She saw it in his expression; the dawning realization that she was the stronger. Without Sensitives, it was indeed coming down to raw power, and Sorcha knew there was none in the Order anywhere that could match her. Her smile of victory froze on her face as she realized just what she would do if the tables were turned.
He did it. He reached for Teisyat. With the raw power of the Otherside streaming through him, all bets would be off. Yet he was trying to do it while holding up Yevah the Shield. Sorcha yelled to him, wrapping her fist around Pyet in an attempt to get him to stop. Summoning Teisyat while holding another rune was insanity. He would be destroyed and the gateway would be wedged open. Anything could come through. Anything.
But the fool didn’t care. His Gauntlet streamed lava, smashing a hole into the reality of the world. Sorcha bellowed at him to stop, darting forward and throwing herself against Yevah in a futile effort to reach him before he carved out the gateway. Too late.
A growl pierced the madness. Deep and loud, like a rumble from the earth itself. Sorcha felt it travel through her legs, and she knew instantly that there was only one thing capable of such elemental force.
Slowly she turned and backed away from the shifting sphere of Yevah. The Rossin crouched atop a rock; its form different from that last time in the tunnel. The shape was still feline, but larger and more muscular—almost twice as big as any Breed stallion. The Beast was not a shapeshifter—he was the lord of shapeshifters, varying his preferred form to meet any situation. His intent now was massive destruction, if this shape was anything to go by. Sorcha wondered for an instant how it felt for Raed to be inside this thing. Intoxicating and terrifying at the same time—the answer came dimly along their newly formed Bond.
With a snarl that shook the air, the Beast leapt from the rock and through the fire of Yevah, shaking off the remains of Raed’s clothes. Both rune and Rossin were of the Otherside; it was small impediment to one of the great geists. The Beast fell upon the rogue Deacon like a dark storm. So huge were its jaws that it tore him in half with one bone-shattering snap. The man had time for only a single horrified howl. Sorcha flinched but did not look away. The man had been a fool, a dangerous fool.
Now she was alone with the Beast that she held by the slimmest of leashes. A newly formed Bond seemed a very fragile thing to hang her entire life on. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she fought her instinct to run. If she did, her life would definitely be over—probably before she got more than a yard. Slowly, she bent and took up Raed’s dropped saber, feeling its weight nestle into her palm. It was an insubstantial kind of reassurance.
The great Beast turned and looked over one dark shoulder at her. Fitful flames from the remains of Pyet reflected in those eyes. Muscles were bunched and ready under its thick fur. The Beast was primed and the gaze seemed to suggest she had better find it a target very quickly.
Sorcha took a long deep breath, called on her runes and raised both hands. The power of Chityre smashed into the walls with the strength of twenty battering rams. Stone and mortar blew apart, creating a cloud of sudden debris. The rattle of masonry raining down around her was earsplitting.
Yet she could still hear the roar of the Beast, the satisfaction of a creature ready to act on its only instinct. The Rossin was now unleashed. The dust had not even settled before it bounded into the Priory.
FIFTEEN
A Sacrifice to the Darkness
The Rossin was free. Almost. The fire-haired Deacon, the one that had bound him, followed in his wake. He could hear her behind him, running to catch up. As it should be. As it had once been—with humans serving the Rossin, as they did on the Otherside. He did not know her name yet, but once he did, there would be a different kind of tethering, for her pitiful Bond could surely not be enough to hold him. Let her think that her puny link to the foci spared her. For now she served her purpose.
Deep down, the Rossin could feel the struggles of the human foci. The ancient foe, the family that had stolen his name and power and tethered him, was now suffering. But the Rossin had more immediate concerns. He scented prey in the immediate area; hot and warm and full of blood. The great imperative drove him as always—to feed and grow strong. The great teeth bared in a snarl that was an almost-smile as he leapt clear of the destruction.
Once beyond the tumble of broken walls and clouds of dust, the Rossin’s exceptional senses made out the racing of human hearts and the coursing of human blood more fully. Deacons—but not the sort of Deacon that followed him. These stank of the Otherside and desperation. Centuries before, there had been many such kind; before the coming of the Order.
The humans came running out, slamming on their Gauntlets, preparing to meet any attack. They weren’t expecting a geistlord. The Rossin tore into them even as they threw their puny runes at him; mere shadows of the real power of the Otherside.
He gorged himself on more than their flesh; he chased them around the compound, relishing their terror. Their screams delighted him as he broke them so easily, sending their shades in shattered shards into the Otherside, the realm that he was denied. Their pain was delicious to him, but no recompense for what their kind had taken from him. The recollection made the Rossin howl again, rending and tearing every morsel of flesh he could reach. Weak humans did not deserve breath. He threw their pieces around the compound like scattered chaff.
The female Deacon was behind him, closer now, and he could feel the Bond. It was not as weak as he’d thought. It was as fragile as a spiderweb—gossamer thin, but strong as steel. The Rossin threw himself harder against it. By the deep shadows—it was tightening!
How dare this woman presume to put bonds on a geistlord? The image of the first Deacon, the one who had bound him to this fate, flashed in his ancient memory. The ignominy of that event still burned the Rossin. Now these people would pay. No punishment was enough. The great muscles in his body bunched and exploded as he turned toward her, fast as thought. She would learn the lesson he’d been unable to lay upon the first of the Deacons. Spinning around, the Beast was ready to rend, but something held him back.
There was one trait in the human world that the Rossin admired: beauty. It was not the kind of beauty of the flesh that tethered men—but the beauty of power. When he turned those blazing eyes on this female, he saw it, gleaming like a gem in a pit of darkness. Perhaps it was the faint influence of his foci—though the Beast would never admit to such a thing—that stopped him from pouncing. Instead he crouched inches from her face, breathing destruction and the smell of blood on her. He saw the Deacon flinch slightly, her blue eyes watering from the nearness of his power. She had dismissed him with her rune Gauntlets before, when he was weak from the transformation. Even if she managed to wedge open his jaws and do the same right now, there would be no repeat. The Rossin had feasted and grown strong. She knew it. He knew it.
Deacon and geistlord were eye to eye. She was frightened, but did not move. He was transfixed by the thing that only he could see. For now, he would let her live.
The stalemate was broken when three lay Brothers emerged from the stables and made a break for the gate. With a great shake of his dark mane, the Beast let out a snarl and whirled about to give chase. It was glorious to release himself upon them and he could not contain himself long enough to enjoy the chase this time. Blood, hot and sweet, flooded into his throat, momentarily sating the thirst that never seemed to end. Bones snapped in his mouth and he heard the wail of souls ripped free of their meaty cages. The fizzle of power and blood in the Rossin’s veins was heady bliss.
He roared again, full of power and delight, before looking around the courtyard. It was clear of anything living apart from the tethering Deacon. Her great power and beauty saved her for now, but would not restrain him forever. He would keep her for last. Once he had taken his fill of energy from the Priory’s humans, no pitiful Bond could possibly hold him. The Rossin looked forward to seeing those blue eyes widen in horror just before he fell on her. He wondered what her soul would taste like.
Now it was time to find more flesh. He sprang away, his hide the color of angry clouds rippling under the torchlight. Magnificent, he knew. Great paws with their retracted claws moved silently over the stones of the courtyard toward the keep. The doors smashed most satisfactorily as the Rossin landed against them, his great bulk ripping them free of their mounts and scattering their broken fragments on the scarred floor.
Within, the keep was lit with torches and the moonlit glow of cantrips. Seven large weirstones described a space encompassing the back and the center of the room. The Rossin’s ears lay flat against his neck and the white
