Birdsong and the growing illumination of the rising sun heralded the start of a new day. Already knowing the assassin would be needed first thing, Kara’s subconscious waited for the signs of morning to drag him from his slumber. For more years than he cared to think, he needed to stir at the break of day; amber eyes slowly opened and confirmed the time.

The violet aura nearby seemed still quiescent. He allowed himself a tender smile as he thought about the truth he’d discovered. Then, carefully, he set the emotion aside. Gathering together his darker, more dangerous traits, he let the mask of the assassin fall into place even as he pushed himself up from the bed. The covers slid off his form and were then tossed aside as he swung his feet to the floor. Silently, he rose to his full height, but then he let a soft groan break the silence as he stretched the kinks out of his muscles.

A walk over to the door revealed that the laundry service had dropped off their clothes. Picking them up, he closed the door again and walked to the area between the beds. Sorting his clothes from hers, he dropped his garments on his bed. Then he carefully laid out the Herald’s clothing over the lump in the bed that was her feet.

Amber eyes flicked to the sleeping woman’s peaceful face. She still held Lopzu in her embrace; how he envied his old toy. Sighing deeply, he used the long exhale to set aside his rather carnal love once more. Grabbing his traveling garb, he walked to the space next to his bed before the nightstand. The sturdy garments were set upon the small table’s surface.

He picked up his sturdy comb and began to work the snarls out of his sunset-hued mane. In little time at all, his hair fell against his back in untangled locks. Setting the comb back down, his nimble fingers then untied the knot at his waist. The sash came free; the thin sleeping robe fell open. Shrugging his shoulders, the ivory-white silk fell to the ground.

He hesitated a moment, but it seemed as if the Herald’s aura remained still and quiet. Letting himself relax, he luxuriously stretched again. It felt good, living to see another day. Like every warrior, he had faced moments where he wondered if he would ever do so again.

Picking up his loincloth, he fastened that in place, hands going through the familiar motions with little thought. His shirt was next; he tugged it around his lean form and pulled his hair free of its silken embrace. Next the loose-fitting pants, and then finally wrapping and tying his golden sash to help keep everything where it belonged.

The comb came back into play as he expertly gathered up his hair into the grip of a hand. A bit of fumbling and twisting of his leather tie and his topknot once more jutted proudly just behind the crest of his head. Ready to face the day, the Lopayzom dropped the comb onto the nightstand and turned to face his traveling companion.

Jurnia had moved, rolling over onto her back, one arm thrown lazily up over her head on the pillow, which was almost hidden from view by the heavy sheet of her dark hair. Lopzu was still snuggled closely against her side with the other arm, but the sheets had shifted enough to confirm that she slept in the nude; he had an unimpeded view of her sleek shoulders and throat and a sizeable expanse of her bosom. Her face was turned toward him, apparently still asleep, her lips parted slightly and a faint blush showing on her cheeks.

There was a good reason for that—she had been awakened when he opened and closed the door, but a wicked curiosity had kept her feigning sleep so that she could watch him. He really had a magnificent body, muscle packed tightly to his seemingly slight frame. Simply out of a sense of fairness, she’d shifted around in bed to let him get a moderate peek in return.

The lusty observations were tempered by a deep swirl of emotion, a case of stomach-butterflies that she had some difficulty keeping from being reflected in her aura. She had been mostly asleep last night when he came into the room, but his soft voice had drawn her closer to wakefulness—close enough that her Herald-trained memory had caught and secured his words for later review.

I love you, Jurnia.

If she’d been more alert, she would have replied—but if she’d been more alert, he might never have spoken at all.

I will protect you to the best of my skill and ability, from every threat—including myself.

She thought that she understood, at least more than she had before. A thousand little things came together in her mind to offer up the answer. He was ashamed of his darker deeds . . . so ashamed, perhaps, that he thought himself utterly unworthy of being loved at all. The task that loomed ahead of her was proving to him that he certainly was worthy of her, and that she wasn’t repulsed or horrified in the slightest by what he had done in his past. A small epiphany came to her even as she thought about it; her idealized vision of Khuradasu had come to be entwined with the vision of the cheerful, gentle man he was now. Last night’s heated dreams had included the warrior’s fierce, hungry gaze, but his hands on her body had been slow and sure and infinitely tender. She wanted him as he was, the real man with all the complexities and flaws that made him human, not the perfect and unattainable fantasy. The trick would be convincing him of it.

His eyes focused on her tempting curves. His face grew warmer while the rest of him began to react in ways that were starting to become quite familiar by now. But this time he understood their source and he was able to push them back into the mental compartment in which they belonged. He deliberately turned his back on her and reached out for his sword. “Lady Jurnia. Lady Jurnia, you really should be waking up now,” he called out, his voice now the sunny tones of his wanderer persona. “If you want to come with me to meet this Sarpom, that is.”

He started toward the door, the sheathed weapon sliding into place against his waist. “I’m going to go see about bringing some breakfast here, so try to drag yourself out of bed.” He paused as he slid open the door, then gave a small chuckle. “I’ll be so very tempted to eat it all if you’re not awake to share.”

Kara stepped through. Then the panel slid shut and he was gone.

Jurnia sighed, sitting up. In the near-absent aura of Khuradasu, she had picked up the beginning of a response to the view she had offered—and then the golden aura had flared again, the playful, harmless fox-totem peering out innocently. She hadn’t realized it was possible to so carefully subdivide one’s emotional reactions, but evidently, Karavasu had turned it into an art form.

So he’s tucked his desire away into “Khuradasu”, has he? she thought as she started getting dressed. He’s so anxious about his own passion that he cages it up along with all his other “uncontrollable” emotions? That’s going to make this difficult.

She stopped, one arm through the sleeve of her blouse, and began to grin. Or else it’s going to make it a lot easier. After all, he has to be Khuradasu quite a bit as long as we’re in this town . . .

By the time Kara returned with breakfast, Jurnia had made both beds—setting Lopzu down on Kara’s pillow—and gotten dressed, but one might have slight trouble identifying her clothing as the same stuff she’d worn the previous day. By tying and pinning and tweaking, she had turned the rather modest outfit into something that didn’t actually show off too much more, but certainly led one to speculate on what remained hidden. There was a fair amount of cleavage showing, her sleeves had been turned back to reveal more of her slender arms than usual, and her pants clung more tightly to her legs. She’d also done some things to her face with cosmetics—a careful application of kohl to draw attention to her vivid eyes, and a reddening of cheeks and lips that suggested she’d recently been kissed quite a bit. She was in the process of plaiting the sides of her hair into sort of a slim coronet of braids, letting the back fall free.

Having slipped back behind the mask of the assassin for the sake of the town”s not-so-reputable public, the moment his eyes drank in the sight of her the poor young Lopayzom swordsman teetered between his two personas; desire and protectiveness welled up in equal measure, clashing for dominance. He could only stand there in front of the still-open door and stare, mouth hanging slack, golden eyes huge, and his fingers turning white where he gripped the tray bearing their breakfast. His golden aura flickered almost crazily, the totem still playful but suddenly sinister and far from harmless.

