dragon, but now he felt only revulsion. He tried to fling the hunter away, but his fingers would not open. They disobeyed his will; they had another master now, it seemed. Nor would his arm obey his command to smash the timepiece down upon the desk.
He pushed the chair back and stood … then froze.
Bodies lay strewn about the floor – including, beside him, that of the Old Wolf. The guards were down, lying motionless as dead men. Pickens, too. And Longinus.
Father …
Either Magnus had lied to him, or Longinus had. But which one? What was the truth? If Longinus was dead, killed by the hunter, he might never know.
Quare moved to the older man and knelt beside him. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes open, the pupils dilated. Quare shook him by the shoulder with his free hand. ‘Longinus – wake up. Longinus!’
A faint groan was his only answer.
And what of the others? Quare moved from one fallen form to another, finding that all of them were, like Longinus, unconscious. He took the opportunity to rearm himself, then hesitated, debating what to do next.
‘Waste not, want not, Mr Quare.’
The voice was as intimate as his own thoughts, yet entirely unnatural. It was as if a worm had burrowed into his brain – or, no, a tongue … He could feel it rasping repulsively across the inside of his skull. He bent over, retching, his stomach emptying. But he could not purge himself of the invader. When he was done, the voice returned.
‘These titbits will lend savour to the coming feast.’
Now, just as he had been unable to force his fingers to drop the hunter, so, too, was he helpless to resist as a will more powerful than his own exerted control over his body. He – or, rather, the puppet he had become – drew his dagger and proceeded methodically to cut the throats of the guards. Quare’s right hand did not so much as quiver as it went about its grisly business, though he fought against it with every ounce of strength he possessed.
As before, the hunter drew the streams of blood into itself; he could not believe how much blood a human body held … nor how quickly it could be drained. Not a drop was wasted. And also as before, the timepiece began to glow as it drank, until it hurt to look upon. Yet Quare could not tear his eyes away. The fierce light shone right through the skin of his hand, so that he could see the bones, the veins, the blood within the veins. All the while, in his head, he heard the dragon singing. That was the only word for it. It was the same song that had called him here, only indescribably more beautiful … and terrible, as if he were watching a ravishing maiden bathing in a pool of blood. He felt himself stiffen within his breeches. Then, as had happened in the bath, when he had conversed with Tiamat, he was spilling his seed, convulsed with a pleasure that overwhelmed but did not eliminate the shame he felt. And the horror. For just as it drank the blood of his victims, so, too, did the hunter take into itself this other vital essence. Tears ran down his cheeks.
When he came to himself again, the blade was poised above the throat of the Old Wolf. His hand, which had been so firm, trembled now.
‘Not him,’ came Magnus’s voice. ‘We do not need his blood. We do not want it.’
Quare realized with a jolt that Magnus was not addressing him. He was not commanding. He was entreating. It appeared that he, too, had a master. But if that master made reply, Quare could not hear it.
‘Please, anyone but him! I could not bear to know his blood had a part in making us …’
For a long moment, Quare’s shaking hand hovered over the exposed white flesh. Then, steady again, it lowered the blade, wiped it dry upon the Old Wolf’s waistcoat, and sheathed it. As the dagger slid home, Quare felt the control of his body returned to him.
‘Best be off, Mr Quare,’ came Magnus’s voice, restored to its customary authoritative tone. ‘No time to dawdle.’
‘Who were you—’ Quare began.
‘The dragon,’ Magnus interrupted, and now Quare detected, or thought he detected, a hint of fear in the voice.
‘Why, you are as much in harness as I,’ Quare said.
‘You understand nothing,’ Magnus replied. ‘Is the hand a slave to the arm? The