Queen Defender of the faith

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Thu, 03 Jan 2019 20:52:00 +0000

COLDSHOT PRODUCTIONS

5180 Canada Way

Burnaby, British Columbia

Canada, v5e-3n2

January 6, 2008

Prospective Investor,
Please accept this letter and accompanying documents as The Mario Coldshot Foundation/Coldshot Productions' application for a sponsorship with CLUB VIBES. We are a new Montréal-based charity dedicated to keeping kids off drugs and are in the process of making a drug-awareness documentary, Bring Your Own Brains, to be screened in Canadian and American schools. Distribution is already guaranteed.
The film is geared towards the same demographic that makes up CLUB VIBES CLUB's target customers: teenagers and young adults. Thus, a sponsorship with CLUB VIBES would only serve to aid us in our quest to appeal to the youth of today to keep them off drugs. As CLUB VIBES is a brand they are familiar with, the appearance of the label will only strengthen our realistic portrayal of teens. In addition, a sponsorship would provide us with the necessary resources to make the best film possible for both audiences across Canada and the United States. Both the subjects in the film and the viewers are North American youths who can benefit greatly from this project. In addition to this, a dramatic portion of the film features a cast of real teenagers. A CLUB VIBES sponsorship in the film could come in a variety of forms during this section; a character could wear CLUB VIBES gear; during a skateboard sequence in the film, a character could ride a CLUB VIBES board, any of your products could find its way into the youth-oriented scenes in the film. Regardless of where the promotion is placed within the film proper, the CLUB VIBES logo and brand name will be included in the scrolling credits at the end. Regardless of our humanitarian goals, sponsorship with us could provide CLUB VIBES with a great opportunity to promote their brand to countless numbers of teenagers and young viewers of the film.
Included in this package you will find a detailed project proposal. For more information and to view a teaser from the film, please visit our website at www.bringyourownbrains.com, or do not hesitate to call us personally at 778-688-4802

We look forward to hearing from you soon. Sincerely, Kyna Gaboriault

President

The Mario Coldshot Foundation: Official Project/Sponsorship Proposal

Please Visit: www.bringyourownbrains.com

Mission Statement:

The Mario Coldshot Foundation is dedicated to stealing young customers away from drug dealers and giving them the tools to have brighter futures. Through the creation of a fast-paced 25 minute documentary that speaks to youth in their own dialect and includes music from popular bands, the Mario Coldshot Foundation hopes to launch a counter-offensive against the music, films, television and other media which often show the drug lifestyle as desirable, harmless, and even cool. We are convinced that communicating disapproval of drug use does not and will never work and instead avoids patronizing, believing that teens must be empowered into making their own choice. The Mario Coldshot Foundation is not an anti-drug campaign, but a pro-awareness one.

Vision:
Our vision is one of a country, continent and world without the problems caused by drug abuse. Kids realize potential. Families are not torn apart by addiction and abuse. Communities are stronger.

History:
The Mario Coldshot Foundation is a new organization. After 22 years in the audio-visual industry, Mario Trottier wanted to give something back to the community and founded The Mario Coldshot Foundation in Montreal. Soon he traveled to New York, Los Angeles and all through his own city, Montreal, documenting personal stories from youth affected by drug abuse.

Specifics of the Project:

BYOB: Bring Your Own Brains, is a twenty-two minute drug-awareness documentary film to be screened in schools and accompanied with a question-and-answer period. For the past year and a half, filmmaker Mario Coldshot has begun to gather footage of youth affected by drugs on the streets of Montreal, New York and Los Angeles. Armed only with rollerblades, his camera and an unflappable determination to make a difference, Coldshot has recorded footage both heartbreaking and inspirational. He did not approach his subjects as a documentarian, but as a friend, not condemning them, instead trying to understand how drugs took hold of their lives. As members of an isolated faction in an already isolated generation, they were eager to tell their stories.

Demographic Information:
Under the supervision of the Film Advisory Board, the film will be approved for youth over the age of 14. While it is of course very true that those younger than 14 also encounter drug temptations, we feel that the years after 14 are some of the hardest to navigate. In addition, by gearing this at a slightly more mature youth audience, the film can be more honest in its take on drugs, more unflinching in its portrait of down-and-out drug-abusing youth. If the camera does not have to turn away then neither will the viewers. They will want to see exactly what is going on. By informing them entirely of what happens on the very streets they walk to and from school on, it will influence them to make their own decision. No longer will drugs be simply something that authority figures tell them to abstain from, ending any attempt at conversation with a No. This opens a dialogue between those youth affected by drugs and those youth for whom drugs have the potential to affect.

Problem Addressed by Our Project:
Youth substance abuse and addiction. This problem is of course also connected to various other social ills, such as homelessness, crime and delinquency. Drug abuse does not solely affect the user.
In addition, we see a problem in traditional ways of convincing youth to abstain from drugs. Communicating disapproval does not work.

Example of Individual Subject:

Karen:

A story with a happy ending. Karen began using cocaine as a weight loss aid at the suggestion of a friend. Years later, she had, among other difficulties, turned to prostitution, contracted Hepatitis and even dealt with the hardship of her children being taken from her by youth services. Thankfully, she's turned it around now and is living clean. Her story shows that no matter how far you may fall, you can always turn your life back around.

* All subjects have signed release forms consenting to their participation in this film. In many cases, they were eager to do so, wanting to make sure their story can be told as personally as possible, to strengthen the message.

Importance of the Project:
This film needs to be seen by teenagers. There is an alarming drug problem in our country and it must be tackled in original ways. Research and academic work is wonderful and useful, but it must be supplemented by emotional attacks as well. This is where BYOB, the drug-awareness documentary, comes in. Watching real testimonials from real youth (many of them Quebecois youth), discussing their ordeals with drug abuse will affect the young viewer on an emotional level. It will break even the hardest cynic, from the sarcastic class clown to the aggressive schoolyard bully. Statistics will not solely convince teens to stay away from drugs; they need to make the decision on their own. By showing them the truth behind what drugs can do to you, and having that truth delivered through the mouths of their own generation, the decision to abstain will be obvious.

Marketing Plan:
We are pleased to offer CLUB VIBES a wide variety of exposure. Most prominent will be the product placement within the film itself. During the fictional storyline of the film, a teen is tempted with drugs and eventually makes the decision to abstain. He is, for lack of a better word, the hero of the film. This character eventually leaves his friends behind on a skateboard---perhaps a CLUB VIBES brand board. It would not appear in bad taste or as an overly marketed move. This will simply present our character as your realistic teenage skateboarder who ride CLUB VIBES skateboards. It is a win-win situation; exposure for you and credibility for us. Distribution throughout schools around North America will give CLUB VIBES very large visibility and association with a socially-conscious cause such as ours.
In addition, CLUB VIBES will be acknowledged with a name and logo in the screening credits at the documentary's end. Logo and name will also be included on the website and in any other future endeavours related to BYOB that The Mario Coldshot Foundation undertakes.

Cost:
The suggested price for participation in BYOB is in two installments. CLUB VIBES would pay $2700 before editing of the film is complete and then $1300 at distribution for a total of $4000 CDN. We would be happy to accept the full sponsor cost in a lump sum if this is easier for you.

Work Plan

Film Synopsis:

In addition to the documentary footage, the film is book-ended by a fictional storyline. A child dreams of when he will be a teen and able to attend parties. This dream soon becomes a nightmare when a malicious drug dealer enters the party, tempting him and his friends with drugs. Will he make the right decision? Perhaps, if he had the knowledge provided by the documentary portion of the movie. So, the film cuts to the footage Mario collected of drug victims before returning once more to the child as he wakes up from his dream, now armed with the tools to prevent drug use. The film speaks to teens in their own dialect, includes music from bands they listen to and is told at the fast-pace that they are used to. Just as the real-life drug victims were eager to tell their stories, so too will real-life teens will be eager to hear these stories from members of their generation, people they can identify with, who have lost it all to drugs. Marriages ruined because of cocaine. Mothers abandoning families to follow their addiction to a different city. Teenagers escaping the world through a hit of a crack pipe. The film shows teens as they really are, and how they want to be seen.

Future Projects:
We hope to make the film the eventual centre-piece to a veritable drug-aware community of youths. There are plans to premiere the film at Shawinigan High School and take "reaction footage" of the students as they exit the film. This footage could eventually be edited into the credits of the film itself.

In addition, we hope to launch a skateboard competition travelling to schools under the banner of BYOB (and perhaps CLUB VIBES as well). The competition could serve as a beacon of respectability for adults who frequently dismiss this subculture of youth as troublemakers (and even drug users). For the youth involved it will be a place where they can feel comfortable, drug-free, and take part in an active sport, promoting a healthy lifestyle.
Finally, our website, once funding is secure, will undergo a major overhaul, moving from a promotion for the documentary and a call for donations, to being an online hub for teens, complete with message boards, chat rooms, blogs, information on drugs and a corresponding MySpace page.