If he thought her beautiful with her practical traveling clothes and unenhanced visage or with her sleeping innocence in the soft light of spirit-fire, she was downright gorgeous when she was really trying.

The assassin won the spiritual tug-of-war. His jaw tightened as he purposefully strode into the room without making a sound on the reed mats covering the floor. He set the tray down on the foot of his bed. Then, slowly and deliberately, he turned to face her. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he inquired, soft voice holding a note of steel.

“Putting up my hair,” she answered, a bit startled by the tone of his voice. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“I was expecting you to look as you did yesterday.”

Jurnia stared at him. “And this irritates you, that I look different?”

He shook his head slightly. “That’s not quite it. I mean, I never even knew you could . . . um . . . emphasize so much with that outfit. And I would have thought that ‘keeping a low profile’ meant something.”

She blushed. “Well, it’s a fairly versatile set of clothes.”

“Versatile? For what? Going from ‘don’t you dare touch me, I’m a Herald’ to ‘gods, I want everyone’s hands all over me’?”

The blush turned into red flags of embarrassment and fury. “I am not trying to convey that!”

“That’s what it looks like to me!”

“Nobody’s going to be studying my face, so it’s not very likely that someone might recognize me as the Raven Herald. And it’s not as if I’m showing off everything!”

“You’re showing off enough, especially to this town, which happens to be only a front for the shadow clans to have some interaction with the more decent folk of society. Or have you forgotten I’m going to go meet with a man who ‘rents’ women for sex?”

She began rearranging her blouse slightly to hide a bit more of the view. “Well, I”m supposed to be ‘Khuradasu’s woman’, aren’t I? Won”t people expect to see a glamorous sort of girl hanging off your arm?”

He slapped a hand over his face, taking a deep breath, then lowered his hand as he slowly exhaled. “From what I’ve heard, people would be surprised to see any girl hanging off my arm—living, that is. They’d rather believe I drink the blood and eat the flesh of nice, tender virgins to maintain my unholy sword skills.”

“Then obviously everybody is going to expect that a woman who can catch and hold the attention of the most dangerous assassin alive would have to be a pretty spectacular type herself, right?”

He sighed again, just looking at her. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t get to hear the rumors about me that must circulate among women. I just keep getting this image of having to swat away an entire swarm of drooling cretins instead of maybe one or two willing to risk the wrath of the Demon’s Claw. I also fear drawing attention to yourself will get you recognized by whoever wants to murder His Grace, the Raven.”

“You’re behaving like you can hardly recognize me, and you’ve seen me every day for weeks now,” she pointed out sweetly.

He started to reply, thought better of it, and shut his mouth. The fox-totem still glimmered in his aura, peering reproachfully at her out from behind the shield it used when he put on the mask of the assassin.

Jurnia went back to the braiding. “You were going to say?”

She sensed him withdraw further into the persona; the totem faded out completely, leaving only his spirit energy as a golden corona. “It doesn’t matter. Do as you wish. I’m going to eat now.” He turned his attention to the dishes waiting on the tray and picked up his portion. Though he seemed quite cool and indifferent as he sat on the edge of the bed and dug in, there was also a faint sense of pouting on his part buried deep within.

“Yes, it does matter,” she snapped, her tone edged with hurt. “What would you prefer me to do?”

How can I even begin to explain to her that she’s so beautiful people—especially men—can’t help but notice her? He concentrated on his breakfast for a moment longer; without looking up, he muttered, “I prefer you wore something less remarkable.” For just a flash, the clueless sunshine of the wanderer broke through as he looked at her, giving her a bright, innocent smile. “A burlap sack comes to mind, that it does.”

That made her laugh a little. “I am not wearing a burlap sack. Burlap is itchy.” She gave him a long look. “As you pointed out, we’re supposed to be visiting a man who effectively rents out women for sexual purposes. We’re likely to be hip-deep in half-dressed harlots. I just can’t imagine ‘Khuradasu’s woman’ not making a point of showing off a bit just to make sure everybody knows Khuradasu doesn’t need to go looking elsewhere for . . . entertainment.”

He blinked at her, obviously startled. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Seemed more to me that only Khuradasu could judge what type of woman he’d want, and people would just accept it. I mean, not many would want to argue with the Demon’s Claw over anything.”

“I’m entirely certain that Khuradasu can judge what type of woman he wants, regardless of what anybody else thinks.” And it would seem that I’m his type after all. “But what we’re really talking about here is female pride.” She finished the braid, tying it off neatly.

“Oh.” He concentrated on his meal again, feeling quite contrite. “That’s something about which I fear I’m ignorant. Do as you must. Just . . . let’s not make my job as your protector harder than it needs to be. Khuradasu brings enough trouble on his own without a pack of dogs ready to challenge him . . .” His voice trailed off while his cheeks pinkened slightly. The rest of the thought—”for the only bitch in heat for miles around”—was far more suited to a warriors’ campfire rather than articulated to the woman he had come to love.

“I’d feel sorrier for the hounds than the Fox, oddly enough.” She grinned faintly as she picked up her breakfast.

“I don’t know . . .” He scooped out the last of the sweet, custard-like rice in his bowl. After swallowing the mouthful, he added, “I rather pity the Fox at the moment.” His amber gaze focused upon her again; desire curled through his awareness, but he gently pushed it away once more. “Please, just be careful. Whoever wants Iryasitru dead may not be averse to depriving him of his Herald as well.”

She nodded solemnly, swallowing a mouthful of rice before answering. “I know. I promise that I won’t wander off or actively do anything to attract unwanted attention.”

“Good.” He visibly relaxed. “A place like this is a far cry from the circles of princely courts, diplomats, politicians, and their dirty games. Perhaps you”re experienced in the ways of politics, but here, you may be out of your element.”

She shook her head wryly. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the lowlifes around here aren’t all that different from some of the politicians I’ve encountered, aside from their financial circumstances and personal hygiene standards.”

“There’s one difference.” He rose gracefully, stretching for a moment before setting his used dishes onto the somewhat worn wooden tray. “Here, they’re not afraid to sully their hands.”

“That’s certainly a change. Usually I deal with people who prefer to have other people do the dirty work. I suppose this town is full of those ‘other people’.”

“Yes, it is.” His orange topknot bobbed as he nodded. “As I said, it’s a front for the clans who dwell in the shadows. The more ‘respectable’ families—or families from smaller, less influential clans of the same ilk—of the Mushakom, Sarpom, and Kazaikom establish towns that straddle the law. There are many legitimate businesses here, but also illegal enterprises, and many private homes are safe havens. They do their best to look completely respectable to outsiders passing through or shopping, but for those who move in the shadows . . .”

“You take me to the most interesting places,” she remarked, turning a positively radiant smile on him.

Kara quirked an eyebrow inquiringly. “Is that how you really feel, or is that sarcasm?”

