Terin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it. The collar warmed in warning. Lowering his eyes to the floor, he struggled for words that wouldn't get him punished for disobedience or displease the man. "I don't know," he whispered when the collar's heat grew too much for him to bear.

"Better than no, I suppose. Don't you want to be free?" The man's tone betrayed nothing. "You were discarded by your master. Why fight me? I can give you your freedom."

Terin balled his hands into fists and shook his head. "I failed my master."

"It's the same thing, slave. There's no difference. You were sentenced to death in the Arena. Combat slave you may be, but you faced me. You'd have been better off as a pleasure slave." Zurach laughed and slapped his hand on the surface of the water. "You'd fetch me a high price, that's for certain."

A shiver ran through Terin and he glanced toward the door and the foyer beyond. All signs of the pa.s.sage to the sewers were gone, and no matter how long and hard he stared, he couldn't spot the outline of the door. He counted the number of steps, his entire body tensing as he considered whether or not he'd make it to the threshold before Zurach noticed him.

"How many masters have you had?"

"One, Citizen," he whispered.

"He got tired of you, then."

Terin winced. Was the man right? Had his master purposefully set out to abandon him? Still shaking, he slid his foot across the tiles toward the door to the foyer. "Yes."

"Useless."

The next step took Terin to the threshold. He pressed his toe against the marble lip, staring at Zurach's back. The man draped his arms over the pool's ledge and paddled at the water with his feet.

"Get out doesn't mean leave the room."

The collar's heat burned away Terin's every thought and he recoiled from the door to escape its punishment. He gasped and shuddered. With one more step, he might've at least made it to the foyer. With one more step, he might've escaped Zurach's influence over his collar.

One more step, and he might've been able to find out if his master had abandoned him, even if it meant his death.

Zurach tilted his head back to look at him. "That's a good expression, boy. You almost look serious. Angry, even. It seems you didn't learn your lesson in the arena."

The man stepped out of the pool and his grin had a feral quality to it. "This time, remember it."

Blaise stared at the shredded storm clouds overhead. The wind tore at them, scattering them across the clearing sky until nothing remained but a few dark smudges. Dust settled around him, tickling his nose and obscuring everything yellow haze. Distant cries filtered through the buzz in his ears.

Falling had hurt. Tumbling from the second tier would've killed a mortal. Blaise's breath left him in a sigh, and he wondered how he would explain his survival.

A tickle in his nose gave birth to a sneeze that tore through him and woke fire in his bones. Muttering a curse at the human body's inability to handle his heightened senses, Blaise clicked his tongue and tapped his fingers against the broken stones beneath him. The burn concentrated in his hand and worked its way up his arm when he moved. His bones cracked and writhed beneath his skin and his muscles ached and convulsed as though trying to escape the confines of his human sh.e.l.l.

If he wasn't careful, the injuries he sustained from the fall would trigger a transformation to his true form in front of too many mortals.

The pain grew, but his breath stuck in his throat and kept him silent when he wanted to scream. Heat flared through him and threatened to consume him from within and turn him to ash. When it cooled, his body throbbed with each beat of his heart.

"Blaise!" Frolar didn't quite scream, but the panic in the man's tone roused Blaise's hunger and for a moment, all he could smell was blood, flesh, and food.

His fingers curled into claws, but the trembling weakness born from fighting against transforming and coping with the pain of his bones mending kept him still. The hunger died away beneath the desire for rest so he could heal and recover.

Frolar knelt beside him, one hand held out. Sucking in a breath, Blaise tried to avoid the man's touch, but the bishop's fingers brushed against his skin.

"I'm not dead," he rasped. Finger by finger, he forced his hand to relax and struggled to avoid lashing out. Hunger once again roused, and Blaise closed his eyes until the urge faded away.

"You fool! I warned you," Frolar snapped. Blaise cracked open an eye and met the old bishop's gaze. The man's mouth twisted in a snarl. "It'll be both of our heads at this rate. The Archbishop is going to tan both of our skins to make rugs for his floor. What did you break?"

"Nothing is broken," Blaise replied. His divine nature had taken care of that problem. When he struggled to sit up, Frolar slipped an arm around his back and helped him. Another sneeze ripped through him. Flashes of white burst in front of Blaise's eyes, and he shook his head to clear it. The movement made the pain worse. He breathed through his clenched teeth.

His fingers curved into the arch of talons, and he pressed his hands against the stone to flatten them. It was his fault he hadn't listened to the fading song of the Arena. The effort of remaining upright robbed him of the satisfaction of reaching out and clawing the smug look off of Frolar's face. While there was concern in the man's expression and pose, the unspoken "I told you so" hung between them.

