The only regret he had was that he had not the time to groom her for bigger things. Karari was too frail of body and too kind of spirit to have been brought into the world of shadows that he inhabited. When the Desei Mother of Shadows had found him, Junel had been trapping rats in his family’s tower and devising a variety of ways to dispatch them. While he was good at setting up devices that proved quickly lethal, he enjoyed the things that worked more slowly. There was just something about watching a rat struggle against a slowly tightening noose that had warmed the pit of his stomach. As its eyes bulged and blood vessels burst, he became excited.

He learned early on that death can provide pleasure.

The Mother of Shadows had done her work well, building on the foundation he’d already provided himself. His family didn’t mind his being taken to Thyrenkun as a page at court. They considered it both an honor and a simple way to rid themselves of a younger son. It meant one less split of the family estate, one less mouth to feed, and a slender chance of royal favor.

Junel had trained very hard, enduring punishments for failure and accepting rewards for success. He learned early on that he would never get all he felt was his due, so he awarded himself little pleasures, then happily reported what he had done to his superiors. He made certain that he followed all of the rules and exceeded expectations so that his self-indulgence would be excused. And, often enough, he included others in his rewards, which made his self-pleasure a stepping-stone to another mission.

After he had betrayed his family’s treason to the Desei crown, he watched them all die, then escaped south “to avoid Prince Pyrust’s wrath.” This won him immediate acceptance among the southerners, and he gladly put it to good use. His mission had been to get to the Anturasi clan. If he could not steal information, he was to find a way to slow Qiro Anturasi’s work.

Murdering Nirati had accomplished that rather nicely. His involvement with her had been great fun, for he was able to inflict minor tortures that built her resistance to pain. At the last, she had endured so very much.

And he delighted in giving her that pain.

Since killing her, he had often awakened from dreams reliving the experience. He had taken her apart slowly, and he watched the conflict in her eyes. What he was doing horrified her, and she fought it. But while she did not want to enjoy it, the very act of fighting it took her back into the behavior patterns that told her she was enjoying it. Her own body betrayed her, and she slipped away. He’d not noticed it, but she’d slipped into ecstasy, which wrapped her and insulated her from the horrible finality of death.

In some ways, she had ruined him. So intent was he on his work that her final moments had escaped his attention. Now he found himself preoccupied with wondering how others might react when brought so close to death. Count Vroan, he knew, would stare death straight in the eye and defy it until the very last. He could be roasted alive in an iron coffin buried in coals and would never utter a word, save perhaps some family motto that would have little bearing and provide less insight on the situation.

Nerot Scior, on the other hand, would writhe like a snake stuck on a spike. Junel had often thought impaling would be good for him. He’d use a blunt stake and let the man try to escape his doom by standing for as long as he could. Nerot would fight the tremble in his legs, buying seconds of life with sheer willpower, all the while confident his mother would be coming to his rescue. Even when his legs failed him and he slowly sank onto the stake, he would be looking for his salvation. He would die believing a deal could be struck and his wounds healed.

And Prince Cyron… Had there been the least chance of his escaping death, Junel would have undertaken the mission to kill the Naleni Prince himself. The challenge drew him. Slipping through the remaining Keru would have been all but impossible. While the citizens of Nalenyr might accept him as an ally because Prince Pyrust hated him, the Keru trusted no Desei regardless of pedigree. Their mothers’ milk flowed with bitter hatred for the Desei and the Keru did nothing to expand their vision of the world.

Of course, he would have had an advantage. The Prince knew of him. Prince Cyron had been concerned for his welfare after Nirati Anturasi’s death. Junel had even been promised that her killer would be found and the evil done to the both of them avenged. Junel had even offered his help, but the Prince’s ardor for catching Nirati’s killer had long since faded.

How will he accept death?

Junel suspected Cyron would not go easily into Grija’s realm. He might have once, but accepting a serious wound to mask the murder of Count Turcol had shown an aspect of him Junel had not believed was there before. They believe Cyron incapable of fighting because he’s never been forced to fight. But he is a son of the Dragon State, and a dragon without fangs or claws is still a dragon.

He looked down at little Karari. He’d drawn her hair up and away from her head so it would not get matted with blood. He wanted to take her scalp off in one piece so he could use it to form a beard for her. It struck him that that would be interesting, since she already looked so old. It would also mask the hole in her throat.

“How do you think the Prince will die, little one? Will he be as brave as you are?”

Her eyes widened, then her gaze began to flick. He thought for a moment that she might be having an allergic reaction to the tincture he was using to immobilize her voluntary muscles, but then a shadow fell over her face. When it touched her, she smiled.

He turned. The room’s thick drapes permitted no sunlight, so he’d lit several lanterns to illuminate his work. A butterfly had lighted on one, slowly beating its wings. Its placidity contrasted with the violence he’d already done to Karari and prompted him to think about her body as a cocoon and the chance for her to blossom into a beautiful creature in the afterlife.

He stared at the butterfly and was fairly certain he’d never seen its like. It was large, which made it unusual-not to mention that it was still very early in the year for butterflies. Moreover, the green-and-black markings were something he was quite certain he’d never seen before.

He swiped at it. The butterfly rose easily, eluding the blow. Being a master of vrilri, he could have killed it without much effort, but it pleased him to have a witness to his work. He’d long ago learned that butterflies can be drawn to carrion, and its presence confirmed he was working well.

Picking up one of his knives, Junel leaned forward. He reached out with his left hand to smooth the skin on Karari’s brow. He pressed the tip of the blade to her flesh and waited for a red drop to collect. He waited for the surface tension to break and for the blood to inscribe the line he would follow.

It made things so much more artistic.

But his hand jerked as something stung him in the neck. He dropped the knife and turned, clapping his right hand to his neck. He could feel a slight swelling, but knew it was nothing of significance. In fact, he was certain it meant nothing, then it occurred to him that he wasn’t stopping his turn.

His legs wrapped around each other and he sat down hard on the floor. His shoulders hit the wall and his head smacked into it hard enough to crack plaster. He felt flakes slip down his collar. He ordered his right hand to brush them away, but it fell to the floor, limp, beside him.

Junel looked up and found a tall, slender man standing beside the chest of drawers. He held the bottle of hooded viper venom and was replacing the stopper with the needle in it. The man had incredibly long fingers and hazel eyes that seemed to shift colors.