“A little of both. I’ve never seen this side of society.”

“You’re from the nobility. They don’t want you to see this side. The nobles get in the way; their laws strangle their ability to make a living as they wish. Even so, in the shadows, they can be as powerful as any prince.”

“You’re a member of the nobility too, though.”

The mask of the assassin fell into place, his aura taking on a chilling, sinister tone, as his suddenly-cold amber eyes stared at her. “You’re one of the few that know about that. But this is Khuradasu’s realm. This is the world in which the Demon’s Claw belongs.”

Jurnia was probably one of the few people in the world who had no fear of Khuradasu. She met his eyes without hesitation. “No. This is the world in which the Demon’s Claw is able to move freely, recognized and respected by other human predators. You belong wherever you’re happiest being.”

“If that’s the case, then I belong nowhere.” He gestured at her, intending her to hurry along. “We don’t have all morning.”

“That’s a sad thought. Everybody deserves to be happy somewhere.” She applied herself to eating breakfast again.

It was impossible to tell if her words had any effect; nothing showed on his impassive face. He just stood there, silently watching her with those chilled golden eyes.

“Oh. Thank you for lending Lopzu to me,” she said, hoping to defuse the tension in the air, indicating the little stuffed fox that was now sitting on his pillow. “He was good company. He didn’t even snore or grab all the covers.”

It was amusing to see a hardened assassin’s expression shift from a glare to surprise and finally to a half-embarrassed grin. A bit of the wanderer persona returned to his face, softening the harshness of his visage. “You’re welcome.” Kara turned and gently scooped the toy up from off the bed, holding it up and giving it a long look. For some reason, the stuffed fox’s embroidered smile seemed to take on a sly, knowing smirk. I think you enjoyed yourself way too much, Old Man, the Lopayzom swordsman thought sardonically.

Jurnia giggled softly at the change in his expression, watching him pick Lopzu up. “I didn’t hurt him at all, if you’re looking for damage.”

“Ara?” He blinked, turning his startled gaze on her. “Oh, no, I never even thought you’d hurt him. I mean, he lives in the bottom of my bag. Not the least stressful existence he could have, but he’s held up quite well.”

“I’d never have imagined that big bad scary Khuradasu carries around a stuffed toy fox.” She grinned at him. “It’s so cute.”

“Yes, well . . .” He grinned in embarrassment. Looking at the toy again, he could have sworn the thing somehow winked, even though the left eye was long gone. “I suppose that’s just another secret with which I’m going to have to trust in your discretion to keep.” Striding over to his still-open traveling bag, he knelt down.

Jurnia put a hand over her heart, which just drew the eye to the area of bosom exposed by her blouse. “I’ll keep it absolutely secret, I promise.”

For a second, there was no mistaking the spark of hunger that illuminated his eyes. Then it was swept away by one of the wanderer’s cheerful grins, but a tiny shiver—not of fear or cold—ran up Jurnia’s spine. “Good.” Kara turned his attention to the bag while setting the toy on the mat next to him. The travel-worn canvas first swallowed up his arm as he pushed a few items out of the way, and then it practically engulfed his head as he worked on restoring the fox to its usual place. “All right, Old Man. Back home you go,” he muttered softly, a sound that was further muffled by the heavy canvas.

“You can leave him a bit closer to the top of the bag. If you’ll be coming back to the room late, like we discussed, at least he could keep me company.”

Kara froze a moment. Withdrawing his head, he looked up at her. His ponytail was a mess, pushed forward over his head with the silken strands scattered about his bangs and falling haphazardly over his face. Staring up at her, blinking, he pulled the fox back out in his hand and gave it a look that she swore could be one of envy.

“You’d better not laugh at me for wanting a stuffed animal to keep me company,” she warned. “You’re the one who’s carrying it around, after all.”

“All right. You win.” It was hard to tell if he was talking to her or to Lopzu. Grabbing the bag with his free hand, he gave it a jerk to settle its contents back into the bottom. After shaking his head to get the locks of his topknot out of his face, he carefully laid the velvet toy on the very top. “There. He should be easy for you to find tonight.” A few quick twists of the rope, and the bag was lashed closed once more.

Jurnia set her empty bowl down on the tray and took a deep breath to get her fluttery stomach under control. “I guess it’s time to go, isn”t it?”

He rose gracefully, settling Khuradasu’s menace around him like a cloak. “If you’re ready.”

“I’m only going to get less ready the longer we sit here,” she pointed out, clearly nervous, but just as clearly determined to go through with the act.

“Then let’s go.”

It was an interesting change from the usual walk through the towns that they had visited, Jurnia reflected. Normally, Kara was so self-effacing and humble that few people even seemed to notice him as he strolled along, his body language clearly indicating that here was a harmless little fellow of no consequence.

Khuradasu was a different matter. He walked as if he owned the street and the entire town and everybody in it, his head up, eyes constantly moving, pure danger radiating from him with every step. People automatically got out of his way and avoided making eye contact.

Jurnia did not trail along behind him in imitation of the way some of the women on the street followed their men. She walked calmly beside him, loftily ignoring the glances that came her way; she could almost see the ripple as the word spread that Khuradasu really was in town, and that it was a very bad idea to approach him or his woman without extreme caution.

Their destination was a building not far from the center of town. It looked to be nothing more than the house of a moderately wealthy merchant, at first; it was larger and better-maintained than those around it, set back from the street with a small flower garden filling in the space from the gate to the front door. There were, however, certain signs to indicate the place was not quite what it seemed, if one knew what to look for—such as the small lamps on either side of the door, which were stylized lotuses fashioned out of red glass.

Kara walked straight up to the front door and knocked hard enough to make it rattle in its frame. After a few moments, he knocked again; the door was finally by a woman who appeared to be in her middle thirties, mature and yet still quite pretty, though she looked as though she had been awakened out of a sound sleep. Nevertheless, she smiled pleasantly at the slender young man.

“I’m afraid that we”re not open for business at the moment, young sir. You’d be better off coming back this evening.”

“My business is with Markazyu. I understand that he is the owner of this house.”

She fixed Jurnia with a sort of cool, assessing gaze that made the Herald decidedly uneasy, then looked back to Kara. “Ah. If you’ll step inside, I’ll see if the master’s available. May I have your name?”

“Khuradasu.”

The effect on the woman was immediate; she stared at him, her eyes widening, before she almost stumbled back a step to admit them into the house.

The entry hall was somewhat dark, the windows heavily draped; the woman closed the door behind them, then went quickly to the end of the hallway and through a door beside the staircase there. Jurnia looked around, morbidly fascinated; this was definitely the first time she’d ever seen the interior of a brothel. It seemed disappointingly normal, until she glanced through the wide, open doorway on the right side of the hall. Though it was deserted at this hour, she could see that the room was decorated—or overdecorated—in red and black accented with fake gold. Thick rugs covered the floor, and low couches and heaps of cushions were placed here and there, veiled with filmy curtains. There were a few shockingly explicit paintings on the walls, and a few equally explicit pieces of sculpture scattered about. Jurnia assumed that that would be the, well, “showroom”, where the ladies of the house would display themselves to the clientele.

