Lynn Viehl - [Darkyn 08 - Lords of the Darkyn 01] Read Free Page A

between his physical needs and his broken heart had produced ungodly urges that had nearly driven Korvel out of his head. Fortunately those, too, were now gone. His will, or what remained of it, permitted him to don a brittle mask each day and carry on with this imitation of life.
    God in heaven, he had wearied of this charade, of everyone and everything in it. More than that, he was sick unto death of himself.
    “Monsieur?”
    Korvel glanced up at madame, who had brought a dark bottle to his table, but seemed more interested in examining him than in pouring the wine. She measured every inch of the hair he kept forgetting to cut, and the garments he had tailored to fit his overlarge frame, which cost more than the average tourist spent on ten vacations. Doubtless she could also name his weight to within five kilos’ accuracy.
    Her gaze flicked down to dwell with disapproval on the mark that encircled his throat. It resembled a garrote of dark green thorns, and as most mortals did she would assume he had been tattooed. He could not explain that being hanged for weeks in a copper-barbed noose had caused the marks. Copper proved lethal to his kind only when it entered their veins or heart, but its poisonous effects were such that even touching it caused burns. Any extended surface contact with the dark metal left permanent, green scars on immortal flesh; grim reminders, in a sense, of humanity’s loathing of their dark Kyn.
    He also doubted she would care. “S’il vous plaît?” He gestured at his glass, earning a mild frown from her before she filled it to the rim.
    “You are American?” she asked in English as she wiped a dribble from the bottle’s neck.
    Another reminder of what could never be. “No, madame. I am from England.”
    “Ah, les anglais .” She nodded to herself with some satisfaction, and the lines bracketing her mouth softened. “You come with the caravan, oui ?”
    “I am here on business.” The business of playing courier for his master, for reasons that had never been adequately explained to him. “Thank you for the wine.”
    “Il n’y a pas de quoi.” She bobbed her head and smoothed her hands over the sides of her apron before reluctantly turning away and resuming her post behind the bar. He saw the flicker of confusion that passed over her narrow features before she returned to her task of sorting flatware.
    Korvel reached over to open the window a little wider before sampling the glass. Mortals considered Provence a fine-wine void, something the residents likely encouraged to protect their supply of some of the best red and rosé wines in the world. Madame had brought him a Mourvèdre-based red wine with a pleasing amount of spine to it, and Korvel breathed in its tannic perfume while he removed a flask from his jacket. He had to sip some of the wine before discreetly adding a measure of the darker, thicker liquid from the flask to the glass, but his next swallow instantly eliminated the leaden sensation the first swallow had left in his gut.
    The mixture of blood and wine went to work, spreading slowly through him to warm his cold flesh and loosen his stiff muscles. It would tide him over until he reached his destination, where he planned to see to his needs once he retrieved his master’s property. He took out the small GPS device that had been attached to the car’s dashboard to check his current position.
    “That no work here, monsieur.”
    “Indeed.” Korvel eyed the plump face of the waitress as she set down a steaming bowl of soup. “Why not?”
    “The wind very bad Sunday. The tower, send signal?” When he nodded his understanding, she straightened her hand and then let it fall to mimic something toppling over.
    So it seemed the GPS was useless, and the French he spoke hadn’t been used in this region for half a millennium or better. He reached out to rest his hand over hers. “Do you know the road to Garbia?”
    “Mais oui.” Her expression brightened. “Go this