Timelines:

Primary Filming:
The majority of the film's footage has been collected by Mario Coldshot over the last year and a half. However, there is a dramatic portion of the film, with a cast of real LaSalle, Quebec teenagers yet to be filmed. Funding is required for equipment, crew and permit costs. Shooting will begin in February 2008.

Post Production:
November 2007. Editing, addition of music (which requires securing rights from the artist's) and translation to French to be completed during this time.

Distribution: We hope to have the film released into schools for spring 2008.
Distributors Audio Ciné Films (the largest and most experienced non-theatrical distributor in Canada) Intermedia (from Seattle, a distributor of educational films) and Distribution Access have all contacted us with interest and desire to take our film on.

Kyna Gaboriault

Phone: 778-688-4802

Email: candy681@msn.com

Website: www.bringyourownbrains.com

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noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 07 Oct 2018 18:48:00 +0000

JUNE 17, 2018
2018 Commencement speech by Stanford alumnus Sterling K. Brown
Following is the prepared text of remarks by Sterling K. Brown

Email
Nerd Nation! Class of 2018! How we doing this morning?! You hung over?! Did you even go to bed last night?! (Bwahahahaha)

That’s what’s up!

President Tessier-Lavigne, thank you so much for sharing those beautiful words with us this morning. And thank you for such a gracious welcome … it’s good to be home. In the future let’s try to “under-promise,” and “over-deliver,” you know what I mean? We don’t want the people expecting too much. Then, when I come off sounding halfway decent, everybody’ll be like, “Oh, my goodness, wasn’t that refreshing? That young man was so articulate. What’s the name of his show? I’m gonna watch it just for him!”

Before I get into the speech, I need to make one statement, and then pose one question.

Statement: I will, from time to time, be slipping into a dialect known as AAVE – for the uninitiated, that is African American Vernacular English. In some sections of the country they will refer to this dialect as “Ebonics,” but here, at Leland Stanford Jr. University, where it was taught to me by Professor John R. Rickford, we call it AAVE.

I utilize this dialect because it’s something I’m familiar and comfortable with. And since I’m home, talking to all my future fellow alumni of “The Farm,” I figured I might as well make myself as familiar and comfortable as possible.

I also use it (periodically), because sometimes, when driving a point home, I find “The King’s” to be somewhat lacking … Dost thou apprehend my perspective?

I wanted to make this disclaimer upfront, just in case anyone was concerned about where Randall Pearson – he does not have a Mohawk, he was still raised by Jack and Becky with the good hair, and he does not utilize the dialect of AAVE quite as much as ya boy (… but he might … who knows?).

Now for my question: Have any of you ever been asked to do something, that everyone automatically assumes you’ll be great at, but in the back of your mind, you have no idea what you’re going to do? You’re absolutely terrified of looking foolish, and loathe the fact that you ever agreed to do it in the first place? That for some reason or another, people consider you to be this deep thinker with profound insights to share with the world, while all along you feel about as deep as the shallow end of a kiddie pool?

If so … then welcome to the 127th Commencement address at Stanford University as delivered to you by Sterling K. Brown! (MTL – this is the way you “under promise.”)

Yo, real talk? I must’ve started this speech ’bout fifty-eleven times! Every time I started, it would be ah’ight … but I wanted it to be great. I wanted to give you all something special.

Because I’ve sat where you’ve sat. I’ve imagined what the next phase of my life would look like. I’ve celebrated with my friends and family. I’ve struggled through the quarter system for four years and I made it through to the other side. (Admittedly, as a drama major – but the struggle is still real.) You young people are the best of the best … and you deserve the best from me … and I have had a really hard time finding it.

The biggest hurdle that I’ve had to overcome in preparing this speech is one of my own creation. It was an unconscious story that I had about myself which has been forced to the surface through this particular exercise in public speaking, and it goes something like this:

“Brown (I say to myself), you are not a writer. You only got a 600 on your best verbal SAT score (#SoStanford #NeverWouldHaveAdmittedThat20YearsAgo). You haven’t written a speech of any significance since your junior year of high school when you ran for student council president. (I did win, by the way.) What makes you think you can just pull 15 minutes out of your backside when you haven’t put pen to paper for a public address in over 25 years?”

Now, I can already see your beautiful John Forbes Nash-like minds at work preparing your rebuttal. Allow me to give them voice: “Mr. Brown (because you’re respectful), you’ve won all these awards over the past couple of years for these roles you’ve played … and we’ve heard your speeches! What are you talking about?”

To that I say, “Yes, I’ve been blessed to win a few things, and yes I’ve GIVEN a few speeches … but I did not WRITE THEM DOWN!” Bullet points. I make a few bullet points then I shoot from the hip. That’s pretty easy for me. That’s familiar. But THIS … this is very new …

And anytime you do something new, usually, inevitably, there is fear. Especially if you’ve ever suffered from perfectionism – I wouldn’t imagine any of you Nerds who have busted your hump to get into the dopest university in the country would know anything about that.

Here’s the thing I had to remind myself about Fear. As a human being, it is my goal in life to become the best version of myself, which is ultimately (I believe) divine. If all of my life is comfortable and convenient, I rob myself of the opportunity to grow, to stretch, to expand.

When I feel fear, as uncomfortable as it may be, I know I’m in the right place. Whether you’re 22, or 42, never allow fear to keep you from expanding your definition of self.

MTL, and Senior Class presidents, by inviting me to be your commencement speaker today, you have provided me with an opportunity to step into the unknown where possibilities are limitless. And while I may have silently cursed you a few times while I was writing this thing, please allow me now to thank you for providing the landscape for my own individual growth. (Namaste.)

Now, back to the hell of actually writing this thing!

Since we’ve already established that I was working under the rather destructive, self-inflicted narrative of “I am not a writer,” I turned to the writings of others. And this was very helpful. Freshman year, as part of what was then known as CIV, my focus was philosophy, and it was a personal revelation.

Particularly, as a young man who was raised Christian in St. Louis, MO, I was quite stunned to find that no one religious group, nor individuals who subscribed to no particular faith at all, have a monopoly on wisdom. There was a wealth of philosophers, and philosophies to consult besides The Gospels and Proverbs. The latter still hold a special place in my life, but so too, now, do the former. From the perspective in which I live my life today, the divine is accessible to all.

So I consulted my “Big Three.” “Big Three; Big Three!” (Chest thump) Socrates, Plato, and Lao Tzu. Quite a few pearls of wisdom from these sages. Allow me to read just a few that helped me get the ball rollin’.

Socrates

An unexamined life is not worth living.

#StayWoke. Do you ever think about what you’re thinking about, or do you treat your thoughts as if they’re real and you have no control over them? No answers here. Just questions. I think that’s how Socrates would have preferred it. Next quote …

Beware the barrenness of a busy life.

There will be an enormous pull when you enter into the real world to be busy. Always doing, always hustling and bustling. Have you contemplated the importance of stillness? Is being busy the same as being productive? Hmm …

I am not an Athenian or a Greek, but a citizen of the world.

Ooh, I like this one! Nationalism v. Globalism. This is very … Black Panther! Who you responsible for? Are you your brothers’ and sisters’ keeper? Or are you responsible for only your “own” people? Or your own path, for that matter?

And lastly, the one that really landed on me …

I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance.

Can I get an amen?!

Do y’all know some of the people you’ve had deliver this commencement address?! I’m talking Multiple Supreme Court Justices, Multiple Mayors of major metropolises (I looked that up. It’s the plural of metropolis, but it sound funny, right? “Metropolises”). Tech Titans who only need one name – Gates, Jobs. And of course, The Queen … or at least that’s what we call her in “the community,” but for the uninitiated … I’m talking ’bout Oprah.

Now from where I’m sitting, these people know something. They make laws, run cities, make BANK, move the culture!

While me and Socrates, on the other hand, are swimming in a sea of ignorance as vast as the Pacific itself. Just don’t know nothing.

People … I’m the dude, who takes the words of another dude, and makes it seem like he came up with them himself … that’s what I do for a living! (I really can’t believe y’all got me up here talking to these young people, man. This is crazy! )

But then I take a breath, and I remember, my speech doesn’t have to look like anybody else’s. My speech, is MY speech. They can’t do what I can do, any more than I can do what they do. So why try? And it’s not FOR them. It’s not even for me … it’s for you. It is a reflection OF me, and hopefully, it is AUTHENTIC to who I am as a person. But when I place the focus on where it truly belongs, on this gorgeous opportunity to be of service to the future of this country, the future of the world, I stop worrying about how I compare to others, and I just give you the best that I got.

Let’s move on to Plato, shall we? First quote … this one inspired me throughout the entirety of my speech …

The beginning is the most important part of the work.

“Just write something, Brown! It don’t have to be perfect. It don’t have to be pretty. You can tell ’em you write in AAVE later and make it seem like a conscious choice – they won’t know! But write something!”

One more from Plato…

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.

This one was big. It was big because it reminded me of another quote that changed my life.

The quote is by Marianne Williamson and it goes like this …

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Graduates of the Class of 2018: Do not be afraid to let your light shine! It is your birthright … it is your responsibility! Because we grow together.

