Sora's Quest (The Cat's Eye Chronicles #1)

by T. L. Shreffler

It was the morning after the disastrous birthday. Lily stood on the wide grand foyer, thick sunlight spilling down the walls like syrup. Two large staircases stretched up behind her, starting on either side of the room and arching above her head. The floor was pure white granite, the walls were painted a deep navy blue with bright white crown molding. A set of carved, wooden double-doors stood open to her left, leading to the ruined ballroom. Servants ran in and out with brooms, dustbins and buckets of glass.

  She kept twirling her apron, picking apart the seams, running over the hem. She looked at the white floor, the mud that had found its way between the tiles. She thought of the amount of time it would take to clean those tiles.

  A rather tall, dark-haired man stood only a few feet away. He was dressed in a midnight-blue velvet suit trimmed in silver thread. He was young, traditionally handsome, yet his hair was flecked with gray. She knew from the other servants that he was in his prime, a desirable 28 years. There was a firmness around his mouth that spoke of heavy responsibility, which would explain the gray hairs.

  She watched him shift in the sunlight. His hands rested on a tall, dark wood cane. His velvet suit was adorned with small tokens of the First Tier—a large gold pin in the shape of two unfurling wings and three badges carved from perfectly black onyx: military honors. And his House insignia, a rearing blue stallion on a field of silver thread. She knew the House colors, of course. Lord Gracen Seabourne, Captain of His Majesty's personal guard...one of the few military positions reserved for nobility.

  “Lady Fallcrest is...gone?” he asked slowly. Lily didn't respond right away. It was a redundant question. She had already told him the news.

  “My Lord,” she bobbed a curtsy. “I went to check her room this morning. We all thought she was asleep last night. But when I looked in, it was the same as she had left it. No sign.”

  Lord Gracen nodded slowly again. He had a stern face, as intense as an eagle, with dark, unreadable eyes. “And you are her personal handmaid?”

  Lily nodded. He knew this as well. He had spoken first to Housekeeper Grem, the thankless woman in charge of the staff.

  “I must ask....Did the Lady speak of any...discontent? Was she upset with her father?”

  Lily's lips paled, set in a firm, tight line. She certainly couldn't lie. He had only to ask another servant or any of the serfs to know the truth. “The Lady argued with her father, just as any young person would. But...she is gentle, my Lord. She couldn't have....”

  “And they maintained a stark silence these past two years? No letters? No pleasantries?”

  Lily let out a slow breath. She knew what it looked like. “There were letters about her schooling. Few of them, to be sure. Lord Fallcrest was a...a practical man, good at business, not the warm or sensitive sort. Not the type to raise a daughter....”

  Lord Gracen glanced up the first set of stairs to a large, closed oak door. Two servants stood outside the door, trying to appear alert after a long, sleepless night. Lily winced at their shabby appearance, crooked uniforms and mussed hair.

  Beyond that tightly shut door was a very cold body. With Lord Fallcrest dead, the servants were holding their breaths, praying for Lady Sora's return. All of their jobs—their very livelihoods—hung in the balance. Unless the Lady reappeared, the estate would be seized by the King. A probate would ensue, the assets passed off to distant relatives. The King would keep a hefty chunk of money, to be given as gifts to his favorite courtiers.

  A small crowd of serfs had already formed on the back steps; many had brought copies of their land contracts and a few even had swords. Lily didn't know where to start with them. My Lady! she admonished in her mind. Where could you have gone? She felt as though her younger sister had disappeared. She had known Lady Sora almost since birth, and knew her better than anyone. Her mistress rarely had both feet on the ground. Had she fled the manor? Taken a fright? Or perhaps, more likely, run away from the humiliation? Lily chewed her lip, determinedly examining the situation. There were no horses missing from the stables, and no one had seen her outside....

  But her dress was found last night, torn to pieces, shoved in a hallway closet. The servants were now in the process of turning the manor upside down, looking for more evidence—any evidence, really—of what had happened.

  “I will see to it that she is found,” Lord Gracen murmured. His tone was unexpectedly dark, not the least bit reassuring. Lily looked up to realize that the Lord was gazing at her with a cold expression.

  “My Lord...?” she asked slowly.

  “I will leave my footman with you, in case she returns to the manor,” Lord Gracen continued. “You must alert me immediately if she makes an appearance.”