The older woman returned a few minutes later. “Master Markazyu will see you at once.” She edged aside to let them pass with several inches of clearance to spare.

The room was obviously set up as an office, occupying one corner at the back of the house. It wasn’t quite as oppressively overdecorated as the “showroom”, but the impression that Jurnia got immediately was that of someone who had more money than good taste. The furniture was all of excellent quality, clean and polished, but the room was definitely overcrowded with art objects. Not all of them were erotic in nature, much to Jurnia’s relief.

The man behind the desk was tall and very thin, with quick, darting eyes and long bony hands. His smile had a nervous edge to it as he rose from his seat. There were two women in the room as well, clothed in brightly patterned gowns, their hair elaborately styled and their makeup perfect even at this hour of the morning; one was attending to a tray of tea, and another was perched on a small chair beside the desk, carefully sorting papers. A flicker of movement at the corner of her eye caught Jurnia”s attention; she turned her head just enough to see what had caused it.

There were three women in the room, not just two. Unlike the others, the third one was sitting in a shadowed corner near one window, almost hidden behind the heavy draperies. As Jurnia took in the details, she saw other differences: this woman’s gown was not colorfully patterned, but was instead a solid, unrelieved black, and her hair was bound into a simple style. Her aura was so dim that Jurnia couldn’t even detect her clan, and her face was unremarkable. She merely sat and watched, her hands folded in her lap. Perhaps she was some kind of secretary, rather than one of the girls-for-hire, though Jurnia would have expected her to be the one going through the paperwork if that were the case.

Golden eyes swept over his surroundings, harsh and slightly narrowed in the assassin’s mask. The walk through the town had allowed him to fully embrace those aspects of himself known to the world as Khuradasu; he instinctively knew all those near him were harmless save the one shielding herself as he himself did. Even so, he had little fear there would be trouble. There wouldn’t be any profit in such for these people, not at the moment. The Lopayzom finally settled his gaze on the somewhat familiar visage of the Sarpom businessman.

Markazyu’s superficial warmness couldn’t hide his fear. The skinny, little man was absolutely the same orange-haired warrior he remembered as the best among the Derkaryan army. Like most people in town, he’d dismissed the rumors—until he saw the confident youth radiating sheer menace. Unlike the others, he’d seen Khuradasu at the time his legend was in the making; now he was staring at that very same man. “So, it truly is you,” Markazyu said, “though I must admit some surprise. After all the rumors concerning your appearances here and there since the end of the war—”

“I have a matter of business to discuss,” Khuradasu interrupted, his quiet voice carrying through the room on its steely tone alone.

“Er, yes, of course,” the dark-haired Sarpom sputtered. Quickly trying to regain his composure, he flicked his serpentine-green gaze to the rather comely woman accompanying the redheaded warrior. “Hmm, not bad. I’ll give you a hundred hiranya for her. She’s got quite a bit of potential. Get her in some good clothing, a bit more makeup, and train her to lose that proud carriage—”

“She’s not for sale,” the assassin said, his tone even more cold. “She’s mine.”

Jurnia glared at the flesh-peddler, but a quick glance sideways at Khuradasu’s face kept her from speaking up in her own defense. The assassin was quite willing and able to do it for her.

Markazyu instantly paled. “My mistake. Well, then, if you’re not selling, perhaps it’s buy—”

“I’ve not yet slaked my thirst with this,” Khuradasu cut the Sarpom’s words off yet again. Reaching out, he wrapped an arm around Jurnia’s waist and tugged the Herald against him. Cold amber eyes narrowed in irritation at the businessman as the assassin continued, “So why should I sip elsewhere?”

The Raven girl leaned against the Fox’s side, folding her hands atop his shoulder and resting her cheek on her interlaced fingers, a smug smile on her pretty face. The girl handling the tea tray had paused to look brazenly at Khuradasu as if he were a delicious sweetmeat, but she returned her attention to the tray as Jurnia focused a burning stare on her, the smile taking on a decidedly razorlike edge.

The warrior noticed but didn’t focus on the flare of feminine auras near him. He continued to glare at the oily flesh merchant.

“Then what brings the legendary assassin here to my humble business?” Markazyu inquired, his confusion evident. “If it’s not buying or selling—”

“You’ve done quite well for yourself since you were peddling camp-followers to the warriors of the Dragon Army,” Khuradasu said. “However, it’s that very past that brings me here. Of all those in the surrounding area, you’re the only one who knows the Demon’s Claw on sight. You alone can verify the truth of my presence here.”

The Sarpom’s serpentine-green eyes widened slightly in understanding. “I see . . . And there is some reason you wish such verification?”

The assassin smiled coolly. “As you said, many have been the ones who have tried to take advantage of my name and reputation since the ending of the Phoenix-Dragon War, even here in far-off Zarya. However, something has come to my attention that I wish to pursue.”

“May I in—”

“No, you may not,” Khuradasu interrupted, his free hand making a short, cutting gesture. “That is my affair. What I wish from you is to let it be known that the Demon’s Claw—the real one—is here in this town and awaiting more information on the contract I’ve heard offered. I’m staying at the Fighting Fish Inn until I hear from the person interested in the having the job done.”

“Well . . . it certainly sounds intriguing,” Markazyu murmured, his expression shifting to a sly one. There must be some way to take advantage of this opportunity. “But what’s in it for me?”

“The sum mentioned has been a substantial amount. I’ll give you a third for your trouble.”

“A third now and I’ll be more than happy—”

“Half now to cover any expenses you may have in spreading the word and the other half if the news pans out to a contact that pleases me,” Khuradasu responded.

“But—”

“That’s my only offer. I don’t repeat myself.”

The Sarpom inwardly frowned. He risked annoying the most feared assassin living and losing the sure reward offered at the moment. “Very well. I agree. Half of the promised third now and half once you’re satisfied my efforts lead to the information on your job.”

“Good,” the redheaded warrior said. Slipping his arm from around the Kaykolom maiden’s slender middle, Khuradasu reached into the left-hand sleeve pocket of his sturdy traveling shirt. He rummaged around, then swiftly tossed a dark pouch at the businessman.

Markazyu’s long fingers expertly closed around the leather container as he caught it. Tugging open the thong securing it, his eyes widened at the glint of metal within. The expertly-stamped coins were a mix of copper, silver and even gold. The Snake poured them out onto the desk, his fingers scurrying like spiders over the wooden surface as he separated out the various Derkaryan-marked denominations into piles while adding the total in his head. Fifty hiranya, in coins easily passed anywhere . . . “And another fifty?”

“If your efforts gain me the information I need.”

“I’m honored to be of service to a legend such as you,” Markazyu replied, scooping up the money from his desk.

“Be certain to spread the news among your network as swiftly as possible,” Khuradasu said. “And be certain to stress that this is truly the Demon’s Claw, that you’ve seen me during the war.”

