Lucien knew that he had the upper hand. His heart was stuttering as it tried to keep pace with the rage coursing through his body, the madness that discarded pain like so much sweat. His face was flushed, the sword ready in his hand. Not long, he thought. Not long and you can sate this bloodlust. This one first—slowly, painfully, punishment for his presumption—and then the boy. He’ll sing his last on the point of my sword, and if any magic words escape him when he’s dying, I’ll stamp them down into the dust and shit on them.

“Your house,” Lucien urged. “We can talk there.”

Vance nodded, glanced around uncertainly once more and then slipped his knife into his belt, resigned. He turned and led the way.

AS SOON AS they were through the door the Red Monk attacked Vance, kicking him to the floor, scattering empty wine bottles and smashing a wooden table into splinters. The big man tried hard to stand and protect himself, but Lucien’s rage was up, his legs spasming with the kicks, stamping on one knee until it popped and crunched beneath his boot. The man screamed and the Monk jumped on his face, kicking down until teeth broke into his tongue and cheeks, blood gushing into his throat and bursting out in a shower as he coughed. The attack went on. When Vance tried to sit, Lucien kicked him in the hips and the base of his back, cracking vertebrae. Vance screamed, and this time the Red Monk let him.

“Where is Rafe?” Lucien hissed, holding the ruined man by his beard and lifting him so high that they were face-to-face.

Vance could not speak. He shook his head instead, grimacing as something ground in his neck like shattered glass.

“Where?” Lucien shouted again. The sight of blood spattered across his red robe, sprayed across his hands, kicked into weird shapes on the wooden floor by the man’s thrashing legs . . . he wanted more. Every bloody splash took him closer to finding the boy.

Vance shook his head and Lucien let him drop. He hit the floor and writhed there, groaning, eyes half-closed, broken fingers splayed across his chest as he tried to hold his crushed ribs. He could not speak. That did not matter. Lucien knew he had to be quick.

He reached inside his robe and plucked a small box from a pocket, shaking it slightly to wake the thing inside. He heard the chitinous rattle of docked wings, the hiss as the insect tried in vain to fly out of the darkness that imprisoned it.