  He turned and strode across the foyer, his black cane tap-tapping. Lily hurried to keep up. It was considered rude to walk next to the First Tier, yet one didn't dare fall too far behind. Lord Gracen strode confidently across the white tile, through the wide open doors and into the shattered ballroom. He stepped around scurrying servants and piles of broken glass.

  Lily recalled that he had been present at the dance last night. He had witnessed the catastrophe firsthand. He had even held a handkerchief to Lord Fallcrest's neck, until the man had finally stuttered and died.

  She frowned, watching his broad shoulders encased in sleek velvet. It suddenly seemed strange. Why would someone as prestigious as the King's personal Captain attend the birthday? There were hundreds of country nobles, all similar to Lady Fallcrest in rank and station. Their manor was several weeks' journey from the City of Crowns. Had he truly come to offer suit?

  “It is absolutely essential that you report to me, should she appear,” he repeated, stepping around a particularly large pile of glass. “As of this instant, she is under warrant of arrest by royal decree.”

  “M-my Lord?” Lily stopped dead in her tracks.

  Lord Gracen looked at her levelly, his eyes still hard, as dark as his military badges. “The guilty often flee the scene of the crime, my dear girl,” he murmured. “Lord Fallcrest did not die innocently last night. What we have on our hands is a thinly guised murder. In the case of nobility, that usually points to a guilty relative.”

  “B-but, the glass!” Lily replied. “The skylight! The shard went straight through his neck! You can't imply, m-my Lord!”

  Lord Gracen passed his hand through the air, dismissing her lapse in etiquette, her frantic tone of voice. “I inspected the wound thoroughly. The angle and force of the projectile do not make sense. The shard did not fall from above, but from the side.” Lord Gracen glanced upward to the broken skylight, then to the chips of glass that littered the ballroom carpet.

  Another breath squeezed out of her. Lily followed his eyes, pale and shaken. She knew that Lady Sora had been distant from her father...even resented him, perhaps. But her Lady was not a murderer!

  Lord Gracen turned and retraced his steps, heading back toward the ballroom entrance. Lily followed on his heels, bobbing her head. “My Lord, with all due respect...Lady Fallcrest is not a murderer...she wouldn't know how!”

  “She must be questioned.” Lord Gracen turned one last time and slammed his cane down. The sound reverberated off the ballroom floor and echoed around the walls. Several servants stopped in their tracks, staring with wide eyes. “And if you, or any other members of this House, hide the Lady on purpose...you will be hanged for obstructing the King's justice. Have I made myself clear?”

  Lily nodded shakily, her mouth as dry as parchment.

  “Good.” Lord Gracen turned on his heel and continued out of the ballroom to where his manservant awaited, stiff in his blue uniform and top hat. “I will be continuing to the town of Mayville, where I will alert the local guard and put them on the hunt. We will find her and discover exactly what happened last night. In the meantime, I will contact Lord Fallcrest's brother in the City. Your estate will be handled according to law.”

  Lord Gracen gave her a polite nod, unnecessary of the First Tier, and excused himself. His fo
otman fell into step behind him, utterly ignoring Lily's presence. The servants of the First Tier acted superior to those of the Second, though it was all hierarchical nonsense. Lily wrinkled her nose at the manservant's back, wishing she could push him down the front steps. Snooty servants for snooty nobles, she thought angrily. No wonder Lady Sora didn't want to marry.

  Lily turned away from the front door before another noble could flag her down. She had been on her feet since before dawn, sending off guests, loading chests of luggage and unopened birthday gifts aboard carriages. Shiny, expensive coaches were lined up almost a mile down the front drive, a river of polished wood and bright paint. An endless stream of horses were walking to and from the stables. Lord Gracen's accusations made her feel even more exhausted.

  A murder! She sighed, her thoughts returning to last night. When the skylight caved in, the manor had been thrown into chaos. No one knew what was happening. At first, they blamed it on the condition of the ballroom...the skylight had stood for generations, hardly maintained, rained on and rusted.

  Then, people said it was bad luck. Lady Sora's botched performance brought on the calamity, and the Goddess had a wry sense of humor.

  When Lord Fallcrest died, with no way to stanch the bleeding, everyone sank into stunned silence.

