Page 130 of Paladin's Faith

“Agreed,” he said.

It was wise enough not to gloat. It reached out and pressed its hand flat against his chest, a little below his heart, where the Saint of Steel had once filled him with holy fire.

“Then let me in, champion,” the demon whispered.

Shane closed his eyes. His first god didn’t want him. His second god was dead. He was a danger to the woman he loved.

Maybe it’s better this way.

If the demon’s touch had burned before, now it felt like a needle of fire thrust through his heart. Shane opened his mouth to scream, and then something tore, something he hadn’t even known existed, and his scream turned into a ragged gasp for air.

It was as if there had been a festering wound deep inside him and Wisdom had lanced it. As if he had been in pain so long that he had forgotten there was anything else, until the demon had broken it open and set it to bleeding again.

An abscessed soul. Of course I’d get one of those. If souls could heal and souls could scar, it only made sense. He gave a short huff of laughter, startling himself. He’d heard dying men laugh like that.

Well. That made sense, too. Perhaps the wound in his soul had always been mortal. He had simply been too stubborn to fall down and die. Perhaps now he finally would.

“Not until I’m done with you,” said the demon Wisdom, and used its host’s body to smile.

FORTY-FIVE

“It’s taking too long,” said Marguerite.

Wren lifted her head and looked at her with an expression so unexpected that it took Marguerite a moment to recognize it. Pity? From Wren, of all people?

“You still don’t understand,” said the paladin gently. “It’s a demon. Five minutes would be too long. He’s gone.”

“He’d never give in to a demon,” said Marguerite firmly. “It’s Shane.”

Wren rubbed the back of her neck. “Normally I’d agree with you,” she said. “But it’s old. And powerful. When you get one like this, the temple sends out a dozen paladins and at least five priests, and they expect to lose people. Shane’s just one man.”

“I don’t believe for a minute that he’d be possessed by a demon,” said Davith. Marguerite turned gratefully towards this unexpected support, right up until he added, “He’d have to take the stick out of his ass to make room.”

“Not helpful, Davith.”

Wren wheeled around, teeth bared, and for a second Marguerite thought the other woman would strike him. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that!” she hissed. “He saved your life! He could have let that ground-wight eat you—he could have let the Sail’s people have you—but he’s been ready to die for you every step of the way and he doesn’t even like you! Because he is—he was—a good man! And he just sacrificed himself because…because…just shut up!”

Davith stared at her in astonishment and, to Marguerite’s own private astonishment, obvious shame. “You’re right,” he said finally. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”

Marguerite had to swallow hard at Wren’s use of past tense, but then she went and put her arm around Wren’s shoulders. She could feel the paladin trembling.

And not that long ago, you were thinking of how you would sacrifice this girl to your cause if you had to.

Not that long ago, I watched her and Shane kill a half-dozen men in less time than it takes to tell it. It was easy to sacrifice an unstoppable killing machine. Less so to sacrifice a younger woman on the edge of tears.

She didn’t say, “It will be all right,” because neither Wren nor Shane had believed that it would be all right, and they knew more about it than she did. She could still taste the kiss he had given her, all sorrow and sweetness and leavetaking.

Gods of all things, what if he’s really gone? What if the demon has already snuffed him out like a candle?

The thought did not have time to grip her, because she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up and saw Shane and the creature called Wisdom descending the stairs.

Wren jerked free of her embrace and in an instant was a warrior again, balanced on the balls of her feet, as if they were about to be attacked. Marguerite watched Shane approach the bars. There was something different about him, something about the way he moved…

Wren backed away, shaking her head. “No,” she said softly. “Oh no.”

Marguerite met his eyes, and they were white ice and darkness.

Dread prickled her skin. “Shane?” she said. “Is that you?”