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Val finally looked at her. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Mouse, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” Tunnel mouse, Val had called her when she was young, for her hair that couldn’t decide whether it was brown or blond and landed somewhere indiscriminate, for the place where Mari had found her, at the mouth of the catacombs. Even after Lore grew up, she was still mouse. “Does Mari know? Did she decide that a contract was worth killing me for, too?”

Val’s chapped lips pressed flat, her eyes blinking closed before opening again. “I’ll explain to Mari,” she said quietly. “She’ll understand.”

“Good for her.” The break in Lore’s voice was too raw to hide. “Because I sure as fuck don’t.”

Val sighed. A pause, then she walked over, crouched next to the chair. She raised a hand like she would smooth Lore’s hair away, but Lore jerked her head back. “I know what this looks like,” Val said softly. “But, Lore, this could be an opportunity. This will keep you safer than Mari and I ever could.”

Lore didn’t say anything. She stared straight ahead, until the colors in the tapestry whirled together in her wet eyes. Finally, Val stepped away. The door shut softly behind her.

“For what it’s worth,” the Priest Exalted said, coming to sit before her in the chair Gabriel hastily provided, “none of us have lied to you. We don’t want to hurt you, Lore.”

“Then what do you want?” Her voice still sounded scraped-up, like her throat was made of rock. Lore swallowed.

A smile crinkled the handsome side of Anton’s face. “We need assistance,” he said. “And it appears you’re the only one who can provide it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The one who can stab you quickest is the one to whom you give a knife.

—Kirythean proverb

Lore paused. Then she laughed.

It was a rough and rasping sound, her mouth still dry from the cotton gag. Lore hung her head and laughed until it ran the risk of becoming a sob.

“My help?” She shook her head, though it made her temples throb. The chloroform had knocked loose a bitch of a headache, worse than any hangover. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, priest, but wanting help from an unsanctioned Mortem wielder is more than a little light heresy.”

Anton’s expression was almost amused, at least on the side of his face that could show expression. “Heresy can be forgiven, when it’s for the greater good.”

Behind Anton, Malcolm still stood with his scarred arms crossed, face unreadable. But at the word heresy, the line of Gabriel’s mouth went flat.

“The Bleeding God knows our plight and gives us benediction to do as we must in His service.” All this in a low, pleasing baritone, as if Anton was reciting a prayer. Maybe he was; the Book of Prayer was thick as every hell and seemed to have an entry for everything. “Indeed, it is a vital part of the Presque Mort’s work, the marrow to its bone. We submit ourselves to darkness, knowing that in the end all shadow will be eclipsed in light, as the Buried Goddess was eclipsed by the glory of the Bleeding God.”

That didn’t seem to have worked out so well, what with the Mortem still leaking from the goddess’s dead body and all. “If you’re asking me to join your cult,” Lore said, “my answer is a resounding no.”

It was Anton’s turn to laugh, a sound as court-cultured as his speaking voice. “Oh, no,” the Priest Exalted chuckled. “That’s not what we want at all. It takes a person of a very… specific… temperament to make it as one of the Presque Mort.”

She gave him a beatific smile. “And I’m too pretty.”

Malcolm turned his face away, fighting down a smirk. Gabriel didn’t react at all, that one blue eye blazing at her.

Anton raised a sardonic brow. “You are unscarred, yes. Clearly, your abilities with Mortem didn’t come through an accident, not like ours did.”

That skated a bit too close to close to the truth for her tastes—they might be willing to overlook her power if they needed her for something, but she’d like to avoid revealing where that power came from. Lore shifted in her chair. “What do you need me for, then?”

All the laughter was gone from Anton now, both the handsome and the scarred sides of his face stoic. “You’ve heard of the village, I presume.”

Everyone had heard of the village by now. Lore nodded.

“And what exactly have you heard?”

“Not much.” She lifted her hands behind her as much as she could against the ropes, twiddled her fingers. “I might remember more if you untied me.”

Anton’s placid expression didn’t change. He waved a hand, and Gabriel stepped forward, ducking behind Lore’s chair to cut the knots that held her. The Presque Mort moved silently, stiffly. She smelled incense again.

When she was free, Lore sat forward, working her wrists back and forth. Malcolm watched her warily, and she held up her hands like surrender. “No weapons. Relax.”