down. They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound in the room the quiet crackling as logs shifted in the heat of the fire. The room seemed very cold.
'What happened to you. Hazel?' Silver said finally. 'You never had those powers before.'
Hazel smiled wearily. 'What happened to you, John? What happened to the people we used to be?'
'Things were simpler, when we were young,' said Silver, looking into the fire because he found it easier than looking at her. 'You were a merc, and I was a pirate, both of us convinced we were destined for greater things. We made a great team as confidence artists. We ran the Angel of Night swindle for three years straight, remember? Though my favorite was always the lost Stargate con. I had great fun making up the maps. So impressive, they were practically works of art. We'd still be running those cons if we hadn't got unlucky.'
'And greedy,' said Hazel.
'That too.'
'Things were simpler then. It was us versus them, and we only took money from those who could afford to lose it. Simple, innocent days. But we changed, moved on. We're not who we used to be. Our friends and allegiances have changed, and all we have in common now are our memories and Blood. And neither of them comfort me like they used to. Can we trust each other anymore, John?'
'We have to,' said Silver. 'No one else would.'
'Owen would,' said Hazel.
Silver made himself look at her. 'You know him better than I do. What's he really like, this Deathstalker?'
'He's a good man, though he doesn't realize it. A hero. The real thing. Brave and dedicated and too damn honest for his own good. He'll end up leading this rebellion completely before he's through. Not because he wants to, but just because he's the best man for the job. He's a nice guy, but there's so much he doesn't understand. Like the pressures and responsibilities and insecurities that drive lesser people like you and me to Blood or drink or dumb relationships. He's never needed a crutch to lean on in his life. He just sees the right thing and goes for it, complaining all the while, fooling nobody. A good man, in bad times.'
'You love him, don't you?' said Silver.
'I never said that,' said Hazel.
Silver knew what was needed. He made himself lean forward till their faces were only inches apart, and then he kissed her, and both of them knew it was good-bye. And that was when Owen Deathstalker entered the room and saw them together. He stopped just inside the doorway, saying nothing as Hazel and Silver broke apart and rose quickly to their feet. For a long moment, no one said anything. Hazel was breathing deeply, but her face wasn't flushed. Silver saw Owen's hand drop to the sword at his side, saw the coldness in Owen's eyes, and knew he was very close to death. Not because Owen was jealous, but because this was one too many secrets, one too many betrayals that had been kept from him. And then Owen's eyes went to the phial of Blood on the table, and everything changed. He knew what it was, and what it meant, and anger and a great weariness fought for space inside him.
'So that's it,' he said flatly. 'No wonder our mental link's been so screwed up, with all that junk in your head. How long have you been taking it. Hazel?'
'Long enough.'
'Where did you get it?'
'From the Hadenmen city. Moon was very understanding.' Hazel's voice wavered between defiance and a need for him to understand. 'I need it, Owen.'
'Why didn't you tell me before?'
'Because I knew you'd react like this! You don't understand the pressures I've been under!'
'We've been together from the beginning. What have you been through that I haven't? Dammit, Hazel, I was depending on you to hold up your end in Mistport! I can't do everything! Our work here is important!'
'I know!' Hazel glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. 'You depend on me, the underground depends on me, the whole bloody rebellion depends on me! Did it never occur to anyone that I might get tired of carrying so much weight? We can't all be superhuman like you, Owen. We can't all be bloody heroes. You've never had a moment's indecision in your life, have you? You've always known the right thing to do, the right thing to say. But we can't all be perfect!'
'I'm not perfect,' said Owen. 'I just do my job. And that's all I've ever expected of you.'
'You're not listening to me,' said Hazel. 'You never listen to me.'
'Why did you never tell me about you and Silver?'
'Because it was none of your business!'
'You never told me about him. You never told about the Blood. What else haven't you told me about? I thought I could trust you, Hazel. I thought I could trust you, at least.'
'You see? You're doing it again! Trying to put all the weight on my shoulders so you can be the victim of the piece! Well to hell with that, and to hell with you, Owen Deathstalker, I'm not going to carry it anymore. I'm sick of carrying the weight of your needs and your expectations! And I'm sick of you…'
'Yes,' said Owen. 'You'd rather have him, and the poison he feeds you. Anything to avoid having to grow up and be a responsible adult. To support those who depend on you. To care about the people who care about you. You want him; he's all yours. I'm going out to get some fresh air.'
And he turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, because there was so much anger burning inside him that the only other thing he could have done was hit her, and they both knew she would never have forgotten or forgiven that. And because he wanted to kill John Silver so badly he could taste it. He'd thought that he and Hazel, that someday the two of them might… but he'd thought many things, and none of them ever worked out the way he hoped. He'd already lost so many things he cared for. He shouldn't be surprised that the only woman he ever loved would be taken away from him, too.
He should never have come back to Mistport. Nothing ever went right here. It wasn't as though he'd had any hold on Hazel. She went her own way and always would. He'd known that. But he thought she'd chosen to walk with him, for a while at least. She could have come to him about her worries. She could have come to him about the drug. He would have tried to understand, tried to help. He understood about pressure. He'd spent all his life trying to live up to the Deathstalker name.
He strode heavily down the stairs and pushed his way through the packed crowd in the tavern. Some people made as though to object. Then they saw his face, and thought better of it. They knew sudden death walking when they saw it. Owen pushed open the door and stepped out into the street, and the cold air hit him, sobering him like a slap in the face. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off most of the tavern roar, and he leaned back against it, damping down his rage, getting it under control again. It took him a moment to realize that the street was completely empty. Which was unusual, to say the least, in a perpetually busy city like Mistport. Faces watched from darkened windows, as though expecting something to happen. Owen pushed himself away from the door, his hands falling to the sword and disrupter on his hips. There was danger here, close and ready. He'd have noticed it earlier if he hadn't been so wrapped up in himself. Three men were suddenly standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at him. Either they were teleporters, or more likely they'd hidden their presence behind a telepathic shield. They didn't look like much. Average height, plain average faces, they wore the same thick furs as everyone else. But there was a power in them. Owen could feel it, even if he didn't quite understand what it was yet. The man in the middle stepped forward. His eyes were very dark in a pale face.
'You have enemies, Deathstalker. Powerful men require your death.'
'Well hell,' said Owen. 'Gosh, I am scared. What are the three of you going to do, gang up on me? Look, I am really not in the mood for this. Why don't you just start running now, and I'll give you a five-minute start.'
The man in the middle just smiled, and shook his head. 'Time to die, Deathstalker.'
The ground rocked suddenly under Owen's feet, throwing him off-balance. He grabbed for his sword, and the street before him split apart, a wide vent opening up as jagged cracks spread in all directions. A bloody light blazed up out of the fissure, and the air was suddenly full of the stench of brimstone and burning flesh. Screams of innumerable people in horrible agony rose up out of the vent far far below. The ground shuddered again, and even as Owen fought for balance he was thrown forward, toward the great crack and all it contained. He could feel an impossible heat now, radiating up from the crevice, as sweat burst out on his face. His furs began to blacken and steam in the heat, and the bare skin of his face and hands began to redden and smart as he stumbled ever closer to the great vent in the street. He fought for control on the edge of the abyss, the crimson air boiling around him. The
