LITMIR.BIZ

      Bastien leaned back in the corner booth of the Nom de Nom Tavern and casually flicked his new hat with the broad brim onto the table. From the corner of his eyes he watched for the reactions of the other Chevaliers to his hat, and suppressed a smug smile.

      Unlike most of the Chevaliers in the Nom de Nom, he was not a Lord’s or Lady’s Knight, but an independent. And the hat proved just how successful he was. Stretching out his legs, he admired it again. The hat was of his own design, with a great rim around it—wide enough to keep the frinks that fell with the rain off a man’s face or from slipping down his collar—if you had tough enough material. Soul-sucker hide did just fine.

      It had been his first soul-sucker kill, and the bounty had been prime. He grinned as he recalled the scene at the Marshall’s Castle where he’d dumped the remains late in the afternoon. Oh, it was great claiming the prize from those tight-assed Marshalls who thought they were the best at fighting and believed they knew everything.

      The assayer who’d counted out Bastien’s gold had covered his initial revolted horror at the soul-sucker’s body by donning a self-important air and informing Bastien that the Summoning had been a success—Lladrana now had a new Exotique who would save them all. Trust the Marshalls to dig up and follow all the old traditions instead of trying something new to defeat the invading horrors.

      That had dimmed Bastien’s pleasure for a moment—or until he had requested the assayer provide him with the soul-sucker’s skin in an hour for his hat. It was Bastien’s right to have the hide, and the clerk’s appalled expression had revived Bastien’s spirits.

      Now that he recalled the scene, he frowned. There had been something else—something that had made the hair on the back of his neck rise—the silver hair that denoted Power, not the black locks. Had he seen a pair of glinting eyes in the rafters of the storeroom? He shrugged it off and gestured for some ale.

      After he’d gotten the skin he’d spent some Power fashioning the hat he’d designed on the long volaran flight from the North.

      Unobtrusively he shifted in his seat. That last fight the day before had been rough. A slayer, a render and a soul-sucker. They’d been gleeful at their supposed ambush of a single prey—a volaran-mounted Chevalier. He moved his shoulders to avoid a throbbing bruise.

      He’d rarely been in worse shape. Bloody tracks from the render’s claws covered his torso; a puncture from the slayer bore through his left thigh, far too close to his balls to think of the wound without a shudder. Bruises covered his body. Even the soul-sucker had marked him. Round, raised bumps from its suckers dotted Bastien’s right shoulder and scalp—thankfully hidden by his clothes and his black-and-silver hair.

      The conversation rose as his new hat was noticed and became an object for discussion. Only Marrec, who swore loyalty to Lady Hallard, actually had the guts to turn from the bar to stare at the hat.

      When the serving woman Dodu brought his ale, she gave him a long, slow look from under her eyelashes. “I can cancel my plans for tonight, Bastien,” she whispered.

      More than Bastien’s aches throbbed at her invitation. He looked at her plump hips and sighed. For the first time in his life he was in no shape for bedsport. He had the feeling that if he took her up on her offer his reputation as a great lover would shatter.

      “Ah, Dodu, my lovely, I only wish I could cancel my own, but for once I must place duty before pleasure.” He pasted a yearning expression on his face.

      She narrowed her eyes.

      Bastien lifted her fingertips and kissed them.

      Dodu sighed and withdrew her hand. “Some other time, then.”

      He grinned. “Definitely.”

      With a swish of the ass she knew he admired, she served another table. Bastien shifted, trying to find a less painful position.

      The door opened, letting in gray twilight and the stench of frink-filled rain. Bastien’s smile faded. His brother Luthan scanned the room, spotted Bastien and strode to him.

      Bastien’s brows knit. Luthan didn’t move with his usual fluidity, and pallor showed under the golden tone of his skin. He looked as if he’d been through an ordeal—more than just confronting the Marshalls in their Council, which Bastien had heard Luthan was going to do—as the new Representative of the Cloister. His acceptance of the position had spurred a lot of talk, since it now left the Chevaliers without a spokesperson to the Marshalls.

      Was Luthan’s streak of silver over his right temple wider? Bastien scowled. They were very different in personality, but close nonetheless.

      Luthan stopped and looked down at the lounging Bastien, dressed in render-hide. Luthan himself had a pure white surcoat over his flying leathers, decorated with the coat of arms of their mother’s family—the estate Luthan claimed for himself. When Luthan’s eyes fixed on Bastien’s hands scored by the tentacles of the soul-sucker, Bastien sat up straight. Then Luthan’s gaze lingered on the new hat.

      “That is the ugliest hat I’ve

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