Apoch canted his head, studying the older woman as she wheezed lightly in her sleep. Moonlight bathed her face, deepening the wrinkle-lines age had carved into her skin, her open mouth the reminiscent shape of a dried-out corpse.

And to think, she's most likely only a third of my age.

That thought tugged the edge of his lips upwards, and he rose from his squat by her narrow cot, careful to not let his shadow fall over her closed eyes. Instinctively he knew this one slept lightly, but so had many other of his victims.

Looking over the room he rounded the bed, gaze drifting over the various knicknacks and paraphernalia lining the shelves, all of it childish and useless. Picking up a decorative pillow on the veritable mountain of them piled against the headboard he sniffed it, her scent faded beneath the floral laundry soap.

Sheets were replaced recently. She's gone, not for very long though. A day, maybe two.

Setting it back in place he wandered the rest of the room leisurely before heading into the bathing room. He paused at the doorway, taking in the beaten-copper tub and marble vanity that stretched across an entire wall littered with more frivolities. Picking through a few of the items, his attention snagged on a silver comb inlaid with abalone and mother of pearl. It was a vain object, but well-made combs were hard to come by. He tucked it into a pocket, ignoring the overpowering perfumes and priceless jewelry before wandering past the room divider where rows of clothing hung neatly along two walls. Traveling cases were still tucked on the upper shelves, none of them disturbed.

Very little of the clothing carried her scent, and a quick perusal through the drawers that held underthings yielded the same results. As if it was all new, pretty shells to wrap the girl in. Irritation tightened his brow as he contemplated that realization. Originally, he had assumed she had fled to her fathers estate to try to escape him. Yet if that were true, why was she not here?

Leaving Iscah's personal quarters behind to scout the rest of the upper wing, his steps were unhurried yet utterly silent across carpet and hardwood both. While the grounds had been swarming with mercenaries, there were none stationed inside the mansion; another clue that the girl was no longer on the property. Even if there had been guards stationed inside, he had no fear of getting caught, not with the humans weak senses. Plus the little affinity he had for shadow was more than enough to guarantee his passage would remain unmarked.

The half-demons had penchants for a type of magic they had labeled as affinities. They were more feral than their human counterparts, gifted with enhanced physical assets that made them utterly lethal on the battleground. Some of their kind had been gifted with abilities, but it was all a pittance in comparison to even the weakest of any human mage accepted into the Order of the Balenciai. Healers could speed up healing so that it took weeks rather than months, Druids could bless crops to be less susceptible to blights, and in his case Assassins could wrap themselves in surrounding darkness to be less noticeable. Not invisible, although some of his brethren could shadow step short distances, but he had never been that good. Instead he had trained obsessively to make up for that weakness and proved hard work could destroy talent time and time again.

It had been one of the main reasons the Masters of The House had chosen him to continue their legacy at one time. That had been before they had demanded more than he was willing to give.

Now as he opened the door on the well-tended hinges to the master bedroom he reflected on that twisted irony of his life once again. It was hard not to, especially when he stood staring down at Isren’s sleeping form. The last time he had seen this man he had been in his late twenties, and time had placed its marks upon him like it did all their kind.

He had despised him then, and for no reason he could explain, still did. But Zidaii’s words echoed in his mind, shredding against memories as sharp as broken glass.

This is say three times to you: Do not harm these humans for any reason.

Zidaii had never told him the reason for the entire mission. Why those four men needed to witness just how many of the Cambions were slaughtered in their defense against an Archfiend. Apoch, being the obedient second-in-command that he was, never raised the question even though it sat like a stone in his gut. By the time he had finally decided to query the Warchief, it was too late; Zidaii had been assassinated.

There had been nothing to link it as retaliation to the kidnapping, but Apoch’s fingertips itched to feel the weight of his blade, his nostrils flaring in desire to smell Isren’s blood spill for no reason other than that shared sliver of history all those years ago. Instinct roared at him that he was somehow involved in that loss, and so it should have been no real surprise to find it was the same man’s daughter hounding his dreams.

But why? Is this your doing, Isren? Is this your machinations? Somehow, I doubt that.