“I always aim to please,” the businessman replied, his voice sounding as oily as his look. “Ask those who patronize my humble business. They leave quite . . . satisfied.”

Amber eyes narrowed in renewed annoyance. “I’ll be taking my leave now,” the assassin said, gracefully turning to face the door.

“Khuradasu.”

The warrior paused in mid-stride and glanced over his shoulder. “What is it, Markazyu?”

“It’s refreshing to know that even you have interest in such things these days. I assume Ziraisha—”

To those able to sense auras, the warrior’s golden energy flared dangerously. “Enough.”

Markazyu gulped, a chill of pure terror running through him. The single amber eye glaring at him promised a less than swift death.

“Enough, Markazyu,” murmured a quiet, amused female voice. “You have enough problems without making the Demon’s Claw angry at you.”

The Sarpom jerked as if he’d been struck, turning wild-eyed toward the voice. The woman that Jurnia had noticed rose calmly to her feet; judging by Markazyu’s expression, he hadn’t realized that she was there. The two girls also appeared startled, shying away as the woman strolled up to the desk and propped a hip against its edge.

“What—who—” the man sputtered.

“Oh, please,” she sighed. “You should have known that I would eventually hear the rumors of your involvement in the slave trade, Markazyu. You have a great deal of explaining to do.” She nodded pleasantly to Khuradasu. “I might have been sitting here all day waiting for him to say something incriminating. My thanks.”

“And who is it that’s thanking me?” the assassin replied, brows arching slightly.

She smiled. There was a sharp rippling in the air, like a heat-haze above the grass in summertime; when it cleared, she had changed. The black robe was embroidered with rich green thread at the hems, forming a pattern of twining serpents that echoed the image of the great snake that was now visible in the glow of her aura. It was her face that had changed the most, however, and even Jurnia flinched back slightly as recognition struck. Eyes so deeply blue that they were nearly black gazed coolly back at the Fox, and the porcelain smoothness of her skin was broken by the grayish-red scar that slashed from hairline to jaw down the left side of her face. Whatever had dealt the wound had come narrowly close to taking out her eye as well.

“Chieftain Nizaisa,” Markazyu whispered, a look of blind terror coming over his face as he cringed away from her. It was strange for a grown man to appear so frightened by a girl who seemed younger than Jurnia, unless one knew that this girl was far more than she appeared to be.

“The Sarpom chieftain?” Khuradasu said, a flicker of surprise visible on his face. The chief of the Snake clan was rumored to be over a century old, having taken control of the clan in her mid-teens, but she looked no older now than she would have been at that time.

“Is there someone else going around using the title?” Nizaisa inclined her head with a sardonic smile, the left corner of her mouth tweaked by the scar, pulling up enough to show a canine tooth that seemed longer, sharper, and thinner than it should be. “I owe you a small debt, Khuradasu. Markazyu’s been a bad, bad boy, and I could have spent far more time than I wanted to just waiting for confirmation.” She drummed her fingers lightly on the desk. “There are certain formalities expected when one meets a clan chieftain. I know you’ve been scrupulously absent from all courtly circles since the end of the Phoenix’s aggression, but I presume you still remember them.”

The assassin”s amber eyes narrowed again as his startlement faded away. Though absent from his youthful visage, a twinge of uneasiness remained at the Snake Chieftain”s mention of courts. The realm of the nobility wasn’t the circle the Demon’s Claw had traveled within, but rather this shadowy one. Even so . . .

He walked over to the young-seeming woman and held out his right hand, palm side up. “I am honored with the gift of your presence, Your Grace,” he said. True, the Snake were not only a commoner clan but also one of the three major rulers of the shadows, but any chieftain deserved the respect accorded to their station. Though it would certainly confirm his true background, it was far better to deal honestly with one of the three rulers of the shadow world.

Nizaisa smiled, laying her cool-skinned hand on his. It was more wariness than formality or a desire to challenge her that kept his eyes locked with hers as he bowed slightly and kissed her hand. There was a trace of amusement in those ink-blue depths. “I’m pleased to meet you in person, Khuradasu. You’re younger than your reputation suggests.”

He released her hand, the amber eyes still watchful. Shifting his weight onto his right foot, he loosely folded his arms over his chest. “There are many who aren’t quite what they seem in this world.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.” Her eyes flicked to Jurnia. It was obvious that she was well aware of the true identity of “Khuradasu’s woman”, but to judge by the flicker of a smile that played over her face, she was highly entertained by the situation.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “While you have every right to deal with your clansman as you see fit, I’m afraid I can’t allow my request of him to go unfulfilled, Your Grace.”

Her gaze returned to the swordsman, and her tone was calm, almost curious. “Can’t allow?”

“I’ve never been fond of Markazyu, and I’m even less fond of him now,” Khuradasu replied, his gaze steady. “It’s like swallowing bile to add to that man’s fortune, but something I still need to do. The contract being offered for my services is not one I can allow to be unanswered or claimed by someone else hoping to assume my reputation for himself. There’s been far too many willing to use the terror of my name for their own gain.”

“I can see to it that the word of your presence gets out, if you’re truly interested in the offer.” Nizaisa smiled briefly. “I realize that I have only marginal control over back-fence gossip channels, but I’ll do my best.”

Jurnia swallowed an incredulous laugh. If even half the rumors she’d heard were true, the Sarpom information network covered the entire empire and even beyond the borders. Nizaisa’s deliberate understatement was certainly not for the sake of humility.

The warrior too knew the true extent of the information network of the Snake Clan. Closing his eyes for a moment, he bowed slightly while saluting her, left fist resting lightly against his chest. “I am honored at your attention to this matter, Your Grace.” Straightening, he flicked his gaze for a moment to the quivering Markazyu. “Do with him as he deserves, then. I agree to leave my request in your capable hands,” he continued, gaze shifting back to the Sarpom Chieftain. “The stability of Zarya could rest on this contract. By your leave, Your Grace?” Obviously he considered the meeting at an end.

“It’s at least a small step toward repaying you for your help today. Even if you didn’t know you were helping me.” Nizaisa nodded and flicked a hand gracefully toward the door. “May the Goddess watch over you.” She glanced sharply at the two girls, who went pale and scurried out of the room well ahead of the assassin and his companion.

Jurnia was the last one through the door. As she turned to close it, she caught sight of the Snake moving very slowly and casually toward Markazyu.

“Shall we discuss your willful violation of the rules now?” Nizaisa said in a dreadfully quiet voice, her lips peeling back in a humorless grin.

What Jurnia saw as the chieftain smiled was enough to make her go cold. She hastily closed the door and rushed to catch up with Kara, shivering.

The orange-haired warrior retraced his steps through the overdecorated house of pleasure the Sarpom’s illicit fortune had acquired. Having been shown the way over to the office, he easily recalled their path through the building. However, his mind was far from his surroundings. He remained withdrawn, ire simmering within him; first had been the outrageous offer to buy the Raven Herald from him, followed by the reminder of the prostitute that had once been a Derkaryan spy during the war over the Dragonfly lands. Though his pretty face remained impassive, frozen into the assassin’s cold expression, his amber eyes faintly glowed with his internal anger.

