It wasn't possible, not for the way all the victims had died. Except that Chane had kept company with Welstiel for a long while. And Welstiel had been trained by his father's retainer—Ubâd, that decrepit necromancer and the architect of Magiere's unnatural birth.
Welstiel was a conjuror. As a Noble Dead he'd had many years to refine his skills. And what might Chane, a conjuror himself, have learned under that madman's tutelage?
Everything kept racing along twisted paths in Wynn's mind, and they all led to Chane.
She remembered spirits, walking corpses, and dismembered body parts floating in milky fluids within Ubâd's hideaway. Chane had been there as well, trying to save her, but looking back…
Wynn's chill faded, and bile burned in the back of her throat.
It was him. Chane was murdering sages… her own kind.
He suddenly shoved the folio under one arm, and a long line of silver appeared before him in the dark shop.
Wynn quickly realized it was his sword—but why was he drawing a weapon? He wasn't looking her way but off toward the shopfront's far [opfly side. She tried to shift left along the window and glimpse the room's far right side.
A black form floated across the floor into sight.
Wynn's eyes widened as she followed it—and then she flinched back.
Chane was looking right at her. His eyes widened as well, but he quickly returned his attention to the black mass.
She thought she saw the shape of a black hood and cloak upon a tall form—just before a shout filled the night street.
"Move in!"
A strong arm latched around Wynn from behind and heaved her off the ground.
Chane heard a male voice shouting outside, and then Wynn cried out.
He glanced toward the window, but the shutter's narrow space was empty. And the wafting black figure rushed him—straight through the counter.
Chane didn't even think to swing his sword. He twisted sideways into the door frame, blade out, but he still couldn't make out a face within the hood.
The figure hesitated. Was it looking at the sword? Then it surged forward, and Chane slashed.
The blade's tip passed through the figure's midsection.
The steel didn't even drag, as if cutting only air. Lack of resistance took him by surprise, and he lost the sword's balance. It jarred against the door frame, and the figure's cloth-wrapped fingers shot out at him. On instinct Chane jerked the sword's hilt upward, blade tilted to block.
The black hand glided straight through the steel and sank into his chest.
Agonizing cold spread through him before he could shut out the pain. The frigid cold in his chest was so harsh it felt as if he burned. Something seemed to gnaw at him from within.
Chane's knees buckled in weakness. Then a hollow moan filled the shop. It rose to a shriek, piercing his ears with equal pain.
The black figure jerked its hand from Chane's chest. It held up shivering fingers, as if it had suddenly succumbed to the same searing cold.
Chane wobbled, and his shoulder struck the door frame before he could catch himself.
A hiss grew inside the shop.
The sound seemed to rise all around as the figure's pit of a hood turned to its own raised hand wrapped in shreds of black cloth. Its fingers twitched in convulsions as it retreated through the counter. And the hood's opening turned once more toward Chane.
He felt the cold fade within him and his strength returned.
He had no notion of what had just happened, but it had not been what his attacker expected. Once its hand jerked from his body, the sudden weakness simply faded. As if it tried to d [it berain his strength and failed.
And Chane had felt something else in that painful contact—empty of life.
He righted himself in panic. This thing that walked through solid walls was undead, but unlike any he had ever seen or heard of. Chane quickly glanced to the rear door and then up to the hole in the roof.
He had to escape, and Wynn was still out front. But he would never gain the roof quickly enough, nor have time to get past the rear door's inner bar. Not before…
He glanced back again. The rear door's brackets were empty, and the bar leaned against the wall beside it. The door might still contain a basic lock, but why had it not been barred when the staff left the shop?
The robed form curled its fingers into hooks and slid through the counter again.
Chane dodged out the doorway and behind the counter. The back room was too tight and cluttered for fighting. At best, he would have to break through a front window and run. Then the folio was jerked from under his arm.
"No!" he rasped.
He snatched hold of the leather case with his free hand and spun about, swinging his sword back in reflex.
Chane watched his blade pass through a black-wrapped forearm and hit the countertop. The figure's fingers still clutched the folio's other end. Chane barely blinked as something struck the side of his head.
