MalloS

Pain on this level was worthy of reverence. Fluid as the ocean, Mallos moved between two states of mind, depending on various factors: one was an aristocratic, catlike failure to comprehend why anyone would deny themselves comfort if it was available. The other, which came in reckless spurts, pounded at the iron-wrought gates of a sensible life with fists charged with adrenaline. That state of mind knew that eternity was boring unless you sought thrills. That philosophy, grouped with impulsive energy and an immortal heart which didn’t know how to heal through grieving, revelled in agony. Pain reminded you that you were alive. That you were vulnerable. It made your heart beat faster.

The pain was ebbing, slowly but surely. Mallos couldn’t even take solace in what little remained, because this self-righteous do-good schmuck insisted on being present to ruin it.

The herbalist’s praise of Mallos’ familiar was doing little to quell the ire burning in the latter’s veins. Sperantia adopted a smug expression which she’d undoubtedly be wearing for weeks, the corners of her mouth curled upwards and her vibrant blue eyes narrowed under a full-cheeked smile. If this little mortal liked her that much he could have her. Her level head would come in really handy when she decided to fuck off to do her own thing again, just when her fairy needed her.

Sperantia’s expression flickered and dropped for a moment as she studied him, as though she knew what he was thinking. Mallos was making no effort to hide the animosity on his face but he had erected a few mental shields to keep his familiar out. With divinity focusing most of its effort on healing his body, there wasn’t a great deal left over for psychic protection, but Sperantia had gotten better at respecting his privacy since returning from her alone time with a low tail and a sheepish expression.

He inched his hands further forward across the ground to make his sitting position more upright, gathering the words for the most scathing retort he could think of, when the full impact of Osiris’ words registered. Mallos and Sperantia paused simultaneously. The cat glanced at Osiris, all trace of snobbery fleeing her face, but Mallos frowned down at the golden sparks charging across his legs. He should have figured. Shaman had all sorts, but the oddest were invariably the generation of children Gwythr had experimented genetically with. The generation of children who were, biologically, the progeny of Mallos – even if their creation had been at his expense and without his consent.

A year ago, an apology would have been forthcoming. Mallos might have gritted his teeth against the pain and offered a tentative olive branch in the hope that he might be able to connect with his long-lost offspring.

A year ago, Shaman’s king – Mallos’ friend – had not been murdered at the hands of one of those children he thought he’d known. He inhaled as deeply as he could, the air coming shakily as the golden sparks of light tried to heal his lungs.

“She doesn’t speak for me.” He cast a look at Sperantia, who did at least look down at the floor. Mallos flicked his eyes over to Osiris, his expression far from welcoming. “And I lived on Shaman for years. You could have spoken to me any time.”