He wordlessly pulled open the front door and stepped back into his waiting sandals, flicking his gaze to his companion to see if she was ready to continue through the outlaw town back to their inn. If the pale cast of her face and the haste with which she put her sandals back on were any indication, Jurnia would be more than happy to run through the gates of hell itself to get away from the pleasure house.

A frown twisted down a corner of his mouth at her expression. “Jurnia?” he murmured, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s go,” she said quickly, under her breath, glancing behind her as if expecting to see something horrible following them.

“All right,” he agreed. Stepping off the wooden deck encircling the rich-appearing house, he held out a hand to her, a silent offer to walk with her hand in hand this time around.

If his intention had been to distract her from whatever had frightened her, he succeeded admirably. She smiled almost shyly and put her hand in his, a faint blush touching her cheeks.

His breath caught at her smile, but once again he carefully set aside his feelings for her, not wanting to be distracted. Allowing himself a faint smile, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then led her along the stepping stone path to the estate’s front gate.

They were nearly to the gate when a high-pitched scream made Jurnia shudder. The sound was very faint—no doubt the house’s walls had been designed, or redesigned, to muffle noise—but it was just audible to the pair making their exit.

“I think Markazyu wasn’t giving the right answers,” the young Kaykolom whispered.

“It’s Her Grace’s business, not ours,” Khuradasu pointed out quietly, guiding his companion along the dirt street leading through the town.

“She’s got fangs!” Her statement would have been considered an outburst, except that it was delivered in a near-whisper. “I saw them!”

“Ara?” He came to a halt and turned to look at her, confusion on his pretty face. “And you’ve been around how many Avatars in your life?”

“I”m not making it up! I saw them! She’s got fangs!” Jurnia repeated in a rush. Then she scowled at him. “Several. What has that got to do with it?”

“Did I say I thought you were imagining things?” Khuradasu asked, amused. “I certainly believe you. However, some Avatars are more in tune with their totem than others. The Sarpom . . . tend to have more in common with their animal cousins than some other clans.”

“Well, you haven’t got a fluffy tail and I don’t have feathers, so I was hardly expecting to meet anyone who actually had fangs. Fangs! Like dith!” Her words were slightly garbled by her demonstration, which involved pressing her index fingers against her upper lip so that they pointed down past her canines.

A single orange eyebrow lifted over the assassin’s golden eyes. “Do you have any idea how silly you look doing that?” he asked, voice mild.

The word “silly” appeared to have a remarkable power over Jurnia. She glared. “Do you have any idea how much damage could be done to your fearsome reputation if this entire town sees me chasing you down the main street with a big stick?”

“Hrmph.” No sudden nervousness, no wild-eyed fright, no glimmer of the fluff-headed wanderer. Khuradasu merely stared back at her, impassive, unrelenting. “Must I point out to you yet again that your sword had to be left behind?”

“I’ll improvise. The gatepost looks good.” She glanced over her shoulder again, shivering. “Let’s go.”

“The gatepost?” he asked, soft voice again laced with amusement. He began walking again, his short body falling into a surprisingly long-legged, almost gliding stride. “You may be one of the strongest women I’ve had the pleasure to meet, but I don’t think you could rip such a post from the ground, dear Jurnia.”

“Then I’ll kick it in half. Hmph.”

“My my . . . such violence. Somehow I don’t think your mother would have approved,” Khuradasu murmured.

“My mother knew where I got the temper from,” Jurnia muttered.

“Well, well,” called a woman’s voice. Three elaborately clothed women were standing, seemingly at ease, on the corner of the main street and the small side street that Markazyu’s establishment was on. One of the women was giggling behind her hand; the other two were looking toward Khuradasu and Jurnia with assessing, cynical eyes. The one who’d called out added, “Aren’t you a lovely boy? I’ve got a nice mirror in my rooms. You can see everything right from the bed.”

He started to reply to his companion’s words, only to shift his attention to the trio of women at the streetcorner. He spared them the smallest of glances before continuing on along the street toward the Fighting Fish Inn.

“Oh, don’t be hasty,” the woman purred, shifting her weight and cocking a hip, striking a subtle pose. “I’m sure I can give you a good time.”

Jurnia glared. “He’s spoken for.”

“Now, now. Strong men like that want real women, not little girls.” The harlot’s gaze skimmed dismissingly over Jurnia.

The assassin came to an instant stop. His amber eyes glaring at them, he very deliberately snaked an arm around the Kaykolom maiden’s middle and pulled her against his body. “You heard her.”

Jurnia blinked, startled for a moment. Then she deliberately wound one arm about the small man’s shoulders, sliding the other hand very slowly down his chest and dipping just inside his shirt, even as she drew one leg up a few inches, her calf caressing his. She gave the three prostitutes a smug little smile.

A shudder ran through him; despite the tight control he kept on himself while playing the assassin, he couldn’t keep himself from responding to the Raven. “We really shouldn’t be wasting our time here,” he murmured to the dark-haired woman clinging to him.

“They started it. “Little girl” indeed,” she whispered, just before she lightly bit his ear.

The purr deep in his throat was unbidden. He shivered at the sensual nip, his arm tightening around her waist. “I think we’ve made our point . . .”

“Are you sure?” She nuzzled against his neck, rather as he had done to her the previous day.

“Fine then.” Without any more warning than those crisp words, he turned his face to hers. Tilting his head slightly, he captured her lips in a heated kiss.

Jurnia was startled. The tables had been turned; she’d had control while he stood there and tried to keep himself on a short leash, but with one kiss, the man had just turned her into warm butter. She shivered slightly, though not with discomfort.

He made sure to kiss her thoroughly, giving in just a bit to the temptation of her and his desire for her. Then the reality of the situation sank in; he was still the blood-stained assassin and she was still the Raven Herald. Reluctantly he ended his attentions. Turning her loose, he gently took her by the hand again. “We need to go.”

She was wide-eyed and blushing faintly by the time he took her hand. If the three harlots on the corner were an example of the worldly, cynical sort of “woman” that they thought he would prefer, Jurnia certainly lost out; she looked far more like a . . . well, like a virginal maiden who nonetheless possessed a considerable degree of passion.

The virginal maiden appealed far more to him than any jaded, experienced woman. Or rather, this virginal maiden appealed to him; her passion was genuine, not faked—and dedicated to him. That last, though true, made guilt stab through him. Silly girl, to be so enamored of such an unworthy one as I. Shaking aside his thoughts, he slipped back into his long-legged stride.

Judging from the dreamy little smile that curved her soft lips—very soft; he had recent firsthand knowledge of exactly how soft they were—Jurnia would disagree with his estimation of his own worth, or lack thereof. She followed him without demurral, ignoring the giggles of the prostitutes and one ribald comment that was made about the small man’s obvious eagerness.