I remember working on a commedia piece in grad school, and my teacher was asking me to do something that was incredibly uncomfortable (as are frequently the requests made by faculty in an acting conservatory program). Let me remind you, I loathe looking foolish. And he knew that, and did not allow me to recede into my fear. He would not allow me to use that as an excuse to keep from moving forward. He told me, “It’s not about you, Sterling. We’re all learning from your experience.”

Have you ever walked into a room and felt the energy of the room change? Better yet, have you ever been in a room, and had someone walk into that space and felt it shift for the better? … or for the worse? My Momma always told me, “When you visit someone else’s house, leave things better than the way you found them. That way you’ll always be asked back.” You wanna be that person that changes the room for the better. You wanna be that person that they keep asking back. You do that by turning on your light!

Sometimes when I’m at the gym, on the treadmill, getting in my little cardio, frequently I say in my head, I say, “This stuff is for the birds! I wanna go home. I’m done!”

And then I’ll look up, and I’ll see someone letting their light shine, and I am reminded of the luminescence that is me.

Some people will say that’s my competitive nature coming out. Sure, that’s one way of looking at it. But I choose to see it as my inspired nature coming out.

I am inspired by the excellence of others.

I strive for personal excellence. There is no sense in doing something if you’re not going to try to do your best. But also, because I know that it inspires excellence in others! I gotta pay it forward. The inspiration can’t stop with me!

You guys, my friends from Stanford are some baaaaaad men! I got two lawyers (one who’s transitioning into standup comedy because he knows that’s where his light shines brightest), a judge, a urologist (great at dinner parties, btw), and a doctoral student in communications with a sub-discipline in performance studies.

Rarely having an explicit discussion about it, we are exceptionally proud of one another. By challenging ourselves, we challenge each other to be the best possible version of ourselves. I surround myself with people who let their light shine!

Yo, not to mention the hottest chick in the game, rocking my chain, fellow graduate of the class of ’98, double major in English and African American studies, proud member of Delta Sigma Theta sorority incorporated, Omicron Chi chapter. Writer, singer, actor, producer, and proud mother of two future Stanford graduates to boot, Ryan Michelle Bathé … you are the brightest light in my life! Thank you for shining with your boy!

Ah’ight…

Almost forgot the third of my big three, Lao Tzu. That’s like leaving Randall at the hospital, man! My bad.

The author of the Tao Te Ching’s wisdom is so pure and simple, it requires very little explication. Here we go…

When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you. (Right?)

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

Briefly, when I first got to Stanford, I thought I had it all figured out. Major in Econ, go into business, or finance, make BANK … and take care of my family. It made sense. It was the prudent thing to do. And while I had always loved acting, it just wasn’t practical.

In my mind, a career in acting was reserved for the children of the wealthy who didn’t have to worry about making a significant contribution to the livelihood of their communities …

Of their families.

But the call of the stage never waned. The desire to illuminate the human condition was always the thing that gave my life the greatest sense of purpose (see what I did there, MTL?). I had to let go of who I was, in order to become who I am. And, if you wish for your light to shine continuously, it is a process you’ll have to go through over and over again.

Lastly …

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.

Now, this is for my homies, similar to myself, who battle/have battled with perfectionism. Goals are good. They give us a sense of accomplishment. They help establish a road map of the general trajectory of our lives. And hopefully, that trajectory is onward and upward.

However, do not be so obsessed with getting the pudding made, that you forget to enjoy the process of making it. Because most of life is the process. You spend way more time on the journey than you do at the final destination.

Think of perfection like an asymptote. The journey towards it is infinite, but the destination can never be reached.

If you’re able to take that journey and enjoy it, knowing that there will always be endless room for improvement, then you be ah’ight.

If you still fool yourself into thinking the end point of perfection is something that exists, and can be attained, I worry that you may miss the beautiful curve of a life well lived, never enjoying where you are in the moment, always wishing you were someplace, something, or someone else.

In conclusion …

Fear can be a great motivator, so long as it doesn’t overcome your desire to move forward.

You have an opportunity/responsibility to leave this world better than you found it. And you do that, by being brilliant! By letting your light shine!

And don’t worry about anybody else’s light. Don’t try to compare yours to anyone else’s. If you have found that thing, that purpose in life that gives you access to maximum enthusiasm, trust that!

I’m not talking about a job, nor a career, for that matter. I’m talking about a calling! That thing that forces the metaphorical lampshade from your soul, and mandates that everyone wear sunglasses in your presence because you just that damn bright!

This is not a selfish act! Because now, those who fall within your sphere of influence, know that what is possible for you … is possible for them, as well.

And when you see someone shinin’, don’t hate! Do not tear that individual down! Celebrate their success as if it were your own! Because whether you realize it or not, we rise and we fall together.

Hey, the name of the show ain’t “Us vs. Them!” It doesn’t highlight the things that differentiate us. The show is called …”This Is Us.”

We spend so much time vilifying anyone that doesn’t see the world through the same lens as ourselves. And I include myself amongst that group. The dark side of the force is incredibly appealing. The possibility of being a Sith or a Jedi exists within us all. When folks disagree with you, welcome the opportunity to further clarify your own position for yourself. It doesn’t have to devolve into animus. And believe me, I say this as much for me as I do for you.

Dialogue with those of differing perspectives helps us develop empathy. As an actor, I do not have to like every character I play. It helps, but it’s not a necessity. But I do have to understand them. And I cannot judge them as I tell their story.

The Dalai Lama says, “Education is the proper way to promote compassion, and tolerance in society.” I remind myself of this frequently: Intolerance is still intolerance, even when it’s for the intolerant! Don’t give way to hating. Do not give anyone the power to rob you of your light!

One of my dearest friends from Stanford was Andrew Jacob Daher. We lived in Uj together freshman year, and, with the exception of the year he spent abroad at The London School of Economics, we spent every other year either across the hall from each other, or right next door. He had a beautiful mind. And an exquisite soul. I remember once freshman year, somebody tried to put AJD on front street and they said, “Yo, Andrew, why you always hanging out with all these black people, man?” Sans hesitation, Mr. Phi Beta Kappa in Econ, with his hat pulled real low over his eyes, said, “Because I’m down.”

Yeah, Andrew was white, and in just being himself, affectation-free, he had as much soul as anybody in that dorm … and in case you forgot, I’m talking ’bout UJAMAA!

In Andrew, I found a kindred spirit. Someone who was always looking for new ways to improve himself. We studied together, worked out together – the first time I ran the steps at this stadium, it was with Andrew.

I remember one night in Burbank, Stern (we got a bad draw number, what can I tell ya), Andrew and I were working on an Econ 180 problem set. And I Was Strugglin’! Frustration was getting the best of me. And this dude … who had finished his problem set long ago, stayed up with me damn near ’til the sun came up, and made sure I finished my work!

He would not let me fail!

I got a few stories like that about AJD. I won’t bore you with them all …

I wish I had a few more, but unfortunately … Andrew died the year after I graduated.

“Multiple traumatic injuries” sustained when he fell from the third story of the building where he worked.

Whether it was intentional or not is unclear.

There is a tree and a bench in Lagunita Court in remembrance of one of the brightest beings I’ve ever known in my life. Bright like intelligent, yes. But bright like LUMINOUS!

Andrew Jacob Daher is one of the only people I know who always did his absolute best! And even though he’s been gone for 19 years now, I still find myself saying, “One day, when I grow up, I’m gonna be just like Andrew.”

My son, his namesake, is here today. When I see my boy, and I say his name, I smile. Because my friend still gets to be a part of my life today.

Class of 2018, no one is an island unto themselves. We have all benefited from, and been supported by, the communities which have nourished us along the way. Our families, our friends, our teachers. The easiest way I can think of showing your appreciation for their investment in your “human capital,” is by shinin’!

You are Stanford grads now! You get to walk around with an S on your chest! – why NOT shine? And remember, this is not a selfish act. This is the way we give permission to the world to collectively step into the light!

I shine for my city! (Big up, St. Louis.)

I shine for my family!

I shine for my friends!

I shine for you #chocolatecardinal

I shine for you, #NerdNation

I shine for you Andrew Jacob Daher!!!!

Class of 2018, it is your time, now! Do me a favor, will ya? Take your light and show us the way!

God bless you …

I love you …

Thank you for having me.

Campus Life

University Affairs

Commencement 2018

Let nessance

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sat, 23 Jan 2016 12:53:00 +0000

Volume III-The Universal History of the World
---------------------------------------------

------------Edited and Hacked----------------

In the time men would call "Middle Ages", knights in glistening armour rode forth to serve GOD, and their kings, and life was a stately procession winding through a landscape marked by castles and cathedrals.

Such it was said, was the will of GOD. Hidden away in the castles and cathedrals libraries, manuscripts, that held the science, poetry, and wisdom of two thousand years of life and discovery, dusty and unread.

Their new fortunes gave guildsmen power. The wisdom in these books, he told the merchants was "more valuable merchandise" than the rarest goods of China and Arabia.

