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“The way you describe sand beneath the sun,” she said with a hint of humor, “is probably how I would react in a similar situation.”

Blinking back to the present, he said, “Hissing? Maybe. Begging for mercy? From what I’ve seen of you, princess, I highly doubt that.”

The tips of her pointed ears heated. The fey had sensitive ears. Would hers be? “Still, I hope I live long enough to behold a desert. Perhaps one day. Or rather, night.”

A doubtful prospect.You’re probably going to die here. Soon.A charitable impulse made him say, “The desert at night is a wondrous sight, especially under a full moon. You would like it.”

She tilted her head, seeming bemused by him. “I also read that the realm of Sorselan was lost. Is that true?”

“Yes. When its last ruler”—me—“left for distant lands, that dimension fell into chaos. Sorcery theft was so rife, everyone scattered to the winds. And they’ve remained solitary since.”

“Do you miss it?”

Desperately.“On occasion.”

“How do you steal sorcery?”

“Find one of our kind who’s inebriated, weakened from exhaustion, or mindless from sex, then pluck the unguarded ability like a thread. Sorceri are always probing to see if another’s magic is locked down—an aggression if caught. Also, murdering another Sorceri will net you some powers.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I’ve never stolen another’s power.” Much. He knew brethren with scores of them, didn’t understand how they kept up with them all. He’d taken only one other ability, allowing little else to distract him from protecting his sand.

“Have you hadyoursstolen?”

He forced himself to appear casual, to keep his heartbeat steady. “That would be a humiliation without equal, one I have not suffered.” Not since he’d been a boy. “We consider a root power, the one we’re born with, our soul. When another takes it . . .”Hope is lost. Pride is lost.

“Then a Sorceri becomes an Inferi.”

That hated word. It harkened shame, made bile churn even now. “Yes.” He sometimes disbelieved that he’d once been an . . . Inferi, that he’d lived with that barren emptiness. “So we guardour root power with ruthless determination,” he said, fighting the urge to trace his tattoos.

Fortunately Revenge had been there to keep Silt warm when he’d huddled hungry and alone in the cold desert nights. Revenge had nursed him through the outrages of slavery. She’d made sure he could handle a sword to enact her plans, and she’d promised him purpose.

In return, all he’d had to do was keep the chain going. He’d honored that contract, until opium had taken her place. . . .

He glanced up to see Kosmina’s analytical expression. “Will we speculate on each other at every moment of this journey?” he asked. “Without blood, I’m surprised you have the energy for it. You grow weaker by the moment.” He might’ve spared some pity for his maneater, if he’d had any left in him.

She straightened her shoulders. “I do grow weaker. I’ll have to dig deeper and fight harder.”

No one could be as dauntless as she acted. Eventually she would hit her limit and revert to form: a spoiled princess using others for blood and damn the consequences. “You must miss a steady supply of victims.” Then he frowned as a thought occurred. “Why are your brother’s eyes clear?”

Her expression grew frosty. “Mirceo is an off-limits topic for you.” Her steely words were undercut by a muffled yawn.

That yawn made her look vulnerable and called to some unfamiliar emotion inside him. Was this . . . protectiveness? He turned the idea over in his mind, could remember feeling it once for his parents.

Defending Kosmina over these nights must have done a number on his head.Shake it off, Silt.Yet when he took in her heavy lids as she struggled to stay awake, words left his lips: “Sleep, vampire. I won’t hurt you.”

She made a scoffing sound.

“We can call a truce for the night, and I’ll keep watch for any bold wendigos.”

“Truce? You’ve vowed to use me to hurt Mirceo.”

“That’s not true.” At her look, he amended: “Well, yes, of course I will murder Mirceo. But I’m notcompelledto use you.”

“And how can I trust the word of an evil sorcerer?”

“The same way I can trust the word of a parched maneater. We’ll each make a vow to the Lore not to harm the other in this cave.”