The remainder of the day passed in what could only be considered an awkward silence. Having kept to wandering for nearly two years, Kara was unused to staying cooped up in a room with a very tempting young woman. He carried little in his traveling pack with which to amuse himself; he more or less had just drifted along the roads, passing the time by walking aimlessly and thinking. In lieu of that, he simply sat crosslegged on the bed and meditated, withdrawing into himself and his thoughts.

That is, when Jurnia would let him. She apparently didn’t like silence much, so much of the day was spent in small bursts of small talk about nothing with long pauses in between. Finally unable to take it any longer, Kara had left the inn again to wander the town. Of course, his Kaykolom shadow tagged along. As she so adroitly pointed out, it wouldn’t seem right for Khuradasu to leave his woman behind.

At least the Shadow Clan town boasted a large market. Food stalls, clothing vendors, mass-printed woodcarvings—including some very explicitly amorous ones—pottery, and household goods of all sorts were to be found, reminding him of the markets in some of the largest towns. And what wasn’t obviously out in the open could probably be found with a bit of effort, he was sure. Still, there were too many merchants to peruse through them all in one day. For that he was grateful; to hang out and window-shop would give him something to do as he waited for word on the assassination job. And markets were good places to overhear nice bits of news and rumor both.

He had drifted from stall to stall, ignoring the various looks he got from the vendors and patrons alike. The Demon’s Claw being present seemed to be the news of the day; that’s all he heard about before people would go quiet and stare at him as he approached. Though he kept the mantle of the assassin wrapped about himself, inwardly he was sad and frustrated both. Seems as if the rumors about Khuradasu get wilder every month . . . That more and more people associated himself with the Demon’s Claw boded well for capturing the information he needed on the proposed assassination even if it grated on his nerves.

But once again, the Raven Herald changed his plans by taking matters into her own hands.

Jurnia had seemed mostly unaffected by his brooding silence, but when she realized he’d meant to only look and not actually shop at the fascinatingly large market, she huffed and darted away. Suddenly he went from a menacing assassin aimlessly wandering to look at what was for sale to a harried bodyguard chasing after a woman determined to stock up on supplies.

It was a good thing that the previous day’s display of protective possessiveness had already spread through the town, because the young Raven was definitely showing just a bit more money than Kara would have liked. Any normal pickpocket or street thief would be apt to avoid choosing Khuradasu’s woman as a victim; only a more determined and hardened sort would do so. That blessing had a certain edge on it, obviously—she might go untouched by the less bold thieves, but if someone did decide that her purse was worth the effort, she would be in that much more danger.

Apparently oblivious to this fact, Jurnia flitted through the market with her stone-faced companion. He continued to follow where she led, an ever-present and very visible deterrent to casual theft—though as her purchases piled up in his arms, he had to wonder if some bold thief would try to take advantage of his increasingly hampered state. Since some of the things she bought were relatively fragile, he dreaded the idea of having to drop them all to the ground just to draw his sword. At least the merchants seemed less eager to haggle extensively with Khuradasu’s golden gaze burning a hole through the air next to their ear.

Long years of discipline helped to keep him from yawning visibly or keeling over from boredom as Jurnia took her sweet time with her shopping. It was a testament to his status as a fearsome legend that nobody seemed inclined to laugh at the sight of him trailing after the girl with her parcels stacked in his arms. Indeed, eyes were beginning to turn to Jurnia herself as people wondered just what kind of woman could hold the dreadful Demon’s Claw in such a semblance of docility. The plain fact was that, dread assassin of legend or not, it would have been discourteous to make her carry things. That still didn’t make him like the job, especially after her purchases threatened to obstruct his field of view.

She looked thoughtfully at the packages as they stopped for a moment. “Soap, towels, robes, washcloths . . . have I forgotten anything?”

“A five-piece set of bed linens, perhaps,” the little swordsman muttered.

With magnificent aplomb, she ignored that remark. “I think we both need new sandals. Mine are getting worn out, and yours don’t look much better. Didn’t we pass a shoemaker back there?”

“My shoes are fine. It’s getting dark.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set nevertheless. I think it was around this corner.”

“Didn’t we agree that we’d go back to the inn when it got dark?”

“Oh, this won’t take long,” she said breezily.

Of course it won’t, he thought sarcastically, trudging after her as she went off down the street, his expression anything but happy.

He was right. First she had to see, apparently, every single pair of shoes the shoemaker had. Then she had to hold a long discussion over the merits of various materials, which digressed into the local weather over the current year and how it affected the sources of those materials. Then she started talking about decoration.

Kara began to wonder how women ever got anything done.

Finally, however, her shopping was complete, including a new pair of sandals for himself. Her earlier purchases still held in his arms—arms that were really beginning to ache, though he bore it with the stoic silence of his training—Kara had been forced to lift one foot then another to try on various sizes in a manner much like a horse was. The only good thing about the frustrating ordeal was the touch of Jurnia’s fingers on his ankles through his clothing—and even that brought about its own discomfort. It was getting hard to ignore the tempting maiden.

Deep twilight stained the sky dark blue when the two of them left the cobbler’s shop. Stars glimmered faintly high above, but along the streets, the cheerful glow of torches lit the way. Though many of the market stalls were shut for the night, Jurnia noted that a number of others remained open.

Almost as if he sensed her hesitation and her curiosity, Khuradasu’s voice cut through the air. “No. No more.”

“But—”

“It’s dark and I want dinner. And I want to be rid of these things.”

“But—”

“If there’s more you think you’re missing, we can come back tomorrow.”

Glancing at him, she blinked. So intent was she on making their traveling more comfortable, she hadn’t really looked at her brooding companion in a while. Containers and boxes were piled up almost past his head in his capable embrace; a single amber eye glared out at her from a gap he’d managed to keep between items. Stifling a gasp and feeling her cheeks pinken, she raised a hand to her lips. Before he could assume she meant to argue more—rather than laugh her head off at the unintentionally funny picture he presented—she quickly said, “Yes, tomorrow will be fine.” Dropping her hand, she quickly spun on a heel and began walking fast toward the Fighting Fish Inn.

Muttering under his breath, Kara started after her. Though he kept his gaze on her through the makeshift peephole, he remained on the alert for anyone willing to cause trouble. Luckily, no one wanted to try this evening; they returned to their inn with no incident.

He sighed with utter relief the moment they were back in their room and the sliding door had been shut. Kneeling down next to the bed Jurnia had claimed, he finally released his hold on all the stuff she’d bought. The parcels tumbled over the bed’s surface as Kara stretched the kinks out of his muscles. Standing, he said, “You can sort through all that while I go fetch dinner and bring it here. Once I’m done eating, I’ll go out to the taverns . . . like we planned.”

She made a muffled little noise, and he whipped around, startled to see her leaning heavily back against the wall next to the door with her face buried in her hands. Is she crying? What’s wrong? Did something hurt her? “Jurnia?” he said, sudden worry roughening his voice and making him unaware that he’d used her name without the honorific as he reached out to gently take hold of her trembling shoulders.