Their philosophy was called humanism because it began with the study of mankind instead of the mysteries of GOD.
Art was a matter of everyday importance. Scholars like artist were of great demand. Men of learning were considered a necessary adornment for any court, and education was the mark of a gentleman.

And when the invitation of movable type made it possible to print books by the thousands instead of hand copying them one by one, the scholars did a masterly job of editing the Ancient Writings.

The Middle Ages had been a time of waiting and caution. The republic's government, like its money, was in the hands of a new set of aristocrats, a few important merchants who belonged to the great guilds. They resolved to over throw their aristocratic masters. The story did not begin very hopefully. The people had elected a new council. Instead of holding public office himself, he saw to it public council was filled with his friends. The people did not realize they had less to say about their government than ever.

His agents roamed Europe in search of OLD MANUSCRIPTS. Many of the Books were Greek. His wild adventures kept him in constant trouble with the city of Judges and the head of his monastery. He could bring to life the stories of the BIBLE by showing them as though they had happened in the countryside of Florence. To celebrate the betrothal he proclaimed a public holiday and staged an old fashioned tournament. The conspirators decided to do their killing during the Party. It was important, of course, that both Brothers be killed at the same time. The killings were postponed until the next morning, Easter Sunday. The hired killer had refused to practice his trade in church and two Monks volunteered to take his place.

The cathedral was jammed with worshippers. This was the killers signal to strike. The two Monks acted less quickly. His friends surrounded him to his palace. when he went to the council chamber to take charge of his government, the councillors stared at him in wonder, then put him under arrest. He called out to the men he had brought with him but no one came. Still the crowd was unsatisfied. The killings went on for months, until hundreds of men died. The King was impressed with his courage, he was pleased by his gracious manner and gradually he was convinced by his arguments for peace. The bells of the cathedral rang out to proclaim the PEACE.

For many townsmen the streets were outdoor living-rooms. Beggars huddled in doorways and beside the steps of churches. Side by Side the ugliness and cruelty were Beauty and Wisdom. The apprentice artist usually spent twelve years leaning his craft.

"I want to work Miracles" he said. By miracles, he meant paintings that showed the thoughts and feelings of men as well as what they looked like. He studied the movement of their arms and legs, the ever-changing expressions on their faces. He learned to watch the light and shadow that in an instant could change the look of a face or a mountain. when he began to understand how "nature's machines" worked, he tried to invent machines of his own.

He had been educated by the Humanists, he was himself a scholar and poet, and he was fascinated by the ideas of the ancient philosophers.

In 1471, a printing press with moveable type, a german invention, Books now that only the rich could afford tow own, could now be printed in great numbers and at much less expense.
"Now the most stupid thoughts can in a minute be put into thousands of Books and spread around the world", he grumbled.He might call it a Golden Age but the truth were in their account books.

"Fair is Youth and free of Sorrow
   Yet how soon it's joys we bury
   Let who would be now be merry
   Sure is no one of tomorrow"

And the priceless collections of books and art were stolen, scattered, or destroyed.

"Never so sweet a gladness
   Joy so pure and strong...
   Cry with me now, cry as I cry,
   Madness, Madness, holy madness"

Rich and Poor alike shuddered at the thought of doom, swore to reform their ways, and the Renaissance city turned backwards, to the Middle Ages. Then the spell began to fade.
If he walked through a fire and came out unharmed, his claims were true; if he burned they were false. He was a trouble maker, they decided, and they ordered their officers to arrest him. He was tortured, tried, and condemned to die. At last the Republic had it's Liberty. But nothing was as it once had been.

The Foreigners had come once; they would come again. In the Middle Ages the crusaders came there for their chain-mail, and it was said entire armies were outfitted in a few days.

Later the fashions of war changed. Indeed they made a show of their strength and wealth. It discouraged invaders and rivals and over-ambitious relatives. They frightened their subjects with harsh laws, rewarded them with pageants, and impressed them with magnificent palaces.

Brothers, nephews, and cousins, busily plotted one another's downfall. One met a sudden, well planned death, and his brothers, not wishing to share his fate, agreed to share the Family Lands instead. Any citizen who disobey faced forty days and forty kinds of tortures.

Of course he sent his soldiers around to make certain the dogs were well fed, whether the peasants ate or not. He had long envied his brother's wealth and now meant to take it from his brother's son.

He was a coward, who frantically fled to safety at the first sign of a fight. The people welcomed him with joyful shout;
"Long Live the Count and down with the taxes."

Since he was still a coward he also bought courage. While they squabbled their father's generals deserted and claimed the town as their own. At last the young duke and his Brother agreed to divide the shrunken dukedom. His hands it were said were fed on human flesh. He rarely went out where his subjects could see him, and he changed his secret living quarters in the palace so often that even his councillors often had difficulty finding him. He tried to buy his commanders' loyalty with high salaries, and sent spies on them, just to be sure. In his youth, he had marched with the army commanded by his father, a commoner whose skill in battle had won him friendship of Kings. He had learned how to command men. He disciplined them strictly. Many rulers and cities sought his services. This he thought, was what he wanted; and this, he swore to himself was what he would have.

Now they were free. They were determined to have no new master. He lived simply, worked hard,and treated his subjects as justly as he treated his soldiers.

For important guests of state,there was a special treat. He also gave displays of dreadful cruelty,Citizens were tortured in public squares, merchants were insulted and dragged off to prison,-all so that the Duke could show off his power. His years at court had taught him to be cunning and ruthless.

Some citizens complained that she was too proud and too extravagant. Not as an architect or military engineer, of course, but as a painter and planner of pageants and holiday decorations. Sometimes he rushed from the streets, added one or two strokes of paint to one figure, the left again, sometimes he sat for hours, staring at the picture and adding nothing. Desperate for money and soldiers, he disguised himself and fled to Germany, to seek the help of the emperor. While he was gone, his officers gave up the fight.

Now he was a wanderer, going from city to city in search of work, still filling his notebooks with ideas for inventions, still dreaming of making miracles. Again he put on a disguise but he was captured and taken to France. For years he was held a prisoner in one of the French King's castles. He consulted his councillors and men who had travelled widely in Europe, asking them who best deserved this honour.

Actually it was not a development state at all. It's Duke paid an annual tribute to the Pope for the privilege of governing his family dukedom himself. It all depended on their rulers - the ambitious dukes or counts or sometimes, commoners who gained riches and power.

It's dukes d'Estes, had to come to power in the last days of chivalry. Here Nobles ad Ladies posed on furniture decorated with gold. In hidden alcoves, courtly couples whispered of love, and scholars argued noisily about the meaning of Greek Words.

There were many stories and many versions of the same story handed down from minstrel to minstrel. The adventures were wild and impossible. There were winged horses, people who turned into trees, and fortresses that melted away with a magic word. In the practical age of learning and discoveries there was no place for romantic knights, but people liked to read and remember. Of course chivalry was dead or out-of-date.

Now he decideth for his children power and wealth were not enough, they must have learning as well. The boys were students like their father. At sixteen she married him and went on making wishes for gowns embroidered with jewels, a court, to play with, and a title of Duchess. She learned to write poetry in Italian and essays in Latin, to talk politics with diplomats, and painting with artists, to sing and dance and play clavichord and flute.

Visitors to her father's court came away exclaiming about her brilliance, and a half of a dozen rulers sent their ambassadors to ask the duke to wed to their sons. She could ride all day and dance all night and never seem tired.

She seemed to know the right thing to say to every-one, scholars, and diplomats, poets and painters, Kings and commoners. She had the boldness of a man yet kept her womanly charm. Princes, popes, and generals were flattered to be called her friends, and a poet named her 'La Prima Donna Del Mondo', the First Lady of the World.

"Your Excellency," she said, "is indebted to me as never husband was to wife. You could never repay me".

They were also taught to play music and judge paintings. Italy had never known a school like this before. He was merely copying the Ancient Greeks, who had tried to bring up their sons to be "complete men". Healthy bodies, strong character, and minds full of wisdom, the schoolmaster said were the Greeks goals and his. They were also goals of the men whom the word would come to call "Renaissance Men", men who strove to do everything well and came close to succeeding.

For twenty years, he taught as many as he could, the girls as well as the boys. Hs first pupils began to take their places as the leaders of cities and states and he was pleased when he heard they were govern themselves.

Learning added to power and wealth did not always bring such happy results, however. His talents and education simply made more dangerous villains. Even his poetry served his villainy. He had in fact the qualities of a good ruler except the wish to be one. His ancestors were famous for their double dealings. He was kindly and generous to his subjects. But the projects in which he took greatest pride, was in his library. It included thousands of volumes of history and law, of poetry and music , of religion, mathematics, and military tactics, all bound in crimson and silver.

He set the example himself and his court became famous for its grace and polished manners. He called it The Book of Courtier, though he might well have called it How to be a Gentleman. A gentleman he said, must be skillful in war, and an expert at riding, fencing; swimming, jumping, running, and other sports. But he warned that a gentleman should never be so expert at such things that people could say he was showing off. In fact, the mark of a true gentleman was that he did everything perfectly, gracefully, but with no sign of effort. He must understand Greek and Latin, know poetry and history, and speak and write well. The ladies, indeed, were most important: "No court, however, great it may be, can have any beauty or brightness in it, or any mirth, without women, nor can a gentleman be gracious, pleasant, or brave, unless he is stirred with the conversation and love of women." They must be gracious, learned, and polite.