  But who? Lily ran the events over again in her mind. Who could orchestrate such a thing? And why? Lord Fallcrest had been gone for two years; letters had been consistent but vague, usually addressing estate matters. No one knew whom he had consorted with....

  And what to do with the body? Lily felt quite over her head. Housekeeper Grem would have to contact Sora's uncle, the only remaining relative who could navigate the estate. The burial would be a stressful affair. They would need to hire a local Priestess to perform the necessary embalming and death rites. There would be no public ceremony, no eulogy, no tears.

  In the meantime, the body of Lord Fallcrest lay stiff and silent behind closed oak doors, his glassy eyes wide open. The thin gash across his throat was hidden by an expensive scarf. Three small brass bells hung above the closed doors to his study, blessings for the spirit.

  Lily was lost in thought when the smart tap of boots approached her. She recognized the steps before she raised her eyes. She sighed. Housekeeper Grem walked towards her, her face as rigid as a dead buzzard. The woman was tall, crane-like and suffocatingly proper.

  She looked up into the matron's eyes.

  “There is someone else asking questions,” Grem snapped. “He requested to speak to you.” She pointed an accusing finger at the ballroom. “Be quick about it. They need more help in the stables.”

  Lily curtsied politely. Housekeeper Grem gave her a discouraging look as though insulted, then stalked away. Lily rolled her eyes at the old woman's back. Perhaps losing her job wasn't such a bad thing.

  Then her gaze traveled curiously to the ballroom doors. She hadn't seen anyone unusual enter...and yet, the manor was full of guests. Perhaps she had missed this new visitor.

  Sick with anxiety, she turned and headed back to the ballroom, where Lord Gracen had paced just moments before. Was it a reporter from the local newspaper? A curious Lord from a neighboring estate? Certainly not anyone offering to help. She couldn't believe how quickly word had spread of the disaster. It would be the gossip of the county within another day.

  She spotted the man immediately. The first thing she saw was his long silvery hair. Yet he didn't seem old. He stood several dozen yards away from the ballroom doors, inspecting an area of smudged white tiles where Lord Fallcrest's body had fallen the previous night. The servants had tried to clean up the blood, but there was so much, some had sunk into the cracks between the tiles, almost impossible to scrape out.

  She approached him quickly, trying to hold herself a bit straighter. Thanks to Lord Gracen's attention, she had garnered some sort of authority. Since, as Lady Sora's handmaid, she had the most contact with the noble family, the lower servants regarded her with mild awe—second only to Housekeeper Grem.

  "Excuse me," she said formally, and made another quick bow. The man didn't turn around immediately, but when he did, Lily felt like she had swallowed a walnut.

  He was unlike any man she had ever seen before. He held himself with a regal air, yet she knew he wasn't royalty. He might have been a Lord of noble birth, a rich peasant, or something in- between. His clothes were certainly well-made, but stained by the road. He wore no gold, gemstones or medals.

  Perhaps another woman might have found his exotic appearance attractive, but Lily found him chilling. His skin was noticeably pale, his hair woven strands of silver, and his eyes a piercingly cold blue. That wasn't what startled her, however. Lily found herself staring at the man's sloping ears, which drew back into pointed tips.

  He smiled at her, as though enjoying her surprise, and then Lily got a second shock—fangs! Fangs? Truly, there was no other explanation. His canines were long, sharp and wicked.

  The man—if it was a man—stepped forward and nodded to her. She could see a nervous tic begin around his mouth. He kept himself turned slightly away from her, one hand hidden beneath his cloak, but she caught a glimpse of what lay inside: warped fingers, bent inward like claws.

  A cripple. Bad luck. It almost made her pull away, suddenly sick to her stomach. There were some who cared for cripples, who embraced them as victims to be pitied—yet she was country-raised. She believed in curses. In signs from the Goddess and the old ways.

  Another eerie chill settled over her shoulders, like a frosty cloak. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened.

  "M-may I help you?" she asked, steeling her nerve.

  He responded in an equally soft voice. "I heard there was a murder last night. This will sound strange, but I would like to see the body."

  Lily nodded, feeling more and more uneasy. “I'm not sure I understand. Who are you?”

  "Someone you can trust. Not a Lord, not the King's men," the man replied. His voice was unsettling. "I am hunting a very dangerous man, an assassin, and his trail has led me to this place. I thought it was no coincidence when I heard of the accident.”

