He covered her bare shoulder with a clammy hand, sounding as if he'd just stifled a groan at the contact.
"Do-not-touch, Omort." She gritted out the words, making her plaits appear to be striking vipers
until he removed his hand. Sometimes she had to remind him that she was as treacherous as the serpents he worshipped.
She turned immediately, giving him her back instead of taking three steps away before turning to exit the chamber. When she passed the well, she darted her gaze to it.
Soon . . .
"You won't fail me?" he called after her. "Rydstrom must not reach his brother."
"Consider it done," she called back with utter surety. How hard could it be to capture a demon?
2
A prize so rare it was fabled . . .
Rydstrom sped his McLaren down a deserted levee road, his headlights cleaving through the swamp fog. That crazed energy within him, the inexplicable tension, had spiked to a fever pitch.
Omort could be killed.
One hundred miles per hour. One hundred and ten . . .
With a sword forged by Groot the Metallurgist.
Rydstrom had waited so long for this, he had a hard time believing it was happening now. Although he didn't trust the demon Pogerth, Rydstrom trusted his ally, Nïx-the Valkyrie soothsayer who'd arranged their meeting.
Nïx had said that this campaign was a chance to kill Omort-Rydstrom's last chance. Either he would succeed in destroying the sorcerer or he would fail forever.
By all the gods, it was possible. But for payment, Groot had asked for the impossible. Or so it would seem.
One hundred and forty miles per hour. Though Ryd-strom had hung up the phone with his brother minutes ago, he was still slack jawed. Cadeon-the most untrustworthy and least dependable being Rydstrom had ever known-had informed him that he was already in possession of the prize Groot demanded in exchange for the sword.