It was translated into French and English, and people all over Europe rushed to buy it. Indeed they had become a strict code of conduct for our new age, a code which gentleman of the Renaissance could follow as the knights once followed the code of chivalry.

The stories of many of Italy's ruling families ended with defeat and flight, or destruction and death. He was a commoner, a courtier, without a court, a diplomat whose cunning no one wanted to employ. He went to live on country estate that belonged of his father. By day, he played the country gentleman, but at night he lived again in the world of diplomats and kings.

He turned to writing, and at first he wrote about governments of the people, republics of Rome, conquered the Ancient World. So he wrote the Book called 'The Prince'. "It is not necessary for a Prince to be merciful, faithful, sincere, religious", he wrote, "For that would make him dangerously weak. But it is most necessary for him to seem to be these thing." It was useful of course, if a Prince through his shows of goodness could win his people's loyalty and love.

Few men had spoken so harshly of mankind, and none had called treachery a good thing in a King. He was a handsome, intelligent, witty, gracious and well loved hater, with the neatest piece of diplomatic trickery that Italy had seen in years, he outwitted a group of noblemen who conspired to murder him. They even agreed to leave their soldiers behind when arriving to his castle for a friendly conference.He described it in great detail in his book, as an example for ambitious Princes. He called for the help of allies he had courted with favours, promises, and gifts. None of them came to his aid.

These men who followed the harsh code of the Price took their places beside the gentleman who live by the code of the courtier. As he crept out of the city, disguised as a poor friar, he
swore that he would one day return in Triumph. But first, he thought he must look to his career in the church.

The young cardinal was not alone in hoping to make his fortune in Rome. Rome had known every sort of splendour and evil.
Memories of unmatched elegance and unbelievable ruins of temples and arenas built by Ancient Emperors.

For the ways of Church and business and politics, the work of scholars are artists, and the very safety of the city depended on the man the cardinals executed. He was a diplomat, a finance minister, and sometimes a general. Not every Pope brought learning a gaiety to Rome. But innocent was wise enough to win the favour of the Romans by adding new buildings to their city. But at least his officers kept order in the streets.

For the first time in years it was possible to go about the city without running the risk of getting robbed or murdered. The Pope himself became famous for his good humour, "Rome was a free city," he said, "where everyone can say what he likes."

There were for instance the strange sudden death of churchmen. Surely such convenient deaths were no accident. Most of the stories told about the Pope and his family were probably untrue, but the Romans, were willing to believe any evil whispered about them. In site of the gossip, malaria, not a poison, that struck down the Pope and his son. The Pope in armour was startling a sight.

Together the paintings seemed to sum up the wisdom and art that were the glories of the Renaissance. He loved his work and he loved the life. He enjoyed the warm companionship of friends, the charm of plenty women, expeditions and parties. His art was agonizing labor for him and life seemed to have been planed for his own special annoyance. All that he asked of patrons was the time it took "to find the figure" in a block of marble by chipping away at the stone bit by bit. But people were reluctant to hire an artist who worked so slowly. They were, they write, usually out of jobs, somehow they usually were.

And when they asked the artist to do a huge wall painting in their council chamber, he had no choice but to agree. He disliked painting as much as he loved carving, but he needed the money. He wanted a tomb for himself, a monument so big and so splendid that even after his death Rome would never be able to forget him, he returned with the plans for a marble monument, two stories high and decorated with 40 statues. Here at last were an artist with ideas as grand as his own. They also had the same angry temper, the same unbending pride. Over the years they argued, shouted, threatened, each other time and time again, never to speak or meet again and together Rome its greatest masterpieces.

There were 343 bodies to do, 343 heads nearly a quarter of an acre in background and no assistant he would trust to touch any of it. The one reward for his hours of painful labor was the fact that upon his scaffolding he could be alone in his work. He divided the space into more than 100 panels. Each a separate picture, but skillfully planned. It firmed a en of one great design. The stories, these pictures told were parts of one great story, the story of GOD and the world he made. His religion was a religion of strong feelings, and the figures on is ceiling we as powerful as those he carved from the stone. Best of all, he remembered it was his duty to guide men toward heaven, he saw no reason why they should not enjoy their time on earth. He certainly meant to do so himself while he worked at these jobs, the young artist found time for dozens of other projects.

It was one of policy, a safe one, and one that was most necessary for a Pope who had to deal with powerful monarchs. The Emperor however was not too anxious to involve himself in a religious feud. But the hopeful beginnings led to a series of disasters. Unfortunately he did not know how to solve them either. He was cautious when he might have been bold and dawdled when he should have acted and trusted allies whose promises were false.

Never in 2000 years of wars and violence had the Romans suffered such cruelty or know such terror. They killed without reason--women as well as men, the patients in a hospital, the people who sought refuge in the churches.

"Your money or your Life", was their cry.

And those who had nothing to pay were tortured and killed. Meanwhile nature had dealt a kind of justice to the warriors who had treated Rome cruelly. It had not occurred that they had all helped to bring about the disasters that had come to them.

The Church was divided because too many churchmen cared more about riches then religion. But it was easier to blame the Pope. The Church at last began a program of reform, and the Pope once more became a man of honour and esteem. It's scholars were more than content to pore over their old books, in the quiet of the studies.

He had become a legend in Rome. He in fact had no mind for anything other than his work. As always he finally had agreed to do the job. He was haunted by the fear that he would not live to finish them.

"I' am so OLD", he said, "that death often pulls me by the cape and bids me go with him."

Many architects questioned wether it would stand up at all: these tombs were his last greta projects and something of a puzzle to everyone who saw them. The descendants of the settlers commanded mighty warships that ruled over the Mediterranean.

For 800 years, Venice celebrated the sea with a curious ceremony. Wedded to the Sea, Venice turned it's back on the and, the mainland of Italy.

It the Pope and the Emperor and did not enter the costly contest for land and power among the rival Italian states. Then the time of expansion came to an abrupt end.

Yet in it's last years of greatness, the city was made more glorious than it had ever been. In design and decoration the church was a mixture of Eastern and European magnificence. The names of aristocrats were written in the Libre D'oro or Golden Book, and they-- a thousand men or so --governed the city of more than a hundred thousand.

The city seemed to live in an endless carnival. Masquerading was it's favourite sport. Companies of players and dancers performed in the theatre and poets spouted verse in it's taverns. His verses so funny, his writing so popular and in his fame widespread that none of the men he made fools of dated wanted to punish him.

"I have struck terror into kings", he boasted and it was true. The King appointed him "painter, Engineer, King's Architect, and state Mechanician, and, for once, his titles and his jobs matched his talents. He sketched inventions in his notebooks, and amazed physicians with his knowledge of human anatomy, and delighted the King with his courtly conversation. He loved tournaments and duels, and looked on war as a chivalrous contest of courage. But underneath the decorations the chateaux were a solid fortress.

"Abandon yourself to nature's truths and let nothing in the world be unknown to you". Once a Monk but now a Poet. He was like a man dining on bread and water.

He tried to write about them all, splashing words onto his pages as though he feared they would fly away if he didn't catch them in an instant. The court lived according to his whims. The noblemen competed to become his favourites, and his favour shifted from day to day. They wore the Crown but their mother had the Power. France had indeed caught up with Italy. The way of the government was not tailored to fit frenchmen. The people were relieved when she
and the last of her sons died. He kept his Italian longings under control, and in his time, France again became a Nation, united, strong, and French.

Magnificence was very nice, he said, if one could afford it, but no King with a country to run and people to feed could afford to pretend.

"Que sais-je?" -- "What do I know?" -- had become the motto for the new humanists of France, scholars, and philosophers who looked on the world and themselves with cautious return.

The pictures were so crowded with sharp details of nature and life that they might have almost been coloured photographs. But the world in these paintings were richer and more brilliant than any other captures.

Then gradually the arts of vigorous countries started to blend together. They called him "Prince of the Humanists" and he taught that of humanism was a promise of hope in a world that too long had been enslaved by fear and despair. Indeed, in the ideas of the Ancient Philosophers he found new reasons for living a life of religion. Over the years too many churchmen had translated and changed the meaning of the BIBLE to suit their own beliefs. For nearly 35 years he strove to add to his collections. Her towns were poverty stricken, her farmlands unsown, and her army and navy devastated by series of disastrous foreign wars.

They were sure that England with only a woman to lead it would soon be easily conquered.

"I know I have the Body of a weak and feeble woman," she had told her people, "but I have the heart and stomach of a KING!"
The Queen also had the charm and wit of a lively woman, and a fiery temper that matched her red hair. But the people loved seeing the Queen, and she did her best to let as many of them see her as possible.

Temporal Limitations

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sat, 23 Jan 2016 12:27:00 +0000

Temporal Limitations...

