Soul Taken

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For Ann Peters, my Trusty Assistant, aka Sparky, who makes everything in my life work better.

He stood in Mercy’s bedroom, in the heart of the home of his enemy.

He frowned a little. No, she wasn’t his enemy anymore. His ally, then. She had asked for his aid—something even his Mistress seldom did, untrustworthy servant that he was.

He had helped Mercy—maybe—and then she had, she had . . . done something to him. He wasn’t sure what to call that, either, because it had felt as though she had saved him until the effects wore off and he understood that she might have destroyed him instead. Hope was the most deadly of emotions.

He didn’t think she was his enemy. But certainly not his friend.

He held the silk fabric of his treasure carefully. It was very old now, though not as old as he was, and he seldom got it out of its protective box for fear of damaging it. He brought it to his nose and pretended that he could still smell the rich jasmine perfume she had worn to cover the scents that healthy human bodies used to carry in a time before daily—or even weekly—baths. He missed those scents; everything smelled weak and pallid to him now.

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