the cold iron, and breath squeezed out of her raw throat in a shaky hiss.
And then Zio did what she did best. She adapted.
By force of will, she calmed her breathing and brought her anger to heel. Her heart slowed, the beats halving in time and then halving again. Zio levered herself up to standing, mindfully releasing the rail and steadying her hands against the smooth silk of her gown.
She was master of her body.
The experiences of this life had taught her many things—control, truth, pain, power. But through the many metamorphoses of Zio, one truth had reigned—there was always, always, another way.
With her mind now calm, a plan began to form, slipping in and out as it morphed and changed, reacting to future problems she already anticipated. This plan was far more subtle than an attack by dragon and would require a certain amount of manipulation. It would demand patience and time, and more of both than she wanted to give. But one did not negotiate payment with destiny. The cost was the cost, and it would be paid without complaint.
This plan would be an investment in another Venator—one currently sitting in her dungeons.
Ryker roused slowly, driven to wakefulness by an incessant pounding. Reluctantly, he peeled open his eyes. That motion alone was immensely uncomfortable—heavy lids felt like sandpaper, forcefully scraping away the sleep and booze.
He’d drunk a lot last night, but he’d never woken with a hangover quite like this.
The room slowly came into focus. The light was dim, and it took a while to make out his surroundings. He was in an empty room, a stone box. The walls and floor were made of individual blocks about twelve inches wide and six inches tall. They’d been mortared together with something that looked like tar, smooth and shiny. A foul smell—body odor, sweat, and barnyard, overwhelming in its potency—rammed up his nostrils. Barely turning to the side in time, he vomited, muscles contracting so hard that his spine contorted into a severe arch.
When it was finally over, Ryker hung limp. Spit and leftover bile drooled freely from his lips, drizzling into a vile puddle on the floor. It was then, because of the odd twist of his shoulders, that he finally realized his arms and legs were tied to the chair.
“What the hell?” Sitting up, Ryker wiped his mouth the best he could on the collar of his shirt and jerked against the bonds. “Chad? Luke?”
A torch was the only light in the room, flickering by the wide iron door. It was damn authentic for a prank.
“This isn’t funny, guys!”
No response, only a dull thud as his words were swallowed by the room. He listened for something, anything, straining against the silence. But all he heard was a barely audible dripping. He squinted, making out lines on the stone walls where thin streams of water ran, so slight they made no sound except the occasional ping resonating from the furthermost corner where one splashed onto the floor.
He pulled and wiggled, trying to free his wrists, but made no progress. What happened last night? He couldn’t remember anything. “All right, guys. I’m impressed,” he called to the door. “Did Rune put you up to this?”
He loved his sister, but the nagging about his drinking was getting old. She’d lectured him so many times on all the things that could happen if he passed out and she wasn’t there to save the day. He could repeat her speech verbatim. Leave it to Rune to try some stupid scare tactic.
Ryker twisted his neck, trying to get a look at the knot they’d used. Then he froze.
His arms were covered in tattoos, glowing red in the center. But around the edges, several other colors blinked on and off. The lines were bold, sweeping arcs paired with ninety-degree angles that knotted around each other, almost Celtic—but not quite. They were unique.
His previous conclusions suddenly became less plausible as his sluggish mind tried to determine how someone could prank this. These weren’t stickers or rub ons. The colored light seemed to be coming from a deeper layer of skin, flickering like the glow of a jellyfish—from the inside out.
With a click, the iron door swung open. He whirled, looking at the middle of the doorframe. Movement pulled his gaze lower until he saw a short, squatty creature.
“No,” he whispered. A wave of vertigo made the room spin, and bile once again burned up his throat.
The thing grinned. Its tiny black eyes grew even smaller as wrinkles of grayish skin pushed in around the edges. Its lips stretched around the tusks, growing so taut that the lip line faded into skin, leaving no definition where one started and the other began.
Instantly he was a little kid again, backing through bushes in the front yard, searching for protection. All the memories washed over him. The smells—dozens of irises had bloomed along the walkway, and he’d hated that scent ever since. The feelings—confusion, fear, and the pounding of his heart—all as raw as the day they were bred.
“Welcome, Venator.”
It wouldn’t have mattered what words the monster had uttered. The sight of it unleashed all the anger he’d bottled up for years. It burst from his mouth in a roar. He lunged against the bonds, wanting to wrap his hands around its thick neck.
The creature just grinned as two more of the monstrosities walked into the room, laughing with throaty croaks and grunts.
“Shut up!” Ryker snarled, struggling. “I’ll kill you, all of you!”
“This Venator’s tough,” one mocked. “Too bad you’s tied up.”
The laughter burned through his ears, and he struggled harder for freedom. The ropes were tight, and the sticky wetness of blood flowed down the back of his hand from the effort.
There was a sharp click in Ryker’s head, like a part of his mind had suddenly unlocked, and his thoughts raced. Multiple plans of how to fulfill his threat flowed through his head simultaneously . . . but only one was any good.
He started rocking, walking the chair back toward the wall. The smiles of his captors faded. He saw their uncertainty, and it felt good—like staring at ants through a magnifying glass. They had no idea what was coming.
He grinned. “What’s the matter? You