Dominic (2 page)

Slamming the side of his fisted, gloved hand against a limestone column, he felt the familiar bolt of lightning zap up his arm, a cruel reminder of his

duty. Free wil was a luxury he had not enjoyed since the age of ten. The three males behind him ruled his sect, and he would obey their directive.

“How am I to get through the gate?” he gritted after a moment.

“Ingratiate yourself with her husband. Cajole him into offering you safe passage. He’s one of the Earth World Satyr, but he serves here in our

regiments.”

Dominic’s brows rammed together, and he whipped around toward the female in the mirror.

“She’s wed? To one of our fighters?” he demanded. “And you would have me usurp his rights with her?”

Another page flipped under the touch of a feminine hand, reclaiming everyone’s attention. Gold flashed on the woman’s finger. She wore a

wedding band.

“She’s not of our blood,” he was hastily assured, as if that would render the unsavory task he’d been assigned perfectly palatable. “Her sister is

King Feydon’s offspring. One of the infamous half-Human, half-Faerie brides wed to the three Earth-World Satyr lords. But this one—” he tapped the

mirror with a gnarled finger, causing the woman’s image to undulate for a few seconds, “this one doesn’t share the deceased king’s blood.”

“How strong is the blood of her husband?”

“Him? He’s hardly fit to cal himself Satyr,” the Facilitator scoffed. “He boasts that he’s a quarter blood, but We believe him to be less. And he

doesn’t ‘fight,’ as you assume. No, he serves himself up to the other soldiers in a base manner, as one of the
cinaedi
. You’l find him in the regiment

camped closest to the gate. He chose to be stationed there so that he might easily return to his world regularly at Moonful.”

“To fuck his wife,” Dominic conjectured. “As you would have me fuck her. Why?”

The Acolytes whispered again, gently rebuking his plain speaking. The Facilitator overlooked it, preferring as always to gloss over the more

sordid details of the sequential duties that made up Dominic’s existence.

“She’s newly plowed. Her husband lay with her last evening,” the elderly man remarked significantly.

At that, Dominic returned to stand before the woman, his eyes dropping to her waist. He opened himself to her for the briefest of intervals, learning

what he could.

Her bel y was not yet rounded, but even with a world of distance between them, his instincts quickly informed him that she did house another man’s

seed within her womb—seed planted there only last night.

On the heels of that realization, another struck him with the impact of a giant fist. He staggered back from the mirror, his accusing gaze flying to his

companion.

“Yes,” the Facilitator affirmed, refusing to meet his eyes. “She’s with child.”

A heartbeat of silence passed. Then another and another.

“Not just any child, though, is it?” Dominic inquired with soft menace.

His right hand vibrated as if the evil that dwel ed in its palm had been agitated by his suspicions. He raised the hand between himself and the

other man and careful y flexed it within its silver-threaded glove.

The Facilitator shifted uncomfortably. Darting a glance at the glove, he subtly distanced himself from it.

The Acolytes began to hum. Nervously they cupped their long-fingered hands together, catching the rays of the moon overhead in their palms—an

act believed to ward off demons.

Dominic’s lip curled, cruel y voluptuous. His lashes lowered to shadow the slits of his eyes. And for just a moment he savored the latent power that

made others—even these influential beings—fear him.

“As you…” The Facilitator cleared his throat in a rare display of uneasiness. “As you’ve no doubt guessed, the child wil be a Chosen One. Your

successor.”

A chil crawled up Dominic’s spine. He stared at the Facilitator, thunderstruck.

“This can come as no surprise,” the Facilitator rambled on. “You were aware your replacement would be selected one day.”

Yes, he’d known. But he’d been too engrossed in the never-ending hunting and kil ing that comprised his nightly routine to dwel on the matter. This

news had taken him completely off guard. Did it imply that his death was imminent?

