All around Magiere, corpses decayed in the mulch.

"Must find more… more life… and we follow if you lead. Lead us on, little sister. Your time is coming."

Magiere's hunger surged again. Holding it down forced a whimper from her.

"Leesil," she whispered, over and over with eyes closed, until his face filled her thoughts. When she opened her eyes again, the dead were still there, all about in the forest.

A white flicker passed through the trees ahead, appearing briefly here and there between the rotted trunks. Magiere's senses opened wide in fright.

She heard soft breathing and the barest rustle of footsteps in the mulch. The pound of its heartbeat seemed to vibrate upon her skin.

This was all she heard-no other sounds, no living thing in the forest. Not even herself. Only one heartbeat instead of two, for beneath the cold spreading within her, her own heart had stopped.

She was dead-and she was starving. The voices of the undead in the dark had whispered for her to find blood… to feed.

The figure slipped from the trees and into the clearing where she stood.

Leesil stared at her with amber eyes, white-blond hair hanging loose around his tan face. He held out his left hand like an offering.

Magiere saw the scars of her own teeth upon his wrist. Inside she recoiled, but her body crept forward.

"No, Leesil," she sobbed.

The words were difficult to say as her teeth grew and her jaw expanded. Magiere tried to halt, but her feet stepped forward until she felt the heat of Leesil within reach. Rage surged through her for no reason. Hunger deepened in a spasm that made her drop the falchion.

"Stop me, please," she begged him. "You have to… once and for all."

"You are alone in this thirst," he said, and Magiere heard the undead gathering, closing in around them through the bone trees. "I'm all there is. And my blood is all that's left for you."

Magiere seized Leesil's arm, tears blurring her vision, and pulled him sharply toward her. Her jaws widened as she buried her face in his throat.

Welstiel crashed through the brush in search of Magiere. He wasn't certain why she had suddenly fled into the forest, but he suspected.

That dead thing in the crossroads had slipped something in her thoughts.

Magiere had fallen prey to a command, a suggestion or impression now fueled by her own thoughts and emotions. Lost in her own mind, she was capable of anything, from cutting her throat to drowning herself in the river. He had to find her.

Welstiel stopped, listening, trying to sense for Magiere's presence. He heard thrashing amongst the trees off to his right. Branches ripped at his cloak as he ran toward it. He slowed to a stop in the forest when he spotted Magiere ahead in a clearing. Bloodied scratches marred her arms and face from running through the brush.

He hesitated, seeking for any way to approach her unseen, and circled wide through the trees to get ahead of her before she bolted again. She spun around, frantic as she looked about the clearing, then closed her eyes tight as she whispered.

"Leesil… Leesil… Leesil…"

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared directly at Welstiel.

She saw him.

Welstiel ducked through the trees, hoping it had been happenstance, but her gaze followed wherever he went. All his plans melted in that moment. She would not continue this journey or the quest he hoped to steer her toward. Instead, she would turn to tracking him. There was nothing more to do but resolve this crisis.

He stepped from the trees to face her, holding out an empty hand. Hopefully he could stall long enough to free her of the phantasm clouding her mind.

"No, Leesil," she sobbed.

Welstiel froze. In her delusion, Magiere thought he was her half-elf-and hunger and dread were plain upon her pale, scratched face. If Magiere ever believed she had fed upon-killed-her closest companion…

His mind worked quickly. There was opportunity here.

She could never face what she had done-thought she had done-or return to Miiska and the pathetic life she had tried to build with Leesil. Magiere would be adrift without purpose. Grief and self-hatred addled a mind, made a person most pliable.

Welstiel carefully wriggled his hand from his glove, snatching it with thumb and forefinger before it fell. He worked the brass ring off his finger, knowing what this would do to her. Without the ring's protection, her instincts would sense his nature immediately.

Magiere shuddered.

Welstiel knew this was dangerous, but the possible advantage outweighed any cost. She certainly could not kill him.

"Stop me, please," she begged. "You have to… once and for all."

"You are alone in this thirst," Welstiel said. "I'm all there is. And my blood is all that's left for you."

Her irises full black, tears ran down her face as she seized his outstretched arm and pulled him close. She buried her face in his neck.

Welstiel tensed, waiting for her to bite into him.

A muffled moan rose out of Magiere that Welstiel felt through his chest. Her hands clenched tightly on the shoulders of his cloak.

Magiere shoved him away hard.

Welstiel grabbed at tree branches to keep from falling. His shock became frustration. Magiere collapsed to hands and knees like an animal trying to restrain itself. The sight was pathetic, distasteful.

She looked up at him, a hint of confusion in her feral features.

"Leesil?" she whispered with uncertainty.

Welstiel realized he had pushed too far. There was nothing more to do but what he had come for in the first place. He drew back his hand.

"Wake up," he snapped, and struck the side of her head with his fist.

Magiere spun backward, falling facedown in the wet mulch. Welstiel slipped on his ring and ducked out of sight behind the nearest trees.

He watched her from hiding to make certain the blow was enough to break this fear-driven obsession. She choked a few times, rose to her hands and knees, and looked wildly about the clearing.

"Leesil!" she screamed out. Magiere clawed her way to her feet and began running toward town.

Welstiel sank to the ground. Any relief he felt was smothered in bitter disappointment.

Leesil stood alone in the forest. There was blood on his hands, on the stilettos in his grip.

He dropped the blades, backing away, uncertain of where he was, what he'd done, and to whom. He glanced down at his arms. His sleeves were of thick cloth, colored a soft charcoal gray with a hint of green. A cloak of the same shade hung about his shoulders with its hood up over his head. Across his nose and mouth he felt a scarf wrapped to obscure the lower half of his face.

He had seen these clothes before. Sgaile of the Anmaglahk had worn them, the elven assassin who'd hunted him in Bela.

Leesil turned but stopped short before he could flee.

Between the trees ahead of him stood a tall man with his back turned. Narrow framed and square shouldered, black hair cropped short in a military style, he wore an indigo silk dressing gown. Leesil stepped closer, one hand reaching down for a punching blade. It wasn't there.

As he drew close, he saw a strange wound at the base of the man's head below the stubble of his hair. Blood seeped out, running down the man's neck to soak the robe's collar.

The man reached back to touch the spot, then looked at his hand and smeared the drop of blood between thumb and fingertip. He peered over his shoulder at Leesil. His long face was accented with chin beard and scant mustache below prominent cheekbones and a bony shelf of brow.

Leesil's throat closed up at the sight of Lord Progae's hazel eyes. He had never forgotten his first target.

"It never seems to stop, does it?" Progae shook his head with a sigh, neither angry nor sad, nor even surprised as he looked down at Leesil's hands. "The blood, I mean."