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I nside the cabin hidden in the Razor Mountains, Praevus closed all the curtains and flopped onto an old, dirty sofa.

When he’d arrived, Serita’s nearly decapitated body lay on the floor where he had attacked her when he’d stolen the human. But the cells had begun to regenerate. Soft, pained moans rose from her throat. Her recovery would be a very long, very painful process. Centuries. Millennia. Perhaps longer. He preferred not to listen to her strangled, endless cries of agony. Instead, he’d thrown the female out the door by a bush.

Afterward, he kicked his booted feet on the coffee table, thinking of anything except the hunger pangs brought on by his urges. He wanted another taste of Madeline’s mind. If not her, he wanted to tunnel into any Immortal and explore until he turned their brains to ground meat. A Mind Rat wasn’t meant to stay isolated from potential victims.

Though some would say it was his malady talking, Praevus didn’t care. His desires were the natural outgrowth of his personal evolution. He was superior. As an Immortal in Vast, he had been common, ordinary. Nothing set him apart, neither his job nor his personality nor his looks.

Since arriving at the cabin, he had tried to rein in his wandering thoughts but found doing so difficult. For days now, he lacked focus, disappearing into black holes on occasion. He was restless, jittery.

When he leaned his head back on the sofa cushion, he struggled to remember how he had gotten into such a mess.

Praevus was handsome. But so was every Immortal. Though not timid, he lacked the charisma to win over others with clever conversation or amusing antics. He supposed some thought him boring.

He was one of many assistant librarians in Vast’s Hall of Time, where the great histories were kept. His job in the acquisitions section was to gather new records of their people, cataloging and shelving them. Once Immortals invented new techniques for storing millennia of documents, his task was to convert ancient and new chronicles to digital format. Though Praevus enjoyed the undertakings, they did not contribute to his individual growth.

When he felt himself withering away, he applied to be the documentarian. The position was one of status. The Immortal who held it was important, an attendee at all court functions and the recorder of significant occurrences in Vast. Though he interviewed with the OC, the job went to someone else. The re-named Scribe was a preening, insufferable male with few literary skills. His writing was flowery and effusive. Adjectives were Scribe’s preferred parts of speech, sprinkled liberally throughout his compositions and lacking merit. But the OneCreator favored the Immortal. It was the only reason for his appointment. Praevus was a superior writer, as shown by his journals.

Of course, since his journals recorded his evolving thoughts and desires, he had not shown them to the OC during the interview. Thus, the ruler of Vast was unaware of his expert writing skills.

The slight ate away at Praevus for centuries. His daily duties at the Hall of Time continued to be completed with his usual skill, but gnawing envy took its toll. Whenever he cataloged a current document from Scribe, his anger roared to the surface.

His growing interests dominated his thoughts. At first, they seemed touched with genius. Later, they appeared deliciously wicked. At night, he lay abed, searching through his mind, examining his new-found abilities, wondering what he might do with them. He pictured a female laughing at his quips. After she flirted with him over a meal, he would take her to his bed, where he would continue to invade her brain, to crush her will.

He began testing his newly acquired skills on fellow assistant librarians or patrons. Nothing they could detect. He entered their heads, buried a thought, and scampered out. He planted small commands. Get lunch early. Leave for the bathroom now. Take out such-and-such book from the shelf. With these successes, he moved to more delicate commands. Ask me how my morning is going. Compliment me on my choice of shirts. Offer to pour me another cup of coffee. The experiments lent excitement to an otherwise tedious day.

Each week, Praevus extended the boundary of his skills. His mission was to stretch his abilities. With each test, he mined deeper, never using the same Immortals for his investigations. No. He was clever.

Called into Librarian’s office on the main floor of the complex, Praevus was advised his work was slipping. He was cautioned to take care.

For a century thereafter, he controlled his urges. But when ennui again enervated him, he returned to what gave him joy. He was, however, not so careful this time. He did forego practicing on Immortals in the library, instead turning to strangers. A passerby on the street. A neighbor. A fellow customer in a coffee shop.

Though Praevus was aware he grew too bold, he could not stop himself. He did not want to stop. He was having too much fun.

Delicious.

Practice became more frequent.

One day, he tangled his invisible fingers in Elise’s mind. A court favorite of the OneCreator, she collapsed. She was unconscious, and Praevus realized he had gone too far. She would not recover from his invasion for, perhaps, a century. Her circuitry was fried, her memories stolen, and her ability to think obliterated. Praevus was fatigued, but ... he recounted the ecstasy of digging through her mind.

Mouthwatering. Fulfilling.

