“You must be aware that humans cannot officially be slaves. No sentient race can, by Imperial Law. What you do when it involves other races becomes a crime that the Imperial Hawks must investigate. If you have been judged to have broken the Emperor’s Law, you are subject to the Imperial Court, where you will be tried. But again,” she added, her voice lowering, “you must be well aware of that.” Her hands became fists, and she didn’t bother to force them to relax; she was thinking of the children—the ghosts trapped by Azoria in Mrs. Erickson’s house—and the eventual fate of their bodies.

“I have committed no crimes,” this Azoria said, walking slowly toward Kaylin. “This house is legally mine.”

“This house barely exists in historical Imperial tax Records,” Kaylin replied. “But let’s assume it did. You owe probably eight to ten decades’ worth of taxes on the property—taxes which no doubt have gone unpaid in the interim. Which, while it isn’t as dramatic as kidnapping or murder, is still considered a crime.

“However, as the house doesn’t exist, the deed to the building—and the surrounding property—belongs to the Ericksons, and I assure you they have paid their taxes, without fail, and on time. We’re not standing in your domicile; we’re standing in an extension of Mrs. Erickson’s home. The intruder here is you, and we are empowered to remove you. To remove, in fact, anyone Mrs. Erickson does not consider a guest.”

Azoria’s natural Barrani eyes rounded; her lips thinned. Her normal hands became fists just as tight as Kaylin’s, and just as white-knuckled.

“You will die here.”

27

If air could tighten, the air did. It wasn’t cold; it was almost viscous—like liquid one could breathe with effort.

Chosen.

Kaylin grimaced. The marks on her arms had been glowing a steady gold, but as Azoria approached, that color changed: they took on a gleaming green cast. Kaylin had asked what Azoria needed to devour. She’d killed humans; she’d taken over their bodies—imperfectly at first, if the children were anything to go by, and more perfectly thereafter, given the painter. None of those deaths had clearly served the purpose this...space was intended to serve.

But Kaylin’s marks were ancient words, True Words, things given her—without choice on her part—for reasons she had never understood.

It was to those marks that Azoria’s gaze fell, her brows rising, her eyes widening. “What is this?” she demanded, her voice slightly distorted. “Why do you bear the marks of the Chosen?” It was an aggrieved fury, studded with the usual Barrani judgment and arrogance.

Kaylin shrugged, a fief shrug; it was petty, but she knew that nonchalance infuriated people like Azoria. “I was Chosen.”

“Impossible! You are mortal!”

“Then I’m lying and these aren’t mine.”