Blaise let out a long, slow breath and focused his attention on maintaining the illusion of life when his human body tried to feign death to rest and recover from the fall that would've killed a mortal.

Lucka"or His interventiona"spared him from needing to explain how he had escaped being buried beneath the stones he lay upon. He let out a breath in a huff and lifted his shaking arm to wipe at his stinging brow.

Frolar caught his wrist. "Don't touch it."

The frown pulled at Blaise's cheeks and made them ache, but he didn't fight the man's grip. The effort of holding his arm up, even with Frolar's hold on him, left Blaise shaking. The stinging of his forehead made the rest of his face twitch. Jabs of pain pierced his skull and stabbed down his spine.

Blaise muttered a curse on a faked breath. The simple effort of pretending he was a living, breathing mortal sapped him of strength.

"Really, Blaise. I did try to warn you." Frolar sighed and let him go. The man sat back on his heels. Blaise's arm flopped to his lap and the tips of his fingers twitched. The bones in his hands shifted beneath his skin.

"Your Holiness?" a soft voice asked from somewhere behind him. Blaise's nostrils flared and the scent of terror taunted him. Not daring to turn around, he swallowed and tried to ignore his watering mouth.

"Get bandages," Frolar ordered with a sharp gesture. The slap of boots on stone answered the bishop's demand. "What am I going to do with you, Blaise?"

"Nothing. Yes, yes, you warned me. Yes, yes, I should've known better," he grumbled. Frolar didn't stop Blaise when he reached up to touch his brow. The warmth of blood soaked through his glove, and his mouth twisted up in a grin. At least he wouldn't have to explain why he didn't bleed, though it was at the cost of enduring the pain and weakness of healing at the wretchedly-inferior speed of a human. "I won't tell Alphege if you won't."

"Have you lost your wits? We can't do that, Blaise!"

"I'll tell him I fell down the steps," Blaise replied, prodding at his forehead. At Frolar's glare, he shrugged. "It's true. I did trip going down the steps."

"Except, in case you weren't aware, the entire thing collapsed beneath you."

"That's not my fault."

"The Archbishop isn't going to be happy."

"I'll make certain to tell him you did try to stop me."

"Here, your Holiness, sir." A cadet scrambled up the pile of rubble at Blaise's side to thrust out a handful of linen sc.r.a.ps. The boy stared at Blaise's head and he scowled but remained silent.

"Thank you, cadet. Go tell your superior that our work here is done and we best get back to the Cathedral."

The boy saluted, the white ta.s.sels of his coat bouncing and drawing Blaise's eye. Soot and blood stained the fringe, and darker splotches marred the gray of the uniform. "I'll arrange a carriage for you, your Holiness, my Lord."

Instead of climbing down, the boy jumped to the sands and ran for the nearest intact gate.

"I can't believe you fell from the second tier," Frolar muttered before letting out a long and low sigh.

"It could've been worse," Blaise replied.

"You could be dead, I suppose. May G.o.d show His mercy, Blaise. You're completely covered in blood, and I'm convinced most of it is yours."

Blaise flipped his hand and if Frolar noticed the rudeness of the gesture, the man said nothing. "Nonsense."

"I'll pray the Archbishop doesn't make me your keeper," the bishop grumbled in a low enough tone that Blaise doubted mortal ears could've heard it.

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. "What was that?"

"Nothing, just an old man's grumbling."

"You're not old," Blaise replied. Closing his eyes, he drew a long and deep breath to catch the man's scent. Despite Blaise's human form, his own blood lacked the sharp, metallic tones that triggered his hunger more often than not. It smelled of roses in the dark, of blossoms folded and waiting for the dawn, and of the cool crispness of the deep and lifeless void that both birthed and destroyed souls. It tickled another sneeze out of him.

Frolar's scent lacked true fear. There was an undertone of some worry, but it was very mild. Blaise narrowed his eyes. When the man hooked an arm under Blaise's, he gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. Thousands of years of living a lie slammed down on his shoulders and he weighed his pride against the desire to lie down and sleep.

If he were able to embrace his divine nature, it wouldn't take him long to recover. Blaise flexed his hand and shook his head.

"Stand there," Frolar ordered, gesturing to a flat stone several feet below them.

Too tired to argue and too annoyed to speak, Blaise forced his trembling legs into motion and fixed his gaze on the other end of the Arena.

