Her eyes fluttered open, squinting through the gloom until they found Jinn. At the sight of him, her face twisted slightly, a mixture of sorrow and disappointment that stabbed him far deeper than he'd expected.
'It's me, Quess, Jinnaoth,' he answered. 'Who is Kehran?'
'It's nothing… no one,' she managed, rising on her elbows and wincing in pain. 'Forget I said it. I'll be fine.'
'The Loethe family is next,' Mara said, her arms crossed as she stared at the deva, ignoring Quessahn. 'We need to go to them. Now.'
'She's right. Go,' Quess said, wiping blood from her lip. 'At the corner of Ivory Street and Gorl. Be quick…'
'Right,' Jinn muttered, standing as the eladrin sat up, her left arm already darkening with early bruises. Looking from her to Mara, he turned on his heel and retrieved his blade from the steaming remains of the eidolon. 'Stay here with Quessahn. I'll tend to the Loethes.'
'I am riot a nursemaid,' Mara growled. 'And you have no idea what you're running into-'
'I understand,' he said, fixing her with his golden stare. 'Do your best. And find out what you can from that book. I expect we'll need to know exactly what we're up against, yes?'
Her red eyes flared bright, a fury boiling behind them that Jinn was glad to see, a fresh reminder that his ally could become his enemy after all was said and done. Given half a chance, with her vengeance against Asmodeus complete, she would sell Jinn's soul to the highest bidder without a flicker of regret; of that he was certain.
'I'll find out what I can,' she replied coldly, 'but only until the eladrin can walk. I'll not stand around any longer while you blunder into the unknown.'
'Fair enough,' Jinn replied and headed for the door, the winter wind driving flurries of snow into the tower as he left her staring daggers at his back. Pulling his cloak tightly, he jogged out of the closed circle of buildings and held back in the shadows for a breath. Seeing no Watch patrols or shambling figures of the ahimazzi, he dashed down the street, keeping his eyes fixed on the sky as if the low, gray clouds would sprout black wings were he to look away.
Warm blood coursed through the body of a young man, sliding through muscle, turning along the curve of a strong bone, winding between tight lengths of tendon, and branching like a forest of crimson and blue trees rooted in a field of flesh. Each nuance of the city, the feel of stone beneath his hands and snow on his face, was a marvel to those housed within his mind.
The nine skulls ran him fiercely, leaping from one rooftop to the next, enraptured by their time back in a place of physical being, of pulsing hearts and base desires. Somewhere behind the burning green eyes and the shadowy shroud of the chosen body, the circle of skulls-once known simply as the circle of nine-still bickered and argued over details and trivialities, but in purpose they were of one mind and unified goal.
They followed a prayer-filled river of power, growing stronger with each step, fed by those who would assist them. One of them pressed forward, smiling with the young man's lips-and still able to taste the lust of Rilyana Saerfynn upon them-as they came within sight of the House of Loethe. Blood stained their borrowed hands, the earlier killing merely an appetizer for the meal to come.
They crawled slowly over an adjacent rooftop, tiles abrading the soft skin they wore. Pain was a novel experience, one nearly forgotten in the long years since being cursed to live as mere skulls of enchanted bone. Cuts and scratches burned on the skin, growing numb in the cold, which caused its own sort of pain, the dull ache of exposure. Each sensation they sipped at like fine wine, tasting and savoring the experience, and each anxious to claim their own bodies once again.
A familiar scent gave them pause, and their stolen throat loosed an uneasy growl. They searched the sky, looking for the black wings of the angel, Asmodeus's pet. The devil-god would not soon forget those who had betrayed him so long ago.
'He shall not win,' they muttered, nine voices in concert. 'Sea Ward shall become a graveyard long before he can think to make it his Hell.'
Smiling, they slithered down the slope of the roof, sniffing the air and smelling blood, the taste of it on their tongue sending chills down their spine. Murmuring incoherently, the nine skulls each attempted to use the voice of the young man, absently arguing over the wisdom of their plan as they'd done for centuries. Several distrusted Archmage Tallus, others doubted his talent, and still others could not see anything beyond reversing the monumental failure of three centuries ago, at any cost.
'The angel will find us, usurp all that we have worked for!'
'Nonsense! Sathariel is as blind as his master. He has no power save that which he can steal, and we have hidden ours well enough for centuries.'
'Tallus will fail. He hasn't the discipline to-!'
'He has the desire, the greed for our power. That will serve him and us.'
'Too much greed. We have given him the last of our secrets.'
'Then we shall be swift!'
The argument ended abruptly as their body leaped from the roof, landing nimbly in the Loethes' garden. Blood and salt and lust drew them to a servants' entrance, the scents of older times when magic was a full cup from which they drank deeply. They had served Mystra once, the goddess passing little judgment on her followers' morals and choices, no matter how dubious, yet they imagined even she had paled when she discovered their intent, despite their failure.
There was no goddess to stop them anymore, and only a vengeful devil of a deity was left to try, but he was young to his power. Time was on their side, but only if they struck soon and only if they gambled on an eternity of suffering.
A muffled chanting reached their ears from somewhere within the house, thrumming through the walls and caressing their body with promises of power.
'Delicious fools,' they whispered. 'They think they are honoring Asmodeus, calling upon him to visit their wealthy coven with dark blessings.' Chuckling, they placed a smoke-shrouded hand against a hidden door and pushed. 'No doubt they shall find themselves with Asmodeus in good time.'
James P. Davis
Circle of Skulls
Jinn prowled the edge of an iron-and-stone wall cautiously, studying the darkened windows and quiet gardens of the Loethe family home. He knew nothing of them save for his brief encounter with the Lady Lhaerra at the Storm's Front tavern, yet the size of their estate suggested room enough for a large family. He paced quietly, trying to decide if he should enter immediately or wait for something to happen, not wishing to call attention to himself unless he had to. Mara had barely glanced at Tallus's notes; he could not deny the possibility that she had been wrong. Despite that, something about the high, stone walls and the garden's eerie silence felt right, tugging at him like the insistent pain of an aching tooth.
He stopped cold, a squeaking sound sending a chill down the back of his neck. It squelched for a breath then stopped, like the sound of a damp hand being dragged across a pane of glass. He searched the windows along the upper floor, squinting through the snow for the source of the noise. There were eight gabled windows, all in a row and all of them identical save for the last one on the western end. A streak of crimson blurred the otherwise spotless glass, the shape of little fingers easily made out above the red smear. The curtains waved, revealing a sliver of darkness and the unmistakable glow of burning green eyes.
He leaped the fence and sprinted through the garden, spying no guards to slow him as he approached the front door. In a brief moment of hope, he tried the handle, but the door was solidly locked. Abandoning convention, he dashed to the rounded eastern corner where tall windows outlined a large side room. He tried to peer inside but whirled around as footsteps crunched on frost behind him. A haggard, bent woman in torn robes stepped out from the shadow of a large tree, her dull, soulless eyes regarding him blankly. She raised the curved dagger in her left hand high as she shambled toward him, a stumbling half run that gave him little time for caution.
He drew his sword and smashed the window with its pommel, grateful as the glass shattered, unwarded by magic as Tallus's had been. He deflected the ahimazzi's clumsy slash and kicked her back before jumping through the window, briefly engulfed by thick curtains as his boots crunched on broken glass. The soulless woman recovered, and others of her kind appeared in the garden but would not approach the house, wandering back to