“I’m sorry . . .” mumbled the young woman, her voice shaking. Alarm sparked in his eyes, and he slipped his hands down to catch hold of hers.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked carefully, feeling awkward and unbalanced. Dealing with a crying, apparently guilt-stricken woman hadn’t been covered in his training, and certainly wasn’t something he was experienced with. On impulse, he tugged her away from the wall and wrapped his arms around her, one hand stroking down her back in a soothing rhythm. “Are you afraid that I’m angry with you? I’m not, I swear. Did you forget something or lose something in the market?”

She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt, making odd little hiccuping sounds. His stomach twisted, and he searched frantically through his memory in an attempt to figure out what had upset her. “Jurnia? Please don’t cry . . . what can I do to make you feel better? Please tell me . . .”

She lifted her head from his shoulder; he winced momentarily, then stared. She didn’t look sad or upset at all. The eyes that he’d expected to see dimmed with some kind of pain were sparkling emerald-bright and her cheeks were quite pink.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped out, laughter bubbling up between her words. “But you looked so funny!”

He just continued to stare at her, amber eyes huge. It took long moments for the truth to strike him: that she wasn’t hurt but rather was doing her best to not laugh at him. The moment it did, his dumbfounded expression shifted to indignant outrage. He turned loose of her and stepped back. Hands loosely clawing the air in a gesture of exasperation, he growled, “And here I was thinking you’d hurt yourself or some other tragedy. Women!”

She sagged back against the wall, one hand still lightly gripping his shirt, the other arm banded across her stomach, which was aching from the restraint she’d exerted. Her head fell back with a muffled clunk as it hit the wood paneling, and she started laughing helplessly. It wasn’t some delicate, maidenly tittering or annoying giggle; it was a full-blown laugh, rolling up in long peals from deep in her belly and filling the room, a strong, healthy, and damnably infectious sound. She laughed so hard that her face flushed red, tears streaking her cheeks.

Part of him wanted to stay angry at her. After all, he happened to be the butt of the joke. But her laughter was infectious and she was so clearly amused. Kara couldn’t help but faintly smile and then softly chuckle himself. Shaking his head slightly, he stretched his arms again and turned toward the door. “I really should be fetching dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m very hungry.”

Jurnia caught hold of his shirt more firmly, pulling him closer as the howls of laughter faded into spasmodic giggles. Her free arm slid over his shoulder, her head coming to rest on the other shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she managed again. “I don’t mean to make you angry, or make you think that I’m poking fun at you. You just looked so funny with one eye peeking out among all those boxes!” She started giggling again, releasing his shirt so that she could slip the other arm around him. “Everybody else was so scared of you that they wouldn’t have dared to think it was funny at all, but I couldn’t help it . . .”

“Well . . .” He really should be slipping from her grasp and be on his way, but he couldn’t help but hesitate. It felt too nice to cast it immediately away. “I have to admit on further reflection that I had to be an amusing sight. Boxes up to here—” he raised his hand to indicate the level Jurnia’s purchases had acquired, “and me stuck with this little tunnel to peer through. Well, maybe some of the really wild rumors about the Demon’s Claw will calm down once it gets around he makes a very good pack horse as well.”

“You put up with an awful lot from me,” she murmured, her warm breath brushing against his ear. “Carrying all of those things, then having me laugh at you . . . but you aren’t shouting or stomping off. Most men wouldn’t be so sweet.”

“I’m not most men,” he responded, amber eyes closing as her breath made a shiver run down his spine.

“I know. Oh, how I know.” She turned her head, her lips moving feather-light over the pulse point in the side of his neck, her eyes slipping closed as she breathed his warm scent, tinged with dust and sweat from the day outside. He softly sighed, unaware of tilting his head to further bare his throat to her soft lips. All he truly knew was it was a blissful moment, a happy stillness in a life that had been full of loneliness, doubt, and violence ever since he had become determined to live according to his principles.

He might not have been aware of the small motion, but she certainly was. Taking it as a silent invitation, Jurnia laid a slow, lazy path of butterfly kisses down the side of his neck from ear to collarbone, following the quickened throb of blood beneath his skin. Finding her way blocked by his shirt, she nudged the fabric aside with her chin and bit his shoulder lightly—hardly more than a grazing touch of her teeth—before pressing her lips to the sleek muscle. Her tongue flicked against his skin for a heart-stopping instant, tasting him curiously.

He softly moaned deep in his throat, but her grazing nip abruptly bright him back to reality. That was the Raven Herald kissing him, a woman too noble to treat with dishonor and a personality too unsullied to touch—especially with bloodstained hands. He gasped, his small, lithe body tensing up as he grasped for self-control and fought against his feelings. I can’t let this continue, he chided himself, angry at giving in to his less-than-pure impulses. “No,” he said, voice firm and full of Khuradasu’s menace. “This isn’t right,” he added, pulling away from her and swiftly heading for the door.

She froze when he went rigid in her arms, afraid that she had done something wrong, hurt him somehow with that tiny nibble. As he pulled away, his strength seeming to brush aside her hold as if it were nothing at all, a sick, wrenching feeling went through her as sharply as a knife. His rejection was almost a physical pain, and she gasped as if he really had wounded her.

Jurnia’s usual reaction to emotional hurt was to get mad. But now, when she needed it, the anger wouldn’t come. It felt as if she had been thrust from a warm room into a winter blizzard, the sense of safety and shared desire snatched away—and it had been shared desire, not merely her own. She was certain of it.

“Why not?” she said in a voice that wanted to be a fiery, angry snap, and was instead a breathless, broken sound.

He stopped at the door, his hand on the frame ready to pull it aside. He bowed his head for a moment, then red hair slid lower on his back as he glanced upward again. “Because you’re the Raven Herald and I’m nothing but a bloodstained assassin,” he answered, his voice low so that no eavesdropping ears could hear. The door slid open with a scraping sound.

Then he was gone. However, he would have to return soon. It wouldn”t be like him to leave her there alone with nothing to eat.

He didn’t even look at her, and that added to the hurt. On one level, she recognized the meaning of what he said. He wasn’t rejecting her as much as trying to reject his own reaction to her. He didn’t feel that he was worthy of her, and so he had pulled away.

On another level, she only felt the humiliating rejection. Numbly, she pushed away from the wall and made the few steps to her bed, sinking down onto the edge of it. Almost by reflex, she reached out and picked up the toy fox, hugging it tightly against her with both arms. It was a very poor second to the way it had felt to hold him.

She did cry, just a little bit, biting her lip nearly hard enough to break the skin in an effort to stifle the tears. How can I make him see that what he used to do doesn’t define who he really is? I think I could talk myself blue, and it would all just bounce off that armor of self-loathing he’s got wrapped around himself. But now he doesn’t even want me to touch him . . . A tear fell on Lopzu’s nose. If I can’t use words or touch to make him understand, what can I use?

Persevere, but go slowly.