"I've said it once, I'll say it again: G.o.d made you too tall," Frolar groused.

"I like to think I'm perfection given life by His will," Blaise replied with all of the arrogance he could force out in the hopes it masked the weariness in his voice.

"You never change."

Blaise laughed at the irony of the man's words. "I change."

"A bishop shouldn't lie," Frolar rebuked.

"I do." After pausing long enough to earn a glare from Frolar, he gestured down at his clothes. "I change my clothes. Every day. So do I swear on His name."

A laugh escaped Frolar and the man dabbed at Blaise's forehead with one of the bandages. With deft hands, the man wrapped Blaise's head in a layer of linen so thick and tight that he wanted to claw it off.

"I just hope your good humor is still intact when the Archbishop is finished with you." With one final tug at the wrappings, Frolar climbed down the rubble pile to the sands. "Don't scare me like that. I thought you'd surely died."

Blaise froze. The man's words were laced with the acrid stench of deceit and lies, but Blaise couldn't figure out what was truth and what wasn't. Had Frolar been afraid, but confident Blaise would live, or had the mortal hoped for his death? The man waited for him at the base of the debris pile.

"It'll take a lot more than that to kill me," he muttered as he eased his way down to the sands.

"Don't think yourself immortal because you've G.o.d's luck on your side," the bishop warned. "You know better. G.o.d punishes those who believe themselves more than they are."

"Yes, yes. And he blesses those who believe themselves less. It's Alphege's favorite scripture."

"I wonder why," Frolar replied in a dry tone. "Do tell me if you need help. You'll be all right, won't you?" At his nod, the man smiled. "Good."

Once again, the scent of deceit and lies tickled Blaise's nose and he rubbed his smoke and blood stained sleeve against his face to keep from sneezing. "I'm fine," he lied.

Frolar nodded and walked toward the nearest gate, leaving Blaise to follow. While he would be finea"eventuallya"his muscles trembled and his bones ached.

All he had to do was keep his temper and hunger in check until he healed enough that his urges didn't get the better of him.

"Bishop Frolar," a deep voice boomed out from the tunnel. Blaise sucked in a breath and staggered to a halt.

"Oh blessed G.o.d, He who sees all, please tell me that isn't the Emperor's dog," Blaise groused.

"Blaise!" Frolar hissed before waving at the tall figure emerging from beneath the portcullis. "Colonel Ca.s.sius. It's been a while."

"Ha! I thought I recognized you. Wait, is that you, Blaise? What in the blood-stained h.e.l.ls happened to you?"

"Colonel!" Frolar gasped.

"Ah, my apologies. I'm afraid I must impose on your hospitality. You've been summoned, Bishop Frolar, and I've no doubt that the same summons applies to you as well, Bishop Blaise. I'm surprised. It seems you were here at your leisure."

"I'd rather be in the blood-stained h.e.l.ls," Blaise muttered under his breath before managing a smile. "I was seated with His Imperial Majesty today, Colonel, and he felt blue was a more fitting color."

"I've always thought you best suited for red, but one doesn't argue with His Imperial Majesty. Please, come with me."

"What's going on?" Frolar asked.

"The Archbishop requests your presence," Ca.s.sius replied.

Frolar's mouth dropped open. "What could be so important that His Holiness would ask the military toa""

"Not now," Ca.s.sius interrupted, shaking his head. The stench of the man's fear burned Blaise's nose, so strong it nauseated him.

Blaise swallowed back bile and gestured to the opened portcullis. "We should hurry, then."

Ca.s.sius jerked his head in a nod. The man's terror overwhelmed the stench of smoke, blood, and death hanging in the still air.

Blaise glanced up at the sky. The last shred of black clouds dissipated as if it, too, was frightened.

Chapter 5.

The vase shattered against the divan Terin crouched behind and the shards clattered to the marble tiles. The fragments of glazed ceramic bounced across the floor, gleaming in the glow that manifested in the air overhead.

"Slippery child," Zurach spat. "How long do you plan to run for? Didn't you want to fight me?"

Terin rubbed at his smarting jaw and tried not to let the man's words bother him. It'd taken one blowa"a mere clip to his china"for Terin to realize if he got caught, he'd live to regret it, and he'd pay for his failure with pain.

The collar didn't even bother to punish him, as though sensing what waited for him when he was captured by the man who mocked him.

Crawling across the floor, Terin dodged the broken pieces of vases, bowls, cups, and plates, as well as the broken arm of a silver candelabrum. The crunch of ceramics under foot froze him in place.