“Now, then, you have four weeks,” the Facilitator informed him crisply. “With the coming of another Moonful, it wil be imperative that you mate her

in order to endow her child’s powers. Four weeks. Is it time enough to find her husband and secure an invitation to his world?”

Dominic nodded slowly, his fascinated gaze returning to the mirror where it resettled on the woman. On the delicate blush of her cheek. On the

inviting slope of her shoulder.

On her flat bel y.

Like his own mother, she would have no inkling she was to bear a Chosen One. Wouldn’t be informed of her child’s destiny until Dominic’s

eventual death.

His own predecessor had been unknown to him, for the demonhand—quite literal y a hand that held demons—didn’t pass to a successor through

bloodlines. It selected its hosts seemingly at random, one after another. Only once in a generation was a single child given the power—the curse—that

had been bestowed upon Dominic as a boy. A mirrored palm.

“Excel ent.” The Facilitator nodded to his two companions.

Snap!

At the sharp sound, the woman’s image wavered as if it were a reflection on the surface of a pond that had been abruptly disturbed. Then it shrank

to a pin light. And then she was gone.

The distant, tranquil scene had evoked a peculiar fascination in Dominic, and he found himself strangely sorry to see it go. His own world was in

constant turmoil. Perhaps this woman’s son might be the one to ultimately bring peace. Something Dominic had failed to do despite his dedication.

The two Acolytes extended their right hands to the Facilitator and then to one another. Palms came together in the traditional way that served as

both greeting and farewel .

“As the moon reflects the sun,” their three voices droned in harmony, signifying that this meeting was at an end.

No one offered such a gesture or valediction to Dominic, nor did he expect it. No one ever touched him voluntarily. Not once they realized what he

was.

Without another word, he turned and made his way outside. Soon his boots were striking the nine marble steps in front of the temple with

determined, resigned thuds. The votaries scurried from his path, dropping their brooms and fal ing over themselves in their efforts to avoid him. Though he

disguised himself from the rest of the world, members of his own sect recognized him for what he was.

The fact that they so obviously spurned him—they whom he protected with his very life—might have destroyed another man. Fortunately he’d been

hardened to such scorn long ago. But with the coming of this new child, he was reminded that his time as protector would one day draw to an end.

At any moment, he could be demolished by demons—like the statue that had stood for centuries before this temple, the remains of which now

crunched under his boots. Then, like the statue, he would simply be swept away. In favor of the next Chosen One.

Until such time he would continue to be a repository of evil. One of a kind. The most valuable, dependable, and vicious weapon his people

possessed.

And like any wel -honed weapon, his thoughts now trained themselves on reaching their assigned target, the woman in the mirror. The woman

whose unborn son would someday wear the glove.

His right hand clenched tight. When it uncurled, the single, fingerless glove he wore seemed to melt away, revealing a mirrored palm instead of

flesh. He closed and reopened his fingers again and the slick mirror that shielded a cache of terrible evil disappeared from view as wel .

He raised the disguised hand in a brief salute to a soldier he passed and received an easy wave in return. Pausing a mile or so later, he assisted

a farmer in righting a wagon with a load that had slid askew and threatened to topple it. Afterward he was heartily thanked. The man even went so far as to

attempt to shake the camouflaged hand, a gesture Dominic evaded.

Satisfied that it appeared to everyone save himself that he was an ordinary Satyr, he made his way toward the region just this side of the

interworld gate.

His features remained undisguised. But he’d bespel ed them as usual in such a way as to leave a vague impression that none who saw him would

later be able to recal . So that no portrait or depiction of him could ever be created and given over to hands that would do him harm.

Within two hours, he’d located the regiment fighting closest to the gate. Within three, he’d traded his pants and jacket of black leather for their gray

woolen uniform.

At sundown, he met the woman’s husband, and within the week the man was indebted to him for saving his life.

By the time Moonful neared, his new acquaintance was half besotted with him.

Though his new comrade rarely spoke of his wife, Dominic continued to carry within him the image of the tranquil scene he’d viewed in the

obsidian mirror.

