Temple of the Winds

A side kick broke the man's nose. Howling in pain and rage, the man sprang forward. He saw a flash of steel and dodged to the side as he swept a leg beneath the man. taking his feet from under him. It all happened in a blink. It was a glorious event, this dangerous, raging bull charging madly.

He pulled in the details: the man's clothes, the small rip in the back of his coat, his bald spot reflecting the distant light, his curly, greasy hair, the nick missing out of his right ear, the way he flopped when the boot landed between his shoulders.

It was when he was twisting the man's arm behind his back that he saw the blood. Blood was something he kept careful track of. This blood surprised him. He hadn't cut the man-yet. Nor was this blood from the man's crushed nose. He rarely had a thrill of surprise such as this unexpected blood brought. He realized the man was screaming in pain. He screamed louder when the shoulder joint popped. He dropped onto the man's back and smacked his head with the heel of a hand, breaking the loan's teeth against the cobbles and quieting him, somewhat.

He gripped the greasy hair in a fist and pulled the man's head back, listening to the sound of the grunts.

"Robbery is a dangerous business. Time you paid the price." "We wouldn't have hurt you." the man burbled. "Just robbed you. you bastard"

"Bastard, is it?"

Carefully, slowly, enjoying the detail of every inch. he slit open the man's throat as he thrashed.

What unexpected pleasure this night had brought. He lifted his hands, curling his fingers, slowly sweeping the quintessence of death from the air. capturing the silken substance of it as it lifted in the darkness, and pulled it back to himself.

He was the fulfillment of their lives. He was the balance. He was death. He savored seeing that awareness in their eyes. He liked it best when he could bask in that look. that knowledge. . that terror. It brought him fulfillment. It made him complete.

He stood, swaying in ecstasy at the cloying scent of blood. He regretted it hadn't lasted longer. He regretted not being able to enjoy prolonged screams. Screams were rapture. He craved them, needed them. lusted after them. Screams fulfilled him, made him whole. He needed the screams, not the actual sound of them-he often gagged his partners-but the attempt at them, and what they represented: terror.

Being denied the chance to leisurely enjoy the screaming terror left him unfulfilled, his lust unsated.

He glided up the alley and found that his skill was as sharp as ever. as was his knife; it had found its target. The boy lay crumpled on his side. He looked delicious with the knife buried to the cross guard at the back of his head. and the point of the heavy blade jutting from his forehead, just slightly off center. Immersed in a pool of sensation, he realized he felt a new one: pain. Surprised, he inspected his arm. and discovered the source of the unexpected blood. He had a gash a good six inches long on the outside of his right forearm. It was deep. It would need to be stitched.

The pleasure of such an unexpected occurrence made him gasp. Danger, death, and damage-all in one night, in one chance encounter. This was nearly too much.

The voices had been right about coming to Aydindril.

Still, he hadn't had what he needed-the prolonged terror, the careful cutting, the slicing, the binge of blood, the giving of endless, exquisite pain, the orgy of frenzied stabbing at the end.

But the voices from the ethers promised him he would have those things, promised him he would have the ultimate conquest, the ultimate balance, the ultimate pairing. They promised him he would have the ultimate consummation of debauchery. They promised him he would have the Mother Confessor. His time was coming. Her time was coming. Soon. When Verna dabbed the wet cloth against Warren's forehead, his eyes opened. She let out a long breath of relief. "How are you feeling?"

He tried to sit up. With a firm hand on his chest, she gently pushed him back down into the hay. "Just you lay there and rest." He winced in pain and then smacked his lips. "I need a drink."

Verna twisted and lifted the dipper from the bucket. She held it to his lips. His hands cupped the dented bowl of the dipper as he greedily gulped down all the water.

He panted, catching his breath after the long drink. "More." Verna dragged the dipper through the bucket and let him drink his fill. She smiled down at him. "Glad to see you awake."

It looked to be an effort for him to return the smile. "Glad to be awake. How long have I been out. this time?" She shrugged, discounting his concern. "A few hours."

He glanced around the inside of the barn. Verna lifted the lamp so he could see his surroundings. Rain drummed against the roof, making it feel cozy inside.

Verna set down the lamp and rested on an elbow beside him. "Not fancy lodging, but at least it's dry."