He took a controlled breath through his nose, their anxiety still sharp even in sleep. They were aware of what hunted their daughter and feared for her life, though the scent was heavier on the woman. Isren’s wife lay curled in a tiny ball all the way across the bed from him, both hugging their relative edges of the mattress. As if even that distance was not enough. In the darkness he could slit his throat easily, or even suffocate him beneath a pillow and she would never know until the morning. From what Apoch could tell from the woman’s subconscious body language, it might be doing her a favor.

Yet Zidaii’s ghost whispered to him imploringly, commanding, and even after so many decades he obeyed. Followed the unseen spirit out of the room and drifted with it through the hallways until he found what he was looking for.

The laundry room was not far from the kitchen, garments fetched from earlier that day waiting in sorted bins to be washed and hung to dry on lines just outside the door. Apoch located the stack of feminine clothing, sucking his tongue against the back of his fangs in irritation before delving into the garments and digging to the bottom.

Pulling out a slip made of white lace and satin he returned the rest of the clothes that had fallen out, stepping back to make sure nothing looked out of place or tampered with. Satisfied he turned his attention back to the article in his grasp.

Twisting it into a ball he lifted it to his face, burying his nose and mouth against the cool fabric, and in the solitude of that room inhaled deeply. Her scent enveloped him, flooding his sinuses and coating his tongue in amber and subtle vanilla. Involuntarily his eyelids fluttered closed, unbidden thoughts drowning all reason as the slippery material cascaded over his knuckles.

He played out their encounter again, from her summer storm entrance to the point where she had left herself vulnerable in her need to be alone. The perfect opportunity to complete his intent.

His heart accelerated, just like it had then when the door had closed and it had been just the two of them. Releasing the shadows so that she could see her death approach he had pinned her to that counter, stunned when eyes of the darkest blue widened up at him.

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Blue-black, not the cobalt of his dreams. In that hesitation she had touched him, her voice a sigh of relief, of awe. With those syllables that was his name across her lips he had realized she hadn’t been the orchestrator of any of this, but was just at a loss as he had been. And yet his treacherous body had betrayed him.

His fingers tightened as he released a shallow exhale before breathing in once more, imprinting her scent. Searing his olfactory system with her signature even as his cock hardened.

It had almost been his undoing. He had wanted to grab her by that offending hand and spill her across the bed. That maddening nightgown ripped away, her struggles dominated as easily as if she were a sparrow in his grasp.

Her cries would’ve been muffled beneath the mockery of intimate kisses, even as he forced his way into her. Setting her body jerking with every invasive thrust until he was fully seated inside, utterly beholden to the desire plaguing him.

And when his climax neared he would’ve wrapped her delicate neck in one hand, cutting off her ability to scream and the blood-flow to her brain. As her heart fluttered its last he would’ve found his release, watching from mere inches away as the light died in her eye—

The room tilted slightly, jarring him out of the fantasy. His stomach knotted in sickening dread as sweat prickled his temples in alarm. Crushing the garment into a smaller ball he squeezed his eyes tighter, evening out his breathing when he realized he had been taking too many deep breaths, flooding his system with excess oxygen.

It was only mild hyperventilation, not the thought of killing her, that had made him dizzy and his stomach roil. To drive this point home he focused on his indigence, attempting to build a wall of stone around this misplaced indulgence that was her.

If he no longer believed she was the engineer of all of this, then perhaps together they might find out who was. Which meant it did not end here, that he needed to track her down once more. He hated the feeling of relief that soothed his subconscious.

Fingering the expensive material one last time he shoved the garment into a pocket at his hip, slipping out the back door of the laundry room and into the chilled spring night. Navigating past the added guards patrolling the grounds was as effortless as it had been inside the house. The increased security was almost flattering, but it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference in the end; the human’s misplaced sense of security was comical.

He vanished into the thick woods, heightened eyesight allowing him to easily lope down the game trails with just the thin beams of moonlight that struggled through the canopy illuminating his way. A mile into the forest Apoch paused, turning to track movement in the brush to his right. Bu’u prowled out of the undergrowth, posture deferential as he approached the Cambion.

In response Apoch held out Iscah’s slip, and the denimal sniffed it over thoroughly before lifting to stare almost accusingly at him.

“What,” he growled, squaring his shoulders to the beast defensively. Bu’u only snorted as if saying you’re insufferable before slipping back into the darkness.

She had a two day lead on him, but the hunt would have to wait until he finished with one last loose end. Besides, he mused, the corner of his mouth flexing in contempt. In the end it didn’t matter if she had run away or had been sent away, not even a two-week lead would save her from him now.