  “Oh.” Lily's mind raced. Lord Gracen's suspicions came suddenly to mind. Here, a complete stranger as good as confirmed the Lord's theory. He could clear Sora's name! She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. But Lord Gracen had already left...and this man was...strange. She didn't trust him yet.

  “Why do you want to see the body?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  The silver-haired man bowed his head, acquiescing. Lily watched him closely, but besides his eerie appearance, he didn't seem threatening. “I can recognize the assassin's work very easily. I have been trailing him for several years now. I have simply to see the wounds, and I'll know.”

  Lily thought on this. It didn't seem out of place, considering the last twenty-four hours. Since last night, her life had been one gut-wrenching surprise after another. In fact, this was perhaps a most normal thing to happen.

  Anything to help Sora. “All right,” she finally said. “This way. But we must respect the body.”

  She led him through the ballroom, stepping carefully around piles of glass shards, then entered the foyer and started up the first staircase. They had placed the body in her Lord's study, simply because it was close to the ballroom and fairly out of the way. Her upbringing had demanded that she hang ceremonial bells above the doorway to ensure that the body was blessed. Her Lord had been a strict man, not warm or loving; yet he, too, deserved to be carried on the Winds of the Goddess.

  When they reached the doorway, the man hesitated for a minute. She noticed his hands quiver as he crossed the threshold.

  This was a chamber she had cleaned and dusted many times. It was richly decorated with indoor plants in the corners, bookshelves along the walls, and a magnificent fireplace on one side, with a long couch in front. At this moment, the couch was occupied by a body shrouded in white linen. A hint of blood showed through the cloth. Lily frowned at this. They h
ad done their best to dress the wound, but even after death, blood had seeped stubbornly down her Lord's neck.

  Lily brought the strange man next to the body and carefully pulled back the sheet. She averted her gaze from the blue-tinted skin, the slightly bloated eyes, the flat jowls. “Here he is. We did nothing to the body but move it.”

  The man stiffened at the sight of the blood. She could only assume that put him off, though somehow she was not reassured. “I see,” the man murmured, his voice thick. “And was there a blade?”

  “Only a shard of glass. We thought it fell from the roof, but....”

  “Yes?”

  Lily swallowed. She could clearly hear Lord Gracen's voice in her head, and repeated his words almost by rote. “The force and angle of the projectile was different. It...it came from the side. As though someone had thrown it.”

  The man was standing icily still. The corner of his mouth lifted. His arctic-blue gaze remained trained on the body.

  “Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

  Lily let out a slow breath. “No,” she paused, then bit her tongue. Should she tell him about Sora? Of course, and yet, she was still disturbed. His skin was too pale; his teeth were too long.

  He was waiting. She could tell he could read her like a book; he knew she had more to say. Finally, she relented. “His daughter, Lady Sora, is missing.” She licked her lips nervously. Something almost made sense about that, now that she said it aloud. No witnesses, and the Lady missing. Had Sora seen something...?

  “And no idea where she might have gone?” The man's eyes sharpened.

  “N-no,” Lily bit her tongue again. The energy around him was decidedly cold. “But Lord Gracen, of the King's Private Guard, you know....He suspects that she arranged the murder.”

  The man nodded slowly. When his eyes met hers, there was a strange pity in them, as though he was gazing at a wounded animal. “And she might have,” he spoke carefully, watching her reaction. “Assassins rarely kill on their own whim. This man had need of money...and your Lady had motive to kill, I take it?”

  Lily felt her hopes plummet. This man wouldn't understand. Her mistress spent her time in the open fields, whittling wooden flutes and studying birds. She didn't have a vicious bone in her body.

  But something had happened last night. Her gut twisted sickeningly again. Sora had witnessed something. Bumped into the killer, perhaps?

  “Do you know what this assassin looks like, sir?” she asked. “Perhaps I could ask the servants if anyone else saw him....”

  “Athletic build,” the man replied idly, almost disinterestedly. “A little over six feet, perhaps. Young, barely in his prime.” He stepped away from the couch, slowly touring the room, obviously finished with the body. Lily let the white sheet drop over the corpse, then watched the man closely.

