The hunt.
Pleasure rippled through him again, stronger now, a drugging sensation that had his lips curling further to flash his fangs as his eyelids grew heavy. He breathed deep of the daemon blood on his hand, anticipation rolling through him, bringing forth images of the last two times he had clashed with the wretch.
A wraith.
Frustration rolled in on the heels of the satisfaction he took from replaying his battles against the fiend, mounted inside him to pull a growl from his lips.
Twice he had clashed with the daemon.
Twice the male had escaped.
But Esher had his scent now.
He trudged forwards, boots skidding on the loose shale as he descended the mountain, pulled to the valley, a slave to the black need to hunt.
To kill.
He shook that thought away, the small part of him that was clinging to consciousness, refusing to fully succumb to the darkness, unleashing a distant scream in his ears.
Not kill.
He needed the male alive.
To torture. To torment. To plunge into a living nightmare, a hell he wouldn’t be able to escape.
To make him pay.
His grin stretched wider.
Yes. Make him pay.
The male would suffer as his sister had, as his brothers had. Esher would see to it personally, drawing out his punishment so it lasted a lifetime and then another. It was what the bastard deserved.
His left boot hit a snag and he stumbled forwards a few steps, struggling to find his footing on the steep slope. A snarl tore from him as he found it and halted, as his feet throbbed, pain pulsing in a powerful wave up his legs to steal the strength from them.
How long had he been walking?
Always moving forwards.
Never stopping.
Never resting.
He had to keep going.
His stomach cramped near-constantly now, hunger stealing strength from him, thirst blurring his thoughts.
But he couldn’t stop.
He was close now.
He could feel it.
He brought his hand back to his lips and flicked his tongue over his bloodstained fingers.
Tasted it.
He trudged forwards, unaware of the world, uncaring of it. A legion tracked him, but they wouldn’t reach him in time. He was close now. He stalked the uneven terrain, his fatigue falling away as he neared the valley bottom, strength flowing back into him as he thought about what was to come.
The scent of blood curled around him and his gaze dropped, crimson eyes unerringly locking onto the spot of it that blended with the black rock.
His grin stretched wider still.
Fresh daemon blood.
Eli’s blood.
Esher stalked forwards, his steps surer as adrenaline surged, as pleasing images of capturing the wraith and beginning his torment filled his mind, driving him onwards. No time to rest. No time to delay.
His crimson eyes scanned the valley ahead of him, leaping over everything, singling out each cluster of buildings, assessing them all.
The valley was filled with places to hide.
But not a single place where the wraith could hide from him.
The distant screams came again as thoughts of drenching his hands in daemon blood flooded his mind, coaxing a low moan from his lips and sending a shiver down his spine. He tried to quieten the voice, and when that didn’t work, he growled at the other side of himself, the pathetic side that wanted to save this wretch.
It continued, battering his mind and his will with words about capturing the daemon, about questioning it, about the importance of keeping it alive.
Esher bared fangs at the thing inside him.
He wanted blood.
The daemon had taken his sister from him, had nearly destroyed his family, and had harmed not only his youngest brother but others that he loved.
The daemon deserved death.
The voice whispered.
And he would receive it.
Esher stilled, canted his head and listened to the other side of him, curious now. It wasn’t like the weak thing to want to kill. He couldn’t recall the last time they had been in accord with each other.
The distant voice promised blood, promised retribution, promised the chance to torture, to torment.
All things it kept promising.
But this time, it promised death to the wretch too.
Only if he had patience.
Patience?
Esher spat on the black ground, despising that word for some reason.
He had been patient. Hadn’t he? He frowned, a thread of confusion knitting a jumble of thoughts together in his weary mind. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts into order, trying to remember. Someone had told him to be patient.
Someone he loved.
An image began to build before him, a figure of a male, but it crumbled before it fully formed.
Esher rubbed his temples, closed his eyes and lowered his head, attempting to coax the memory. It refused to come.
So he clawed at his hair, raking black talons over it, drawing his own blood as frustration got the better of him.
He didn’t want to wait.
He growled and turned, looked at his surroundings and frowned as a thought struck him. What was he doing? Who was he looking for? The owner of that voice was inside him. He clawed at his chest, ripping through the front of his shirt, tearing new gashes in it. If he could get the wretch out of his body, he could kill the daemon, just as he wanted.
No, he couldn’t.
He stilled, claws buried deep in his own flesh.
He needed the wraith alive.
Eli was the key.
Killing him would only avenge his sister.
Capturing him and bringing him to his brothers might save her.
But he wanted to kill him.
He absently raked his nails over his pectorals as he considered every angle. There was a way he could both avenge his sister and save her.
Patience.
He had no love for that word, but he would do his best to be patient, even when he didn’t want to play any sort of long game. He wanted blood on his hands. He wanted to see that glorious moment when hope turned to despair in the wretch he was hunting. He wanted to watch the light in the wraith’s eyes fade.
The