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Salas had stopped yelling for help, which was a good thing. It had been a wasted effort to begin with, but Apoch had allowed it so the male would understand just how hopeless his situation truly was.

Sitting crumpled against the ground, he no longer fought the ropes binding his hands behind his back. He was too weak to even move when Apoch entered the abandoned hunting cabin buried deep in the woods, the structure so aged mildew and decomposition had long erased any scent of its previous inhabitant.

“Did you…find what you were searching for?” Salas rasped, his sentence broken and slurred by shallow breaths. Apoch cocked his head to the side as he mused over just how much to tell the dying male.

“She’s gone, but not for long.”

“…She?”

“Isren’s daughter.”

For a moment there was only silence, then Salas gave a strained laugh that ended with a pained groan. Apoch could feel his jaw clench with dread as his victim sagged further against the wall in relief.

“Oh,” he gasped, head lolling to the side as he opened fever-bright eyes. “You poor fool. After all this time, you have no idea, do you? Zidaii told you nothing.”

“Look who’s chatty this evening,” Apoch purred, crouching down in front of him as Salas responded with another coughing chuckle. The motion caused fresh blood to trickle out of two small wounds in his belly that reeked of decay and fester. “Finally ready to talk?”

“Shouldn’t have killed my wife. My beautiful Emma,” he moaned, tears illuminating the reflective silver eyeshine of his eyes.

“I didn’t think it fair she suffer for your actions, or would you rather have had me continue to use her as motivation to get you to talk?” Apoch pressed a locked arm against the wall next to Salas’ head, voice husky and intimate. “Carved her up while you watched? Remove her piece by piece until—“

“Enough,” Salas spat, swallowing thickly. Apoch huffed a laugh, reaching for the waterskin and helping his prisoner drink a few unsatisfying gulps. Still the male exhaled at the temporary relief to his thirst, knowing full-well every sip was only prolonging his suffering. “I imagine you expect me to thank you for that small mercy you granted her.”

“I could give you the same, if you give me the answers that I want: who ordered you to put a contract on Zidaii? Who disguised you as a human?”

“Want to talk about betrayals? Let’s talk about yours,” Salas murmured, licking his cracked lips and rolling his eyes up tauntingly back to him. “How you’ve turned your back on your duties, over and over again. Oh, I know all about you, Apoch of the House of Shadow. That you manipulated Zidaii to save you from your old Master’s vengeance after you slaughtered their entire breeding harem.

“I know you personally picked out the female companion for Zidaii that night, the one who slit his throat, clueless to what she really was until it was too late. How you’ve abandoned the tribes on the war-front and left them to their petty squabbling that’s costing all of our people more lives than ever before.”

He managed another tepid laugh, catching his breath before forging ahead. “Zidaii fought those Archfiends for centuries and held the tribes together, but you couldn’t even last thirty years. Tell me Warlord, how is Nedivah? Does she know you’re here chasing after a sweet, innocent, young puss—“

Salas’ jibe eroded into a blood-curdling scream as Apoch shoved his hand against the open wounds. He slammed his skull back against the chinked logs, braying a victorious laugh that sprayed bloodied flecks of saliva. Apoch leaned closer, eyes smoldering with fury as he slid a finger in through the sliced wall of abdominal muscle and into the torn intestine leaking poison into his guts.

“I’m running out of patience,” he ground out, and Salas gave him a red-slicked smile.

“No, you fucking bastard,” Salas gasped, words slurring as he began to lose consciousness. “You’re running out of time.”

Removing his digit from the wound he cleaned it on Salas’s expensive silk frock, fuming internally that he had escaped inquisition by blacking out. He retreated from the cabin, needing fresh air that didn’t smell of impending death. Salas was right; he wasn’t far off from breathing his last, and as the sepsis progressed he would lose more and more lucidity. Apoch had counted on the fever to help break down his defenses, but the male had been maddeningly stubborn.

Dek and the rest of his people would celebrate when he brought Salas’ skull back. Would call him a hero and claim a great victory and would’ve been none the wiser that the truth was Salas was just a pawn to someone else, and Apoch was no closer to figuring out who that was.

Want to talk of betrayal? He snarled internally, searching the darkness for the ghost that he couldn’t let go of. Why didn’t you tell me the anything, Zidaii?