This primitive reality was meta-physically inflated. The developments in historical circumstances, impulse towards words, activity and transformation, universally applicable. It would be useful to investigate the writings of the FATHERs, the Masters, of the spiritual life, and the mystics; Divine Commission.

Religion is the relation with the "Other", the "Numinous", the mysterious, whatever word we use to describe that which is quite unlike everything else, unlike it and distinguished from it, not merely as truth is distinguished from goodness, or the realm of physics from that of the Biology but in a very special sense.

The religious genius, the religious disposition, achieves that capacity for creative vision and moulding that closeness to the fundamental reality of things.

Psychology, however, can do more than indicate that we are in the presence of something very special; of a state of affairs which is oppressed, not merely in conceptual propositions, but is a living attitude in the way, that is in which personality and life are built up, by means of words which are double of an existence or form of life to which nothing in any other man corresponds.

The existence of the prophet, and that of the apostle too (Cor 4:9) contain "A Priori" the necessary in an equation between mission and being, between office and authority.

There is an ALIEN element intervening which has to be accepted and assimilated and the psychological process consists in the reconciliation of this dichotomy.

The cry on the cross cannot be explained in terms of the psychology of religion, it points to the serious reality of an existence that is beyond our comprehension.

"Development" means self-emergence from a generative milieu. But it is possible to conceive of another type of growth according to which the living thing is only partly determined by what is inside of it. For the rest, it acts against stimuli, received from it's environment and by so doing forms itself into something NEW, and to so, a limit that is "A Priori" indeterminable.

A man's intelligence can be of many varying degrees, from the purely negative, through the average, to the extraordinary.

"GENIUS", means that a particular endowment, a power of knowledge or creativity, action or feeling, is so intense, so productive, so utterly obedient to it's inner controls, that it ploughs remorselessly through received convention, until it reaches original primordial truth. GENIUS is that disposition in MAN which makes it possible for the fundamental processes of mind, for the BAsic Power of mankind, for the tendencies of history and the COSMOS to come fully into their own. GENIUS is always the disclosure of some GIFT not merited but given and presupposes a corresponding disposition for hard work and self-denial. GENIUS is a marginal state exposed to the dangers of all such states.

The works of the mystics appear to be more profound, more powerful, more moving, more sublime. Man is not only an individual, like a plant or an animal but a person. "PERSON" is at once something obvious and yet logically incomprehensible. All of what we can know about a MAN is supported and determined by that essential content of significance indicated by the word "I".
In this way we can form a picture of the NATURE and LIFE of any MAN and the picture is more detailed and sharper in outline the more acute our observation, the more vivid our appreciation of that persons CONTEXT and background, the greater our powers of correlation.

Anyone who says that he does understand, does not know what understanding means. Every MAN can be set in his historical perspective; we can show his life has been determined by preceding circumstances in the political, economic, and intellectual spheres.

We correlate all the DATA: -has current ideas and literary opinions are reproduced in him; his relation to his environment, family, friends, work, social group, nationality, how his emotional life and his IDEAS are conditioned by all these things as soon a CONCEPT is the expression of an intelligible reality. A CONCEPT is what human thinking attains when it has managed to become master of an object by abstracting it from the conditions in which it exists in the world. The category of originality is rooted in one of the prime questions of BEING in question of the ORIGIN. It plays a prominent part in early mythological thoughts. All primitive theogenus and cosmogonies are an answer to the question where everything comes from; about that which itself has no beginning but given existence to all else furnishing all things with LIFE and ENERGY.

The QUESTION about the beginning---- about the arch---- is the first systematic question arising from the impression that it does not exist of itself, and the impression made on us by what is, but points back to something else. Wonder than gives way to philosophical inquiry and evokes the counter question; where is everything going? From these two questions arises man's predicament, theoretical and existential. Everything comes from the origin, endowment, achievement, and destiny. This too receives a philosophical and scientific elaboration. The question of both ultimates affects everything. Here we have to do with one of the "SCHEMATA" of all investigations, perhaps most fundamental of all originality.

It has grown out of nature as a whole and is ultimately re-absorbed by nature. It has grown out of the combination of circumstances, one must postulate when talking of TREES. For in MAN, there is something produced, his Spiritual Soul.

This gives rise to the dialectic structure of history, from this, too, comes the fact that there is no ultimate finality in any historical phenomenon.

The TREE has it's origins within this world, man, with his spiritual soul is projected into it. This advent, is no adventure of some divine hero but is undertaken under commission and with POWER.
The form in which this HOLY WILL is expressed, as it is concretely manifested through the facts of daily existence in "HIS HOUR". This direct determination the "WILL" dominates every inner spiritual situation.

Thus, FAITH, too is a "BEGINNING". It is a true FAITH. Containing a lust of derivative elements. But then essence of FAITH always eludes psychology. But the core of FAITH in all cases is always rooted in the ETERNAL. It escapes beyond all these temporal considerations. FAITH is in the WORLD but not of it. It neither derives from the WORLD nor merges into it. It has a duty towards it but is never it's slave. It knows more bout the WORLD than the WORLD know about itself.

This "US" is a tremendous word. He distinguishes reality from appearance, truth from deception. So there are two "KERYGMA" messages proclaimed truth. "TRUTH" means that the temporal acquires it real, uncaring for us in an eternal perspective, that Being becomes intellectually clear, when it is seen in the light of the IDEA and corporality of the WORD. He himself is the creative WORD who alone makes communication at a ll POSSIBLE. He is the IDEA which makes all things TRUE in the SPHERE and the LIGHT of his words, all true Statements are TRUE. That being so, any concept of "THE TEACHER" which we might be able to build up from our experience is left far behind. We have gave forward to something unique. The power he has and exercises is of a different ORDER.

Even if MAN were not prepared to BELIVE in the possibility of MIRACLES he would still sense the power conveyed by these stories and would have to face up to the phenomenon they represent.

It was the power of a colossal personality of a deep recollection of Soul, of a completely Free WILL perfectly attuned to it's HOLY mission in a word, the PAINTER OF PRESENCE.

Love Market

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Wed, 30 Sep 2015 17:00:00 +0000

Casanova used lemons as contraceptives.

Note for the future reference the effect of weird sexual facts on audience engagement. The liberalization of sexual values during the twentieth century is an economic story. This new "technology" along with changes in education and equality has completely transformed the sexual landscape. Premarital sex is strongly tied to family income. A successful marriage is one of the mot important things in life. This is the story of Jane who, Jane chose another path. Their promiscuity was not the result of a lack of moral fortitude. What are those economic forces? And so the answer to "Should I sleep with him tonight?" Was fated. AlwAys on the prowl for the perfect. "Would you be to pay 300 $ every three months to have drugs injected into your balls?" This could be a winning strategy. Condom use appears to go back three thousand years. Diaphragms became available in 1882. Giving her the option of sex with a condom has reduced the cost of premarital sex by 20000$. In fact, statistically speaking 45% of sexually active woman will become pregnant. These specific costs that I am talking about don't include the daily wearable and tear that raising children alone imposes on a woman; imagine a buyer on the sex market who has the option.of buying unprotected sex from two different sellers. Buyers on the sex market should remember the old adage you get what you pay for. This steady rise in university enrolment has had som sequences for those who are not able to take that step. Of course, tuition is not the only reason why some students can reasonably expect never to go to college. One of the reasons women have abstained from sex in the past was fear that having a sexual history would send a bad signal to any potential husband. We have just assumed that there are some benefits to promiscuity. The point is that while more sex makes people happier having more sexual partners does not.

Bible Code: Keena Brown God War

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 06 Sep 2015 11:01:00 +0000

My pieces

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Thu, 05 Feb 2015 04:12:00 +0000

Deceptive

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Thu, 05 Feb 2015 04:06:00 +0000

99 Words
kiss my as
you can call me first class
producing by the mass
attaining levels you'll never pass

I have ninety-nine words that pertain to you
Open up the bible and do what you gotta do
to figure out what's really True
I'll be coming through the passage that was sent to you

anticipation
the creation of publication
tearing down our nation
what an observation
as we sit in contemplation
forgetting innovation
desiring inspiration
inside an evocation

our directive lost
and at what kind of cost

poets non sense

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Thu, 05 Feb 2015 04:01:00 +0000

A poetic text, even a rudimentary one, cannot be read linearly if the very effects that we might characterize as poetic are to be legible.[24] But this does not mean that the poetic text does not have a linear dimension. On the contrary, all texts share a common linear dimension in historical time. That is, while one may argue that hypertext transforms the diachronous processes of reading back into synchronous scenes (to put notions of hypertext’s nonlinearity in Flusser’s terms), conceiving each page or link of the hypertext document as running parallel to all others, it is not so easy to unwrite the linear historical consciousness that tells us that we encountered stories in a grade school primer long before we tackled James Joyce’s Ulysses.

