Brimstone Angels

and he hadn’t been afraid.

He looked across the fire at Farideh’s sleeping form.

He wouldn’t trade a hundred eggs for her, even if she tried his patience, even if she pushed him to the brink of his temper, even if she refused to listen and contradicted him and thought she knew better when Mehen knew she didn’t. But if she came to harm because of Lorcan, Mehen would never forgive himself.

After all, he had raised her better than that.

I should tell her so, Mehen thought. Both of those things.

Seventeen. He had only been a year or so older when he’d taken them in. Younger when he’d been renounced by Clan Verthisathurgiesh, and left the capitol of Djerad Thymar to find a new home in Arush Vayem.

But that was different. He was dragonborn. At their age, he’d have been an adult in his clan’s eyes for several years-wedded and with at least one clutch of eggs hatched-and leaving Tymanther, losing the mate and the eggs, didn’t change that.

Tieflings grew more slowly. At three, a dragonborn was half-grown. At three, the twins had still been trying to master Common.

And at seventeen, they weren’t old enough to know what they needed. Mehen still knew what was best for them.

Wyssin, Lorcan knew, wasn’t an easy herb to sample. Especially for mortals. His sisters praised the way it strengthened their senses and sped up their reactions. Lorcan had pilfered a pinch or two before deciding it wasn’t to his tastes. It made every sound flare like a torch, every scrap of light sharp as a needle. The mind raced and the muscles twitched. Lorcan knew better than to get in his sisters’ way before a raid, if they had the stuff-any one of them might run him through before they even realized he was there.

So when the arrow punched through the edge of his left wing as he landed beside the small, smoky campfire, Lorcan wasn’t entirely surprised. Goruc sat huddled in the dark, assaulted, no doubt, by a thousand tiny noises from a thousand different directions. His hands shook as he set another arrow to his bow.

“I see you’ve been experimenting,” Lorcan said dryly. He winced, pushed the arrow through, and examined the bloodied tip. “Though, thankfully, not with the poison. Get your blades ready.”

“What for?” Goruc said. “You want to fight me? I could take you. I will take you.” He threw down the bow and reached for his axe.

“Heavens and Hells-no.” Why did he always pick the excitable ones? “Your quarry is near. They’re about an hour’s ride from here, right off the road. Go now, and you’ll catch them in the dark.”

“I’ve been running after them all day long,” Goruc said. “I need to sleep.”

Lorcan smiled. “But you and I both know you can’t rest while the wyssin is flogging your mind. Might as well take care of things now.”

Goruc blinked at him rapidly-Lorcan was only half-mortal, and he knew well how the wyssin made his thoughts race. Someone like Goruc’s mind was likely to come apart if Lorcan gave him too much to think about.

“Go north. Along the road. Give yourself a little more of the devilweed and you should have no problems finding the boy and the dragonborn.” He smiled. “I’ll check in on you once you’re finished.” He’d come through the portal near their camp in an hour or so. The boy would be dead, so would Mehen. He’d convince Farideh to come away from the Ashmadai and Rohini, and she’d trust him even more because she’d have to.

Goruc sneered. “Check on me? I’ll give him something to check on.”

“Yes, yes,” Lorcan said, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t forget your blades.”

Goruc sneered at him, tensed as if he were about to attack anyway. He opened the vial and carefully dripped a line of the viscous liquid along his axe blade. A fringe of steam rose off the metal where the poison landed and dried almost instantly. He carefully slipped the weapon into its holster and repeated the process on the tips of each of his arrows.

Finally, Goruc pulled out his dagger with a trembling hand. Before poisoning it, he dragged the tip down his face from forehead to chin, skimming lightly over the eyelid. Blood ran down his face and into his eye.

“What in the Hells are you doing?” Lorcan asked.

“Mourning scar,” Goruc grunted. “The blood washes the weakness from my sight. The pain reminds me of my dead.” He scowled at Lorcan. “The ones your witch killed.”

Lorcan smiled and opened the portal of the Needle of the Crossroads. “Let that one go. She’s very well-armed these days.”

There was a moment-only a moment-when Farideh woke, where her mind was empty, her thoughts still, when she might be anyone but herself. An elf in the woods, a sailor on the Sea of Fallen Stars, a genasi general, or just a regular human girl stirring in a regular bed in Waterdeep. When she might not know Lorcan or Havilar or Mehen or anyone else whose raw and jagged feelings were turned against her.

But then she blinked, the world solidified, and she was who she was.

And Havilar was nudging her ungently with one boot.

“ ’S your watch,” she hissed. “Get up.”

“I’m awake,” Farideh said, sitting up and throwing off her cloak. The fire still crackled low in the pit. The dark shapes of Mehen, Brin, and Tam, still fast asleep on the ground, made a sort of broken wall around the site.

“I was shaking you forever,” Havilar said, tromping back to the tree she’d been standing watch beside and retrieving her glaive. “You have to take your turn you know.”

“I’m up!” Farideh pulled her leather jack on. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m surprised you care all of the sudden.”

Farideh picked up the rod Lorcan had given her and turned it over in her hands. It didn’t feel like anything other than a stick of polished wood-except for the way it made it seem so much simpler to grasp the powers that fueled her spells-but considering the source it might be a gift she would always be grateful for or it might be a curse she’d spend all her life wishing she hadn’t accepted.

“Gods, Havi, you were scared for all of a few minutes. Let it lie.”

“You could have been dead.”

“Even if that were so, I’m the one who was lost in the godsdamned woods.”

Havilar shook out her blanket and laid it on the ground beside the fire with excessive care. “You weren’t even sorry,” she muttered, after she’d smoothed it out, “You’re never sorry.”

Farideh’s annoyance boiled over and it took all of her effort to keep her voice low. “Fine,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got lost. I’m sorry I got chased by an owlbear and didn’t wait for you to kill it. I’m sorry Lorcan finally showed up and practically scared the piss out of Brin. I’m sorry I didn’t stay lost so you could tear your hair and beat your breast and wail on and on about how upset you are-oh wait, no.” She gestured at her sister with the rod. “You seem to be quite capable of that one. You think I’m never sorry? I’m sorry every godsdamned day, so let this one stupid thing go. You got scared.”

“That’s not all of it and you know it,” Havilar shot back. “First you took Lorcan and now you’re taking Brin.”

“Taking Brin? He’s not a pet-he can make his own decisions.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You think we were off having a tryst? I’m not even fond of him,” Farideh said. Then sense overcame her temper, and she looked at Havilar with new eyes. “Oh. Are you fond of him?”

“No!”

Farideh swallowed. “Are you fond of Lorcan?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it, Havi? I can’t read your mind.”

Havilar crossed her arms. “You’re just …” she started. She turned away and tried again. “You’re going off with all these boys just because they give you things and talk to you, and you leave me behind with Mehen like something you don’t even want around anymore. I’m your sister. Doesn’t that matter?”

Farideh took a deep breath to calm herself. Concentrate every one of their arguments, and at the core, it was all about Havilar. It was always about Havilar.