While she was unconscious, nearly brain-dead, Praevus swiped his hands over the female’s eyes, closing them. Since she had provided him joy, he laid her gently on the ground, tucking her lilac gown around her. He stood, prepared to fly home to enjoy the aftereffects. Then, the black-winged assassin blocked his path. “Dominion, I can explain,” he said.

The Feard glared at him with his one frightening eye.

“I found Elise like this and was going for help,” he explained.

The assassin drew a sword from a sheath on his back. “You have been judged by the OneCreator who sentences you to Angor.”

“No. You misunderstand the situation.”

“I think not, Praevus.”

He snapped out his wings to take flight. Before he rose, Dominion sped toward him, lobbing off an entire wing.

When he tried to fly using only a single wing, he wobbled, his feet stumbling. An impassive Dom watched Praevus’s dilemma, judging him. “Stupid.”

The assassin manifested a net, throwing it over Praevus’s head. He was caught and lifted into the air.

Dominion carted him off like a trapped bird. Reaching a particular spot in Angor, the assassin cut the netting, allowing Praevus to fall into Angor. When he hit the ground, his bones fractured. Henchmen scooped him up and dumped him in a filthy alley. He lay there in pain, healing with no assistance.

He was a Scourge, his white eyes those of a Mind Rat. With no escape, he was punished and tormented like others. Though he requested work in Angor’s Library of Beginnings and Endings, Harmony denied his request. Instead, he was assigned a menial job, one beneath his status, cleaning up and washing dishes in a cafe managed by the trustee Serita.

His undeserved incarceration continued until Serita offered him a deal. He accepted. Who would not choose her proposal over the repeated assaults on his mind and body at the Ordeals?

But now, he was hiding in a cabin that belonged to his ex-boss, fearing Dom or another of the asshole Feard would hunt him down. Eternity was unfair to Praevus. He deserved better.

He jerked when he heard a sound outside. Springing to his feet, he fingered the curtain, peeking through the slight crack.

Nothing.

What was going on out there? Had the hunt for him stopped? When could he come out of hiding? Surely, he wasn’t expected to remain here permanently. He needed a fix. He needed to explore a mind, one as delicious as Madeline’s. As challenging.

Praevus palmed the phone that he had kept, regardless of the command from Serita’s co-conspirator. But he’d wait.

Once again settling into the stained sofa’s cushions, Praevus contented himself with fantasizing about what Madeline might do because of his tampering. Yes . He rested his head and closed his lids. Retracing every step in his journey through her mind, he swallowed, moisture gathering in his mouth. Succulent . He had fought for every inch gained. She was strong-willed. Though he had never reached her core, he had ensured what was done would be effective. Others would understand his power. They would see how he had laid triggers and made the human a Sycophant, a living work of art that carried his signature. And best of all, her Sycophancy was delayed, and her slavish obedience would transfer to a new master.

****

S till searching for some sign of Praevus, Remi took a flight path over the southern range of the Razor Mountains. He banked left, flying low enough to see the jagged peaks. Below him, surefooted, cliff-dwelling goats scrambled up the rocks. Their stubby wings helped them move easily, though their hooves were their greatest advantage. High as they were, few predators could reach them.

He glided above the range, soaring when he caught a wind current. Adjusting a wingtip, he maneuvered left. In a meadow beyond a tree line, a pack of wolvers stalked a dorik, a grass-grazing creature, a tasty meal for the beasts of prey.

Just to the east of the mountains, he set down in Loneliness Desert. The sand was thick with Soul Suckers.

At this Ordeal, emotions flooded some of them. Abandonment. Loneliness. Loss of loved ones. Rejection. Isolation. Pity. They beat their chests, tore their skin and hair, and sobbed nonstop.

For others, the emotions were sucked out of them, leaving them hollow. Those Scourges wandered aimlessly in the desert, their eyes empty, their jowls slack, and their minds as deserted as the wasteland beneath their feet. They stabbed themselves, trying over and over again to commit suicide. Useless since they were once Immortals, incapable of death except at the hands of a few.

Remi hated the Ordeals for the Soul Suckers most of all. This region where the Scourges were tormented with either a surfeit or a lack of emotions was infectious. When his feet hit the sandy soil, he immediately felt sad, an emotion he hated. He persisted despite it, questioning a few prisoners but getting nothing. Most didn’t know Praevus. Those who did hadn’t seen him. No surprise. Soul Suckers and Mind Rats weren’t the closest friends, their maladies seeming to set off the other too easily, one all about feeling and the other about the mind.

Enough of this shit.