Others have questioned hypertext’s claims to nonlinearity or have advanced their own modifications of same. Notably, in his seminal essay, “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” Espen J. Aarseth makes similar points about the nonlinearity of many traditional print texts, which may allow a high degree of flexibility and interactivity in how the reader uses them.[25] Aarseth’s alternative definition of textual linearity then draws on the topological definition as stated in Webster’s New Twentieth-Century Dictionary: “those properties of geometric figures that remain unchanged even when under distortion, so long as no surfaces are torn.”[26] Such a definition adapts itself well to a consideration of text, which, whether on the book page or the web page, is bound, however fleetingly, to the surface of its transmission medium, which the reader is nevertheless to “distort” in any number of ways. Though Aarseth goes on to present several persuasive readings of how this nonlinearity operates in both print and online texts, none is as revelatory—or as useful for my own attention to the linearity of historical time—as his commentary to the I Ching, or Book of Changes, from the third millennium BC.

Unlike historic texts with a fixed expression, such as Beowulf, I Ching seems to speak uniquely to us across the millennia, not as a distant mirror that can be understood in a philological or romantic sense but as an entity that somehow understands us and speaks for us. This almost religious effect can be partly explained by the repeated updates and the fact that the text was intended to be useful and directly relevant to events in people’s lives, but it seems to me that it is the explicit and elaborate ritual, largely unchanged through the ages, that creates the textual presence that allows us to be naïve users—not readers but agents of the text, closely related to the users of three thousand years ago, despite the epistemological interventions of time and culture.[27]

How close this “almost religious effect” of interacting with a text “intended to be useful and directly relevant” seems to our reading of the pre-Socratic poet-philosophers with whom we began! Though I would quibble with Aarseth’s idealized notion of the I Ching’s immediacy—as with Beowulf, the text would be quite incomprehensible to the vast majority of potential readers without the mediation of a dense web of scholarly and authorial interventions—he nevertheless offers a persuasive argument for qualifying the I Ching as a nonlinear text akin to hypertext. Indeed, Aarseth’s description of that work’s precisely ordered pictograms hews closely to the definition of “hypertext” first provided by T. H. Nelson in 1965: “a body of written or pictorial material connected in such a complex way that it could not conveniently be presented or represented on paper.”[28] Of course, the I Ching is generally “presented or represented on paper.” But “the explicit and elaborate ritual” by which the text is incorporated into the lives of its readers—so goes Aarseth’s argument—does not lend itself to easy diagram, nor can it be divorced from the text without changing the text’s fundamental character. This demand for participation on the part of the reader gestures toward Aarseth’s subsequent elaboration of “ergotic” literature, the term he uses to distinguish those texts—he offers the I Ching as an example here as well—that cannot be navigated without the reader making unscripted decisions that will determine the path and its meaning.[29]

The point that Aarseth glosses over, however, and that I would now like to emphasize, has to do with the linearity of time irrespective of the text itself. For while Aarseth and others address time in the act of reading or engaging with a text (whether a codex, a hypertext, or a video game), they scarcely acknowledge time as a crucial determinant of how the reader situates him- or herself relative to each encounter with the text.[30] That is, if we characterize the I Ching as an expression of ancient wisdom that still speaks to us today, then the paradox of its simultaneous antiquity and contemporaneity, “despite the epistemological interventions of time and culture,” accounts for much of its power. One may argue, as Gunnar Liestol has, that this plotting of the historical timeline does not serve a discussion of digital media, which is developing so rapidly as to neutralize “the traditional one-directional relationship of analysis (and interpretation) in most humanistic inquiry.”[31] Such an argument falls short, however, when we look back on any given specimen of digital media in general, and hypertext literature in particular, from the vantage point of our own experiential present. From this perspective, the placement of the work relative to what came immediately before and after is obscured, much like looking at strangers in an old class photograph. A bit of scholarly scrutiny might reliably situate the photograph in time and space, Iowa City in 1958 or Cleveland in 1966, but the naïve viewer might just as easily characterize the photograph as “old” and leave it at that.

Strickland’s work is particularly advantageous for considering whether hypertext circumvents or emphasizes the reader’s temporal experience of the text because she frequently produces both hypertext and traditional print versions of the same work.[32] Such is the case, for example, with Strickland’s “To Be Here as Stone Is.” When viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11, the presentation shows its age (Figure 2). This is at least in part because the poem’s design calls for us to view it in Netscape 4 (Communicator), which was discontinued in 2002. The poem’s formatting can be highly variable depending on the computer’s operating system, available fonts, web browser, and the sizing of the browser window, changes to which may inadvertently re-lineate the text.

Fig. 2. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone,” viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11.

The problem of hypertext that is not continuously updated to the capabilities (and thus also the demands) of the latest hardware and software echoes N. Katherine Hayles’ remarks about people still relying on computer technology that has long been out of date: “Although they can still produce documents using these versions, they are increasingly marooned on an island in time, unable to send readable files or to read files from anyone else.”[33] Despite the familiarity of this phenomenon, I am nevertheless resistant to Hayles’ characterization of digital producers and/or consumers as “marooned on an island of time.” Here, the denial of coevalness obscures the fact that these producers/consumers operate in the same information marketplace and at the same time as everyone else, which is the very reason their technology’s obsolescence is perhaps more legible than anything it produces.[34]

This is why correcting for these variables in a hypertext poem like “To Be Here as Stone Is” one nevertheless notices that the text looks like a relic of an earlier iteration of Internet technology, which it actually happens to be. The publication of the same poem in Strickland’s True North (Figure 3), by contrast, looks like it could have been published in 1987, 1997, 2007, or yesterday. In this context, there is an unexpected accuracy to the stock wording that appears on that book’s copyright page: “The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials.”[35]

Fig. 3. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone Is,” as published in True North (1997).

Can we imagine any comparable standard of permanence for hypertext poetry?[36] More to the point, if we accept the thesis, advanced by Celan and others, that the poem’s failed striving toward agelessness, the poet’s Orphic struggle to lead the timeless object of desire back into daylight, is an inherent quality of poetic expression—then doesn’t hypertext make visible an ephemerality that traditional print obscures? In addition to allowing the reader to visualize verbal connections and associative leaps that otherwise appear only to the mind’s eye, don’t the design elements of hypertext help us see the poem in its ephemerality?

2. The Upward Journey: Embracing Loss

Online publishing greatly reduces the temporal separation of composition and consumption, a fact that has proven especially consequential in the areas of journalism and political action. We no longer have to wait for the evening news—let alone the morning paper!—to find out what is going on around the world. As the so-called “Arab Spring” is demonstrating even as I am writing this, Facebook and Twitter feeds have proven far more effective at organizing immediate, large-scale political protests than print media have yet achieved. The paradox of this proliferation of online information is that, while by no means immune to decay, the information is quickly superseded by new dispatches, which in turn accelerates its aging. As we have seen, a book of poems published on acid-free paper in 1997 can easily look like a book published in 2011; in the United States, it is not uncommon for a book to go through multiple printings with little or no change in design. But a hypertext poem coded in 1997 shows its age almost immediately, whether because its design elements reflect earlier stages of a rapidly changing programming environment, or perhaps because the coding requires now-obsolete software.

Strickland has insisted that the online component of her lyric projects arises from and reifies this inherent ephemerality. Such is the case, for instance, in her V project, consisting of V: WaveSon.nets/Losing L’una, a double-bound, invertible book (flipping it over allows access to each part), and V: Vniverse, an online book composed in Adobe Shockwave. Regarding the latter, Strickland has articulated the importance of the computer screen as a mediator between text and reader.

When reading online, when transformed to that kind of reader, the indispensable recognition is that you always have a co-reader in a way you do not with print. Not only are some of the display choices made only by the computer, but if the computer is not reading the code there is no poem to be had. This is a situation quite unlike torn paper, books remaining unread on a dusty shelf, a broken Ozymandian statue in ruins to reconstitute. This reading situation depends absolutely on the temporal coincidence of many human and non-human choices, many human and non-human processors, or it is nothing. As fragile as an ecosphere perhaps.[37]

Strickland’s statement, co-authored with digital media artist Cynthia Lawson (her collaborator on V: Vniverse), seems to assume that it is only with the increasingly widespread availability of computers that an intermediary now intrudes in the idealized cognitive circuit of reader and text. Yet reading a poem is always and fundamentally a process of “reconstitution” of highly mediated inputs. This is most readily apparent in public presentations, such as a poetry reading, where the individual presenting the work executes all of the “display choices,” and the “reading situation depends absolutely on the temporal coincidence” of the speaker’s voicing the poems and the audience’s listening, though even in this mundane example there are “many human and non-human processors,” including everything from chance interference (a child giggling, an old man coughing, a cell phone ringing) to the presentation’s design (how well the microphone is positioned, whether or not the speaker is standing at a podium). All of these factors, and many more, mediate between text and reader.

