Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) by Leona Wisoker Read Free Book Online

she’d seen me the last time I rescued her, he thought sourly; which brought back memory of his roiling, useless fury that she’d even been kidnapped in the first place, and added to the haze already clouding the edges of his vision.
    Growling in frustration, he shoved at her shoulder hard to get her attention back. “Where?” he shouted, leaning forward. “Where, damnit?”
    “I don’t know!” she snapped back, distracted from fear into an anger of her own. “I don’t know what’s going on in there!”
    Her anger aggravated his already taut nerves. Not inclined to explain, he grabbed her by both shoulders and moved them inside, into a familiar enough place for the transition to be safe: her room, where he’d knelt, scant days ago, in terror of her dying—where she’d pitched a thankfully empty bedpan at his head, and a heavier vase at Eredion’s, and only quieted when a complete stranger—a dangerous stranger—allowed her to cry herself out on his sturdy shoulder. Then she fell asleep in the stranger’s arms—
    Deiq would have been happy never to see that room and the memories it held again.
    As it clarified around them, he saw that it held more than memories: over a dozen armed men waited, and the furniture had been pushed aside to allow for easy fighting room—
    He would have to lose all control in order to fight this many, and Alyea would see it —No. She’s not ready for that yet.
    Before the waiting men could more than blink in startlement, Deiq removed himself and Alyea from that trap and returned them to the Church tower.
    “Too many,” he panted as air returned for breath. “Too damn many. Stay here—”
    Much as he’d rather let the stupid woman die, he’d have to get Lady Peysimun out himself. He couldn’t bring Alyea back there, not until he took care of the situation.
    With his full strength returned, what was coming would make his recent charge through the ranks of her kidnappers look like a children’s dance. For a fraction of a moment, he considered calling for Eredion’s help, then dismissed the idea as swiftly. The desert lord would take too long to arrive, would only get in the way—and Deiq didn’t want him to see this, either.
    Treacherous memory flickered, reminding him of the state he’d found Alyea in at Lady Arnil’s house and stoking the rage even higher. Alyea didn’t know yet, didn’t understand that sharing could transfer memories; didn’t realize that while he’d shielded his own memories fairly well, she couldn’t hide hers as effectively, and he’d seen—
    The edges of his vision blurred further, leaving him with a dangerously tight focus.
    He spared another second to order himself, sternly, not to kill innocents; not to kill Alyea’s mother, or any servants, or anyone helpless. Hoping at least some part of him would remember that injunction, he drew in a deep breath and let the rage loose as he stepped into Peysimun Mansion’s inner rooms.
    The rage quickly transformed, as he’d known it would, into a fierce joy. The silky feel and bitter taste of blood lit every nerve ending in his body on fire. He ripped through the room, savoring every scream, the scent of fear, urine, feces and blood sweeter than the finest bouquet of flowers.
    I’m not so different from Kippin, in that respect... He’d had similar experiences before. The joy he felt in wreaking such destruction had contributed to his centuries-long spiral into depression. Right now, though, the cruelty of what he was doing meant nothing.
    Dimly, Deiq regretted that he couldn’t simply pull the lives from his opponents, like ripping the silk from a cob of corn; that would have been faster, and much more pleasurable. But his ha’reye heritage forbade it as a waste—he didn’t need that energy at the moment—and his human heritage, although only a trace element at this point, still screamed against it as obscene.
    For once, the tiny coherent part of his mind observed, both sides agree. At