  He gazed at the Lord's bookshelves. Then he picked up a large crystal sphere, a decorative paperweight, from Lord Fallcrest's desk. He slowly turned it in his hand, watching the light play off the surface. “Black hair, green eyes,” he continued thoughtfully. “And I expect—yes, I expect he'd be dressed in black." The man grinned, strange for such a conversation. "He has an immeasurable capacity for violence. To state it quite plainly, my dear, he is a very highly trained murderer. Some might even say his thirst for blood is...inhuman." Then he grinned wider, and his fangs flashed in the light.

  Lily tried not to flinch. "Uhm," she said slowly, her mouth dry. "I will certainly ask around. Would you like to speak to Lord Gracen? He would be very interested in this. You might catch up with him in Mayville....”

  “No,” the traveler said shortly. “My investigation is private. It is of a personal nature, you see. And the killer is a cunning man. The less he hears of me, the better.”

  A personal nature? Lily wasn't sure what to say to that. She wanted to ask, but then didn't. She doubted this man was as good-intentioned as he seemed.

  Finally, the man set the crystal back on the desk. “I have imposed on you long enough. Thank you for your help, miss, and...” his face pulled into a frown, “I am sorry. This is a tragedy. Lord Fallcrest was well respected by his serfs, by what I have heard.”

  Lily nodded slowly. "Yes. A tragedy.” She wondered which serfs he had spoken to. Her Lord had been a businessman, concerned with trade and money, his sights set on the First Tier. He had governed with a strict, if consistent, hand, dealing harsh punishments in all disputes. But who knew? In the lawless countryside, perhaps that was necessary. The serfs did not love him...but they did respect him.

  The traveler stood for a moment, eerily still like a frozen lake. Then he turned toward the door. “Your assistance has been invaluable. Never fear, child. The killer will be put down. Lord Fallcrest will have justice.”

  Lily nodded again, still sick to her stomach. Justice? And who was this man? She had never seen him before, and she doubted he knew much of her Lord beyond a serf's conversation. She watched as he stepped swiftly toward the hallway, his blue cloak swirling around him, his crippled hand clutched against his body.

  On impulse, she called out, almost choking on the words, "If you find the killer, could you see that Lady Sora is safe?” She doubted this man would do that. But she could easily imagine Sora's dead body lying in a ditch somewhere, cold and stiff after a night in the forest, perhaps gnawed by animals. It was not so uncommon. “I feel there might have been an accident....”

  “Murder is never an accident,” the man said harshly.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the door slammed in her face.

  A thin smile spread across Volcrian's lips as he walked out of the manor. He passed scurrying servants and pockets of guests on his way to the spindly tree where he had tethered his horse. The rush of excitement kept his thoughts optimistic and clear. Viper had been here. He could smell the assassin on the Lord's body, on the blood spilled in the ballroom. Death always left a memory of the killer, after all.

  And Viper is certainly a killer capable of this. An entire ballroom of guests convinced it was an accident? Surely the work of a master. And yet, not quite the perfect crime. A Lady was missing.

  As Volcrian mounted his horse and turned toward the forest, he continued to ponder the strange situation. The girl had disappeared, but no body had been found. Had she gone with the assassin? The facts didn't add up. A creature like Viper was incapable of sparing life. He had no concept of innocence, of mercy. Lady Sora was most likely dead, her body stashed in a closet somewhere, to be discovered when the corpse began to rot.

  He didn't feel sorry for the girl. Those who dealt with Viper could expect nothing less. If she had devised to murder her father—which was a common thing amongst the higher Tiers—then she deserved her own fate.

  He had spoken to quite a few of the serfs mingling outside, and was all but convinced this was the case. There had been no love between father and daughter in the Fallcrest household. She was of questionable birth and had a decidedly stubborn demeanor. He could easily see the girl hiring an assassin as a last-ditch attempt to escape her nuptials. With a dead father and no husband, she would inherit the entire estate.

  Volcrian clenched his fist suddenly—pain cramped his distorted muscles. His crippled hand convulsed, twitching in spasm. Just thinking of the girl's wickedness made his head throb. Killing her own father? With any luck, the assassin would use her and toss her to the roadside, a wasted shell of a woman. Better yet, the mage might stumble across her corpse within the next few days, perhaps while the blood was still fresh. Good enough to be used for his sorcery.