Emma.

She’d roused something in him he’d thought long destroyed. Something he’d pushed deep within himself where his enemies couldn’t exploit it.

A longing.

Though he knew such an emotion weakened him, the desire to view her face and her body in the flesh and to hear her voice increased by the hour.

With each kil —with each battle he undertook—his anticipation of the night he would at last touch her clean, soft sweetness grew ever stronger.

She had no idea what was coming.

2

Satyr Estate in Tuscany, Italy

Earth World, 1837

“D
amned beasts.”

It was Carlo.

Emma had been listening for his arrival. She’d monitored his forward progress by the staccato sound of his sneezes. He was al ergic to Lyon’s

panthers.

They’d never warmed to him either. Not in the entire year and a half since Nicholas had found and brought Carlo to the estate. Even now, the sleek

black animals paced just behind her husband at the edge of the tree line, grumbling as if to warn her of his approach.

“Liber. Ceres. Away,” she ordered softly. At the sound of her voice, Carlo’s head lifted. His eyes narrowed on her where she stood in the doorway

of their home.

The hopeful thril that had always zinged through her when she caught sight of him was missing this time. Yet she’d waited for him tonight as

anxiously as always, half fearing he wouldn’t come. Her relief now that he had shown himself was tinged with dread. It was a curious reaction, and one for

which only she and he knew the reason.

Carlo stepped out of the late afternoon shadows and next to her beneath the portico of the carriage house. Adjacent to that of her sister’s lavish

castello
, it had been converted into their home upon their wedding. But though Emma resided here, her husband had visited only twelve times during the

entire year of their marriage. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d returned to bed her. As he would do tonight.

Their eyes met—hers a wary ash brown, his a boyish, confident blue. His smile was warm, false, familiar. Frightening.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, reaching for her.

So he thought they would both pretend.

She pul ed away. “Don’t touch me,” she warned cool y. “Except as necessary. Later.”

He feigned astonishment. “What’s this? Where’s my usual affectionate welcome? Do you wish me gone again? Shal I leave?” He turned on his

heel as though to depart.

“No!” She took a hasty step forward and put a staying hand on his sleeve.

He smirked. “I thought not.” Dropping his bag on the porch, he snaked an arm around her, drawing her so close that she felt the hard weapon he

wore at his hip.

Cupping the back of her head, he pressed her soft cheek to the coarse wool of his uniform. She inhaled the peculiar scent of that other world in

which he dwel ed. That world into which she could not trespass. That world she used to despise because it kept him away from her.

Now she could hardly wait for morning, when he would return there.

“Don’t.” She wedged her elbows between them, trying to nudge him away.

His grip on her tightened, and she winced as the beading along the back of her gown punished her skin.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Emma,” he murmured, refusing to release her. His breath was cool against her neck. “Can’t you let it go?”

At his words, hope tried to flicker to life within her. Had his il treatment of her last month been an aberration? Would this sojourn from the war in

Else World signal a new beginning for their marriage? Hope—foolish hope—brightened her heart, just a little. She squashed it.

Carlo drew back, and his satisfied gaze fel to her swol en waistline.

“You’ve grown fat in the past month,” he teased.

“And whose fault is that?” she told him, forcing herself to match his light tone.

An odd expression shifted in his face, gone before she could decipher it.

“Mine, I suppose. But motherhood agrees with you.” He found his usual smile once more. The one that made him so deceptively attractive and

which had lured her into wedding him.

“Did you tel your sister?” he asked.

“No, Jane noticed my condition without my having to do so.”

In a gesture that had become habitual over the last four weeks, she smoothed a hand over her rounded abdomen. It had grown to this size within a

single month, the entirety of the period necessary for the gestation of a child of Satyr heritage. The bulge was only half the size of her sister’s or of her two

aunts’ by the time they’d given birth.

“She predicts our first child wil be a smal one.”