as it caught
hatred_
as it caught “fire,” deep channels burning into its flesh where the water touched, black blood streaming, and the last thing Sam saw in its eyes before it turned to run—was fear.
In a little pocket of Underhill chaos, hastily built into an island of protection, Vidal conjured another torrent of water. Once again, he sluiced the Bane-Sidhe down. The liquid poured over Niall, who lay face-down on the rubbery, soft floor, in a quivering heap of pain and suffering, rags plastered to his unnaturally thin body. Niall’s howl had died down to a whimper, which was a blessing. It wasn’t the purposeful scream of a Bane-Sidhe’s vocal attack, but Niall’s cries of agony had called up corresponding pain in his ally, even through Vidal’s hastily-conjured earplugs of wax.
The ultra-pure water, carefully warmed to blood-heat, was having an effect. Finally, Niall’s whimpers faded and were replaced by hoarse, exhausted breathing.
Vidal conjured a warm breeze to dry the Bane-Sidhe. He hadn’t bothered to remove the creature’s rags—he hadn’t dared. He didn’t want to know what lay beneath them.
Slowly, the Bane-Sidhe uncurled, as the rags dried and fluttered in his artificial wind. “Are you all right?” Vidal asked carefully.
“No,” the Bane-Sidhe whispered raggedly. “But I shall mend.” Then, as if the words had been dragged out of him unwillingly, “I thank you for your quick thinking. And you are right.”
“Right?” Vidal replied, surprised. “About what, pray?”
“Keighvin Silverhair.” There was no mistaking the venom in the Bane-Sidhe’s voice now, the acidic hatred. “He has become contaminated with these mortals to the point that he is a great danger to us. He must be removed.”
Vidal nearly lost his jaw. Those were the last words he expected to hear out of Niall; the Bane-Sidhe’s stubborn refusal