  Volcrian shook his head slowly, leading his horse down the long gravel driveway toward the acres of fields and forest outside the gates. His own brother had been dead for two years now. Two years, and never a night's peace. Always nightmares and memories, shadows plaguing his dreams. He knew Etienne's spirit wouldn't rest until the assassin was dead. He knew, because in his dreams, that is what Etienne told him. Avenge me, his voice whispered. Finish this, and I will sleep.


  At times, his brother told him other things, too...dark thoughts that played in his head, seethed within him, resurrected from beyond the grave. He had to push them away. He knew that his brother suffered, that his spirit writhed in the underworld. It followed him into the waking hours, drifting just beyond sight, the memory of those black dreams.

  He finally passed through the wide iron gates and exited the Fallcrest manor. His nostrils flared, searching for a hint of a path. Now that he was certain of the assassin's presence, he knew what to look for. And he found it. The trail of a horse leaving the road, entering the tall grass. It was almost too easy.

  Volcrian's smile stretched wide, his fangs gleaming in the light. Yes, Viper was in his grasp, only a day's ride away. Soon there would be justice. But Volcrian had been this close before; if he wasted too much time, the killer would slip through his fingers again. He needed to stall the travelers until he could catch up with them.

  He wanted to feel Viper's blood running over his crippled hand. He needed to taste it dripping from his fangs....

  He led his horse through a thicket of trees into a shallow meadow of bright green grass, nestled away from the main road. There was no movement but the gentle swish of wind. A lock of silver hair fell across his fine-boned face. He swept it aside absently, his eyes searching the underbrush. I will need a spell to follow them...to keep them busy for a while....To delay them while he caught up.

  He dismounted from the horse and reached into his saddlebags, withdrawing an old journal. It had been his great-grandfather's, passed down by the men in his family, and once was Etienne's. A book of spells, of blood-magic. He knew each page, each flow of handwriting. Once upon a time, all Wolfy families had carried such spellbooks, handed down from parent to child, generation after generation, unique to each bloodline. The most practiced families had the most powerful spells.

  That was hundreds of years ago, however. His own family's heritage had been destroyed long ago. This journal was a meager example of what could have been; the spells of only three generations were not very impressive. And it was always a challenge to pick the right recipe. Wolfy magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.

  For any spell he needed a sacrifice, an offering to the Sea Goddess. It could be as simple and basic as putting out a bowl of saltwater and fish scales. But usually, curses and enchantments demanded something more. It could take days to find the right animal, or in rare cases, a human. Volcrian grimaced at that. Hardly ever did he need a human.

  He and Etienne had learned from their father. Their mother died in childbirth, as was common to the Wolfy race. After his father's death from illness, Volcrian moved to the City of Crowns with Etienne. They opened an apothecary, the most obvious business for a pair of young Wolfy sorcerers. On the outside, they proved to be an honest herb shop, dealing cold remedies and aphrodisiacs to the common public. And yet, for wealthier patrons, they would do more than just sell tea. Working magic, taking that risk, cost precious money. Nobility had money.

  Volcrian shook himself, trying to brush off the chill that had settled over him. He had to admit that after using so much magic, he felt...different. Cold. It was the mantle of a Wolfy bloodmage, the badge of snow, his father had called it. A certain indifference to life. A removal. Killing animals for sacrifices no longer bothered him. Once, a human sacrifice had seemed unthinkable, dirty, taboo. But even that had changed.

  After practicing his craft so long, he was beginning to understand the true power of a Wolfy mage. There was more than enough life inhabiting the world, and it was all a source of magic, ready to mold to his will. Humans were especially disposable. Selfish, festering creatures. They bred like rabbits, dirtying the water, raping the fields. The weakest of the races was now spreading across the earth. Volcrian grimaced at the thought. The Wolfies should be in power now. The magic-wielders. Not the flat-footed humans, useless as pigs.

  His mind turned toward the journal and which spell he would use to waylay the assassin. Something fast and simple that wouldn't take too much of a toll. Time was of the essence; he didn't have days to spend in recovery. Just a simple animal spell, enough to track down the killer and slow his pace.

  He thumbed through the pages of the book, glancing over titles, recipes, causes-and-effects. A plan slowly began to form in his mind, and as it did, another twisted smile came to his lips. This time he was sure to succeed, and then?....And then Etienne would truly sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR