Besides, even though he knew this was some manner of enchantment or hallucination, the face was still that of his brother, and he couldn’t bring himself to ravage it. He gently removed the sword and lowered it to his side.
A shard of memory came back to him then. “I have merely pledged to consider an alliance with the Ventrue,” Qarakh said, sounding more defensive than he liked. “Nothing more.”
“Alexander is a hundred times older than you are,” the Beast said. “You cannot hope to best him, neither in a battle of wits, nor in a battle of arms. And have no doubt: It shall come down to the latter, and sooner rather than later.”
“No matter the opponent, there is always a way to win. A warrior need only find it.”
“There is only one way to defeat this foe, Qarakh, and I am that way. Give yourself over to me, and I shall grant you victory over Alexander of Paris.”
Qarakh felt fear, then—not of the Beast, but rather of himself and his own need to protect his tribe and their Telyav allies If the Beast could truly do what it claimed, perhaps… perhaps it would be worth the price he would have to pay.
Tempting though it might be, giving himself over to the Beast that dwelled inside him would not be living in yostoi. He would be surrendering to his basest impulses and desires, allowing himself to be subsumed until there was nothing left of Qarakh the man and all that remained was the hunger and fury and lust of the Beast.
Qarakh’s reply was simple. “No.”
The corpse that looked like Aajav (because it couldn’t be Aajav, it couldn’t!) moved for the first time since it had begun speaking. It turned its head so that it was clearly looking at Qarakh with the one eye it still possessed. Its mouth stretched into a hideous parody of a grin, and this time when it spoke, its mouth moved.
“What makes you think you have a choice?”
The mouth opened wide then, impossibly, cavernously wide. Inside was a darkness beyond anything Qarakh had ever imagined. It wasn’t merely the absence of light and color. It wasn’t simply nothing, for the concept of nothingness always implied something. It was the lack even of lack itself. It… wasn’t. Air rushed in to fill the great yawning void, screaming past Qarakh, tearing at him, thrusting him forward, toward and into, and then he was falling, but not falling, for falling was something, and since this wasn’t nothing, there couldn’t be something, so he couldn’t be falling, but he was, he was, he—
Chapter Twelve
Qarakh awakened. Swaddled in the cool, comforting embrace of earth, he was tempted to stay there, to close his eyes and return to sleep and hope that there would be no more memories, no more dreams that changed all too easily into nightmares. A sluggish weariness settled into his body. His limbs felt heavy, leaden, as if they were no longer flesh and not quite stone, but rather some transitional state between. An overwhelming sensation of peace welled up inside him, and he felt himself slipping away… But before awareness completely deserted him, Qarakh realized what was happening: He was surrendering to the same torpor that had claimed Aajav.
With a supreme effort of will, he surged free of the earth and stood once more in the open night air. He felt dizzy and weak at first, but with each passing second, vertigo ebbed and strength returned to him.
“Is something wrong?”
Qarakh nearly sprang upon the Nosferatu standing in the forest glade and holding the reins of three horses, but then he remembered—this was Malachite, their new traveling companion.
“No.” He couldn’t believe how easily he had almost given in to the temptation of torpor. It had felt so natural, so right, so effortless to allow himself to sink into the oblivion it offered. Is that what it had been like for Aajav? If so, Qarakh could understand now why his brother had so far refused to wake from his sleep within the sacred mound of the Telyavs.
Malachite evidently had been in the process of readying the horses when Qarakh appeared, for the three mounts were already saddled. The Nosferatu must have noticed Qarakh’s scrutiny of the horses, for he said, “I fed them, too.”
Qarakh glanced upward at the patches of sky he could see between the overhanging tree branches.
The sun had gone down, but not so long ago that the stars were visible. “I’m surprised you had the time—that is, unless you have discovered a way to walk in sunlight.”
Malachite gave Qarakh a thin smile. “Not quite, but the tree cover in this part of the forest is especially thick, and members of my clan are skilled at keeping to the shadows. When the forest gloom became dark enough, I rose and—since both you and Deverra remained sleeping—I decided to put my time to good use and prepare the horses for travel.” When Qarakh didn’ t respond right away, Malachite frowned. “I hope I haven’t done something wrong. I know little about your customs, and if there is some proscription against someone else touching your horse…”
Qarakh waved away the Nosferatu’s concerns. “I am glad you did. The sooner we start riding, the sooner we shall reach the current campsite.”
Malachite opened his own mouth then, presumably to ask a question, but before he could speak, Deverra emerged from a nearby oak tree, separating herself from the wood as easily as another being might move through air. She gave Qarakh a smile. “Sleep well?”
He found himself wishing that Deverra had used her magic to connect their spirits during the day. Not because he desired her again—at least, not only—but because her presence would have been a comfort to him as he slept and might well have prevented his nightmare, or at least