He spread his bronze-spiked wings and took off, seeking another Ordeal. Remi circled back to the Razor Mountains, heading north. At least the air up here was fresh, not filled with debilitating emotions. His feathers warmed, catching the sun, which sparkled through a break in the clouds. Before he could enjoy the warmth, he identified four dots in the distance, closing in. As they drew close, he recognized them as Scourges. What were they doing? Coming or going to an Ordeal?

Remi hovered in place. When they neared, he didn’t recognize any of the Scourges. Not unusual. One of his fellow assassins could have brought them to Angor.

They were Leeches, their mouths open, fangs protruding from their gums. One male flew in front of the others. Remi figured him as the leader. He spoke first. “You’re in our skies, Feard. Leave.”

Remi’s brows arched as a smile twitched on his lips. A challenge from a bunch of fucking Scourges? The day was looking up. “Your skies?”

“Yep,” said the male to the right of the leader. The remaining two winged over to flank Remi.

Strange encounter. Scourges challenging a winged assassin? Interesting.

Remi snatched his long-bladed knives from the holsters tied to his thighs. He grinned. A big fan of Earth’s Dirty Harry movies, he’d been dying to use the line. Here was his chance. It was doubtful these dumbfucks would get it. “Go ahead, make my day.”

One Leech chuckled. Remi would go easier on him. The response showed the guy had promise. Obviously, they enjoyed the same movies. The others gave him empty stares. Oblivious to fine film, they sealed their fate.

The leader charged forward. Nothing clever. Brute force. As the other Scourges flew at him, Remi shot up and flipped over, coming behind the four Stooges. Yep . They were a favorite, too.

The Scourges nearly crashed into one another. The bronze spike-winged assassin shouted, “You’ve got to ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky? Well, do you punk?’” Again, the Harry Callahan line would be lost. Maybe the one guy would get it. Remi caught a slight grin on his worried face.

He sighed, performing a few more aerobatics but receiving no applause. Ungrateful audience. When Remi settled, the four spun his way, their expressions puzzled by his antics.

He waved as best he could with a knife in each hand. “You were saying something about this being your skies? Could you be more specific?”

They flew at him again. No strategy. No skill. He figured they hoped to overwhelm him with bulk and numbers.

This time, Remi pulled in his wings, dropping straight down, boots first. When he powered back up toward his stunned spectators, his wings pounding the air, he sliced a tip off one Scourge’s wing. The guy wobbled, but the cut wasn’t enough to take him out of action. Remi hadn’t intended it to be. This was a game, wasn’t it? They would make lame attempts to injure a winged assassin, and he would toy with them.

Great fun.

The foursome slowed, whispering, trying to come up with a plan. Remi hovered patiently. Having devised a strategy, they surrounded him and moved in, hoping to smash him between them. Stupid . They were slow. He charged between two of them, slicing the tips from their wings. That left only the leader unscathed.

The guy didn’t look so sure of himself now. Though why he had before puzzled Remi. Hadn’t they seen the Feard in action? Who was filling their heads with grandiose thoughts?

The leader withdrew a heavy sword from a scabbard at his hip. He shot toward Remi, who zipped to the side at the last moment. The Scourge’s fast momentum caused him to speed by when he missed. The idiot’s compatriots flew at Remi, but the lost bits of wing and cartilage had done damage. They were slow and off-kilter. A winged creature could not win an air battle without speed and balance.

Remi dropped, performed a forward roll, and came up behind them. They turned and waited for their leader to rejoin them, whipping out their blades as if being armed made them more of a threat.

The leader shouted, “Prepare to die.”

Cheesy. Not a worthy battle cry. Even Mel Gibson in Braveheart was better.

“But it is not this day! This day, we fight!” Remi shouted. “Aragorn in The Return of the King . A much better battle cry. But I tire of your antics. To say nothing of your lame verbiage.” He spun in the blink of an eye, whisking his knives through the air and striking out with his unsheathed sharp-edged bronze feathers. He sliced a wing from each attacker. The wide-eyed shock as they plummeted toward what would be a rocky, hard landing was priceless.

Re-holstering his blades, Remi scratched his head. Dimwitted . What had they hoped to achieve? Had they spotted him heading into the mountains and gotten some random, crazy idea to attack?

Remi dropped low to spot the four bodies. They had smashed to the ground near each other, though the leader had caught the worst of the fall. He was impaled on a jagged peak. Ouch . Had to hurt. He’d be out of action for some time. Healing could be a bitch. A long, slow, painful bitch.

After telepathing Harmony’s office to send henchmen to pick up the Scourges, he soared high and circled back toward his next stop. On the way, he reported the attack to the Feard while wondering why Scourges would dare challenge him.