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first seeped into the waterproofed hull and began their disruptive influence. Long before they set sail the fae would have worked its first subtle distortions, affecting the friction of various parts, the microfine clearance of others. On Earth that kind of psychic debris had no power. Here, it would have doomed them before they even left port.
    Wrapping the blanket closer about his shoulders, he headed toward the prow of the ship. He had no doubt that the Hunter was there, just as he had no doubt that the man was trying—yet again—to find some hint of earth-fae beneath the ink-black waves. The channel between them had become so strong that at times it was almost like telepathy. And though the Hunter had assured him that it would subside again in time—that it was their isolation from the earth-currents which made any hint of power seem a thousand times more powerful—Damien nursed a private nightmare in which the man’s malignance clung to him with parasitic vigor for the rest of his life.
    I volunteered for it , he reminded himself.
    Not that there was any real choice.
    Tarrant stood at the prow of the ship, a proud and elegant figure-head. Even after five midmonths of travel he looked as clean and as freshly pressed as he had on the night they set out from Faraday. Which was no small thing in a realm without earth-fae, Damien reflected. How many precious bits of power had the Hunter budgeted himself for maintaining that fastidious image? As he came to the prow he saw that Tarrant had drawn his sword, and one hand grasped it about the coldfire blade. Absorbing its Worked fae into himself, to support his unnatural life. Even from across the deck Damien could see that the malevolent light, once blinding, had been reduced to a hazy glow, and he managed to come within three feet of Tarrant before he felt its chill power freeze the spray on his hands. Whatever store of malevolent energy that thing had once contained, it was now nearly empty.
    Tarrant turned to him, and for a moment his expression was unguarded: hunger whirlpooled in his eyes, black and malevolent. Then it was gone—the polished mask was back in place—and with a brief nod of acknowledgment the Hunter slid the length of Worked steel back into its warded sheath, dousing its light. In the moonlight it was possible to see just how much this trip had drained him, of color and energy both. Or was that ghastly tint his normal hue? Damien found he couldn’t remember.
    He took up a place beside the man, leaning against the waist-high railing. Staring out at the ocean in mute companionship. At last he muttered, “That was a bad one.”
    “You know that I require fear.”
    “Worse than most.”
    The Hunter chuckled softly. “You’ve grown immune to most of my tricks, Reverend Vryce. In the beginning it was enough to plant suggestions in your mind and let them blossom into nightmares on their own. Now if I mean to make you afraid—and keep you dreambound long enough for that fear to strengthen me—I must be more ... creative.”
    “Yeah. I know.” He sighed heavily. “I just wish you didn’t enjoy it so goddamned much.”
    Below them the ocean was smooth and calm; only a gentle swell and a hint of foam marked the place where the prow of the Golden Glory sliced through it. The Hunter turned back to study the water, searching for some hint of power.
    “See anything?” Damien asked at last.
    Tarrant hesitated. “A light so faint that it might be no more than my imagination. Or perhaps the first glimpse of a foreign current, rising to the surface. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that we are now above the continental shelf, where the waters are shallower. Not shallow enough for Working,” he added. “Not even for me.”
    “But soon.”
    “Soon,” he agreed. “And if there are people here—” He left the thought unfinished. But hunger echoed in his voice.
    You’ll feed , Damien supplied silently. Torturing and killing women here, as you once