The Queen of Wolves by Douglas Clegg Page A

next. You still stink of Nezahual’s snakes.”
    Once I was clean, I tossed tunics and trousers and mysterious leggings and various cloth bindings that I did not quite know the use for—all across the enormous bed. “Tonight, when we rise, we will dress as the lord and lady demon that we are. Now you, my lady.”
    I beckoned her to the bath.
    “Come to bed,” she said as she drew off the rags she had worn since our escape.
    Reaching for the bowl of water and the rag within it, I said, “I feel no sun yet. Here, wash.”
    “A daughter of Merod does not wash like a mortal. Water would...”
    “Hurt you?” I asked. “Perhaps we grow weak in a river, or a lake. Perhaps we would drown if in the sea. But the rain does nothing to us. A good bath will help you rest.”
    “I rest well enough. Vampyres have no need of baths.”
    “In more than a thousand nights, you have not bathed? Not ever? You forget yourself, Pythoness. You live in a prison of mortality now. You reek of life,” I laughed as I threw the cloth over to her.
    She seemed to rear back, her eyes burning, a snarl curving her lips. The cloth landed on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off to the floor. “You vile snake, reminding me of this...insult...this parasite!” She reached up to the mask, raking her fingernails into its golden flesh. “I wish I had never put this upon my face. I wish now I had remained with Nezahual and ruled his kingdom beside him and left you to your fate in the jaws of Ixtar.”
    “You hated him,” I said, feeling anger rise up. “He would have tormented you until your Extinguishing. He would have destroyed you, my sweet Pythoness. You have bad taste in men. For the most part.”
    “He loved me,” she said. “He would not have sought my destruction.”
    “You have been loved by many, and you have loved them,” I said.
    “As have you. What is good for a man is also good for a woman,” she said. In those nights of that century, I had an old way of thinking of maidens, although the fierce vampyre women had changed this swiftly enough. “I have even loved my prey when it has taken my fancy.”
    “Did Nezahual keep the mask from you?” I asked, ignoring what was surely a barb aimed at me. “Or did he take you to it and show you its glittering beauty? Did he allow you to feel its seduction? Did he tell you where it was, knowing that you would not stop searching for it until you had it on your face?”
    Her eyes widened, and she froze, as if remembering. The gold mask rippled at her brow. When she spoke, her voice had altered; it was lower and deeper, as if she had gone into a trance merely by recalling her first sight of the mask of Datbathani. “It called to me. It sought me. It is a creation of a deep place, where sorcery still holds power over us. It is beyond even Medhya’s touch. You would not understand unless it called to you. I slaughtered many of Nezahual’s priests to steal it. It had been locked away, this beautiful mask—so lovely—like a beautiful creature, a bird of rich and vibrant plumage held against its will, selfishly imprisoned so that none might bask in its glory. It had been laid upon an obsidian statue of some demon of Nezahual’s choosing—a youth with many arms, a god long forgotten to even that world of the Ketzal. The mask was a whisper in my mind as I beheld it. Will you come to me, Pythoness? It asked. I am your fulfillment; I am power beyond dream, it whispered. I am meant for your face. I trembled at its sight, Falconer. I shivered as I touched the smooth edge of it. When I held it in my hands, I saw beauty and hope, as you can only dream. I saw sunlight reflected in it—light that I had not seen in millennia, and it did not burn me. This beautiful gold mask. Its power. I felt it. When I wore it, when I could not remove it, I felt its lies, its deception. I felt my power being sucked from my flesh and blood just as we drink from mortals. I must bring nourishment to myself and my