Time plodded. The night grew long. For hours, Bron did not hear so much as a moan from Sommer, and he realized that their captors had knocked her out good. The room was so sweltering hot, it felt to Bron as if he were in a sauna. The guard swore, wiped his chin, and called out "Potrebuju sa napit'!"
A moment later, the door swung open a few inches. Bron felt a mocking hint of cooler air. A second Draghoul brought a can of beer and tossed it to Bron's guard.
The guard wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, pulled the tab from the beer, and gave a mocking wink as he downed it.
The guard said in a thick accent, "It is pity you cannot have drink."
He tossed the can to the floor, where it rolled about and settled with a hollow sound.
"You wonder what we do with you, no?" He dismissed Bron's worries with a shrug. "You are special. You have special talent. Our lord needs it. He has grown tired of living. Five thousand years is long time, no? So he needs you to give him the fire in the belly, the will to live.
"This means you are safe. Me, I would love to rip the memories from your head right now, hollow you out like a pumpkin. But we are told, 'no!' The Shadow Lord wants to sort through them first." He shrugged, as if he didn't care whether his master hollowed Bron out or not. "He wants to learn about your friends, find out where they live....
"But for you, is no worry. The master will keep you alive, maybe forever. Who knows? You will get to eat. He will give you long, long life. He will make you breed—every musth, a new woman." He smiled, as if Bron was going to be leading the good life, but then mentioned the downside. "Of course, you will not remember your own name. We will have to hollow you out every few days, just to make sure that you don't get any ideas. You will have lovers, but you will drool upon them as you grope them, and they will hate you for it."
The guard leaned back, rolled his neck so that it popped. "Your mother now, and the woman you came with, they will not be so lucky as you."
Bron's heart hammered.
"I think," the guard said, "they will be given to us as toys. This will be their punishment."
Bron had no idea what he meant by "toys." The worry must have shown in Bron's eyes, for the guard elaborated.
"Ah, you have never had toy?" he smiled. "A toy is person you keep, to do whatever you want. Maybe, for example, I hollow her out, and teach her only simple things, the ways to please me. Or maybe I take all her memories and teach her a thousand ways to kill—and then we put both women together in the arena. Or maybe I lead her around with rope on her neck, like goat, and if any of my friends want to have fun with her... I let them."
A smile stretched across his lips, and for a moment the guard seemed lost in some macabre vision, as if words failed to express how much he would enjoy making Olivia his toy.
Bron struggled to break free.
Yet Bron noticed something. His guard looked haggard, worn, as if he'd spent many long hours on duty and could hardly move from weariness.
But Bron felt strong, ready to pounce. If anything, he felt more energized than ever. It was as if all of his weariness and thirst were draining away.
No, that's not right, he realized. I'm thirsty, but I won't give in to thirst. I won't let it beat me. I'm stronger than that.
His guard called out to the other room, almost begging. The woman called back. "Da!" Then she began calling frantically on her phone.
She came into the room again. The guard complained, wiped sweat from his brow. She cast furtive glances at Bron and made exaggerated gestures.
In that instant, he realized that behind his back, his sizraels had extended. Olivia had told him that he had killed before, used his powers to draw all of the hope from his foster father. He'd done it by instinct.
Now, he was draining his attackers, and they had done nothing to stop him. Why?
Can't they make me forget how to use my powers, the way that Blair did?
They know I'm a dream assassin. Don't they know that I'm a leech, too? Or is that some big surprise to them?
There could only be one answer. They were under orders not to harm him. The woman was trying to get someone on the phone, explain their problem, and she was being stifled. Perhaps it was poor reception. Perhaps her commanding officer wasn't in.
I'm so valuable to them, Bron realized, that they don't dare touch me.
Their commander snarled something at the guard, then left the room.
Bron wanted nothing less than to kill his captors.
So he closed his eyes, opened his mind, and imagined that his will was like a hand, a huge greedy hand that stretched out with invisible fingers, and drew the will from his enemies.
Bron waited in the sweltering heat, measuring the minutes by the droplets of sweat that stole down his face. His mind tired, and he rested silently, eyes closed, then after a few minutes tried again, and again, until at last he heard a little mewling cry.
He opened his eyes.
His guard sat in his appointed place, trembling, rocking back and forth. The confidence had deserted his eyes, and now he had a pleading look, almost as if he would beg to leave.
Bron noticed that he wasn't sitting cross-legged anymore. He'd pulled his knees up in a fetal position, and had one arm draped around them, while the barrel of the gun now pointed at the ground.
He's like a fly, Bron thought, fighting the effects of bug poison. He's lying on his back, buzzing his wings, scooting around the floor in circles. He doesn't even know that he's dead yet.
Bron felt refreshed, relaxed, confident.
Almost, he would have described his state as serene, but there was too much of a thrill to it. His blood was racing.
Cocky, that's how I feel, he realized. They can't touch me. They wouldn't dare kill me. I'm the heir to their lord. I'm the devil's child.
He laughed inside.
He breathed evenly, in and out, in and out.
Maybe if they act now, they might rid the world of me. But already their own will to live is nearly gone....
He heard a thunk. The guard had dropped his weapon. The man lay trembling, and began to moan.
From the other room, he heard the woman cry out, a little mewling snivel. He heard something scraping on the floor, a body crawling toward him, and then there was a curse, and the woman staggered to her feet and hobbled into the room.
She stood in the doorway, and grasped onto the doorpost. Her face looked like death warmed over, as pale as a corpse, a pitiful frown.
She pulled a pistol from her holster, raised it slowly, and pointed it at Bron. She said, "Damned dream assassin!"
For a long moment she seemed to consider pulling the trigger. Bron planned to kill her. She knew it, and she could not stop him—but she could take him with her.
Bron suspected it was against her orders.
She staggered across the room, placing each foot carefully, and pulled the tape from his mouth.
"Give it back, damn you," she said in perfect English, "or I'll put a bullet through your head!"
He could feel the will seeping off her, like cold sheets of air from an iceberg. The air suddenly crackled between them, and purple sparkles erupted. A thrill coursed down his spine like an arctic wind.
"You're so pretty, I don't want to kill you," Bron said. "Serve me, and I'll let you live."
She shook her head a little, as if horrified by a thought. "Just like your father."
Bron could not stop draining her. She was too close now. He could feel her body heat, warm and comforting. Sweat rolled down her neck, between her breasts.