What makes the hypertext poem special is not that the computer’s mediation of the text makes the poem new each time the reader encounters it, but that it integrates those display choices with the text so thoroughly that the poem’s age can be seen in the age of the display. Thus when Brian Lennon notes that “creativity in the electronic arts is concentrated [. . .] in practices of programmed visual and kinetic poetry that have their roots (acknowledged or no) in the experimental typography of the historical avant-gardes (Futurism, Dada, Surrealism) and European modernism as well as the internationalist Concrete poetry of the 1950s,” his observation not only puts hypertext artists’ claims to novelty into question but also invites us to envision hypertext itself as a “historicalavant-garde,” one that is no less difficult to situate within a historical timeline.[38] Of course, Lennon did not have to limit himself to twentieth-century movements; since the advent of moveable type, the history of print has been one in which technological advances, design innovations, and reading habits are constantly reshaping each other. In this sense, Liestol’s argument about the rapidity with which computer-generated displays have been developing actually helps account for why, with hypertext, we can see as much aging in 5 years as might take 50 in print. Here, then, is where we see the hypertext poem “[a]s fragile as an ecosystem.”

In a recent essay for the Poetry Foundation website, Strickland advances what is perhaps her most radical position in what has become a decades-long conceptual evolution: “What is meant by e-literature, by works called born-digital, is that computation is required at every stage of their life. If it could possibly be printed out, it isn’t e-lit.”[39] At first glance, this assertion would seem to exclude from the genre of electronic literature most of Strickland’s own impressive oeuvre, and while she is free to support this rebranding for herself, it makes little sense for how her work has actually been read.[40] More importantly, it ignores the vital role of electronic mediation in the publishing process, the fact that many poets and publishers now make fundamental decisions about formatting, design, lineation, etc., on a computer screen, and with the full expectation that the product of that process will exist primarily in print. Finally, if the author offers up the text as an interactive experience while simultaneously prescribing the parameters of interactivity, such that the reader must always choose between conforming to or violating the author’s intent, how is the hypertext different from print? Declaring that it is only electronic literature when it was never imagined for any other medium is analogous to saying that acting is only that which occurs on a stage or, better yet, in the agora. After all, cinema and television have altered the dynamics of performer-audience interaction so dramatically (!) that it would seem as if we were now speaking of an altogether different art. I suspect that most actors would attest that doing multiple takes in front of a camera and performing for a live audience entail differing relations to space, but I cannot recall ever hearing an actor claim that one is acting, whereas the other is not.

While I have been arguing that the hypertext poem accentuates an ephemerality that has been a traditional feature of poetry itself, the ephemerality of what Strickland now defines as “e-lit” is of a different kind altogether. Poems presented in Flash animation, for example, and especially those that feature episodic or continuous animated sequences that cannot be stopped once they are started, allow the reader little choice but to follow the movement of the text as it runs through its script. What the reader misses—and this may be substantial, given the density of audiovisual information in Flash animation—disappears, at least until the reader reloads the animation. Thus the reader has a sense that the poem exists within its own time frame, which it traverses according to a visual rhythm that is the digital poem’s analogue to traditional meter. By incorporating their ephemerality into the composition itself, the Flash poem’s aging is less obvious than we find in hypertext poems.

Two examples of this play with ephemerality are Brian Kim Stefans’ “The Dreamlife of Letters” and Oni Buchanan’s three-poem cycle The Mandrake Vehicles, produced in 2000 and 2006, respectively.[41] In a note to the print publication of The Mandrake Vehicles in her 2008 book Spring, which also includes a CD containing the Flash animation, Buchanan describes the sequence as having been “scored for paper, letters, and imagination, each vehicle represented here by seven stilled frames selected from the vehicle that is itself in constant motion.”[42] Unlike Stefans’ poem, which calls on the reader only to “run poem” (and thanks him or her “for watching”), Buchanan’s compositions move in stages that have to be activated by the reader; the seven “stilled frames selected from the vehicle” in the print version are simply the stable states in each Flash-animated sequence.[43] While the animation certainly clarifies the poet’s vision for the reader, it is not indispensible, since the print version provides the reader with everything he or she needs to interpolate the “constant motion” that Buchanan intends. The reader performs the poem, as it were, as a musician might a musical score, and with the full confidence that the materials necessary to do so—in this case, “paper, letters, and imagination”—are already at hand. Buchanan, who is also a concert pianist, has worded these directions advisedly.

It is impossible to predict how these Flash animations will eventually show their age. Still, it is likely that they will do so before the print versions of the same texts. Real time is the delimiting factor of any technology. It accounts for the accelerating obsolescence of consumer goods in a global market that has long assigned great value to novelty, real or perceived.[44]

Shortly before FEED closed shop in 2001, Robert Coover, who had helped usher in the wave of hypertext composition of the 1990s, was already declaring that the heyday was over, since even this flexible recent technology, no matter how “nonlinear” in appearance, could not resist the linearity of time.

Could it be that text itself is a worn-out tool of a dying human era, a necessary aid, perhaps, in a technically primitive world, but one that has always distanced the user from the world she or he lives in, a kind of thick, inky scrim between sentient beings and their reality? Even alphabets, clever little tools in their time, are fettered now by the unlinked nature of the times of their origins, and are already giving way to new multilingual alphabets and pictograms called icons.[45]

Poetry, with its roots firmly planted in oral tradition, thrives on its portability and mutability: With every reading, and for every reader, it is simultaneously different and same, new and old. The poem in digital media is inevitably a poem about the failure to resist time, and in the long term this may prove to be its most poetic function. For it is only because Orpheus fails that the poet’s story seems to go on forever.

Communicate

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Wed, 02 Apr 2014 04:21:00 +0000

THE message set out communication with earth

that mysterious force

earthly communicators can 'strike off' with the evil spirits

we are granted certain powers

Providence hast endowed them

spirits of vile and repulsive character

deteriorated in their thoughts

for in all lands there are

atmospheres of most classes of life

and works like a slave to keep things going

we have learned that comparatively

over by a spirit or angel

Peoples of whom I came—they had no fear of death

There was a negative confession

They resented interference from strangero

in a long succession of wise and mighty men

who had grasped all power into their own hands

Referring to differences of opinion

Jews of a wide range of ethnic backgrounds and levels of observance were connected to networks of relatives spread out nationwide, fostering frequent relocation to take advantage of educational opportunities, a new job, or an offer of marriage.

φ = 1+1/(1+1/(1+1/(1+1/(1+1/... = [1;1,1,1,1, ...]

The status of evidence and outcomes in Stages of Change research

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 23:49:00 +0000

The status of evidence and outcomes in Stages of Change research

Sandy Whitelaw,
Steve Baldwin1,
Robin Bunton1 and
Darren Flynn1

Abstract

The Stages of Change model has become a prominent feature within health promotion and most of the literature associated with the model portrays it as being `effective'. Based on an extensive review of the literature, this paper suggests that contrary to this view, there exist a relative paucity of sufficiently strong supportive evidence. The paper describes the features of the existing evidence base, and highlights problems in relation to various aspects of design and execution. Two wider issues relating to the core nature of the model and the evidence associated with it are identified as important and discussed. Two main conclusions are drawn. First, better quality quantitative outcome studies are needed. These should be complemented with significant qualitative case studies with a focus on practitioner and organizational utilization of the model. Second, the disproportionate popularity of the model may be skewing the practical and conceptual nature of health promotion. Stages of Change activities are seen to equate to `health promotion' at the expense of other activities and approaches.

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Introduction

James Prochaska and Carlo DiClemente's Transtheoretical Stages of Change model (Prochaska and DiClemente, 1983) has had a profound impact on health promotion, becoming one of the most prominent and popular conceptual resources in the field. Their remarkably elegant vision of behaviour change as a cyclical `staged' process has struck a chord with many health professionals and researchers working in topic areas ranging from smoking cessation to the promotion of physical activity. The model has been used to tailor interventions to particular `stages of change' and to harness the internal `processes' that are perceived to be at play within each of these stages.

Without doubt, a case can be made for the model being useful in some way. In a pragmatic sense, for hard-pressed field practitioners, it is clearly an advance on the crudeness of efforts to change behaviour based on a simple model of an input of knowledge leading to attitude shifts resulting ultimately in behaviour change. Likewise, in the tradition of `social marketing' there is undeniably a `common sense' attractiveness around its ability to segment populations and direct compatible interventions to them (Hastings and Haywood, 1991; Cirksena and Flora, 1995).

However, for a number of reasons, these perceived virtues cannot excuse the model from informed assessment. First, as Foucault and Popper continually suggested, the need for critique is particularly great at the very point when concepts and ideas begin to take on an established or accepted status. Second, the rapid growth in practice and research around Stages of Change cannot be left unexamined, especially when relatively profound claims are being made on its behalf. Finally, the literature tends not to explicitly discuss many important issues raised by research, leaving them unresolved. Central to this is the question of `effectiveness'. As well as being seen as broadly `useful', accounts of the model go on to explicitly portray it, for example, as: `effective' [(Prochaska et al., 1993, p. 399], achieving `favourable differences' [(Steptoe et al., 1999), p. 943] and `positive effects' [(Campbell et al., 1994), p. 786] between intervention and control groups, and as achieving `a high impact rate' [(Velicer et al., 1999), p. 26]. Whilst this literature is generally couched in an image of formality and scientific respectability, an analysis of the narrative used in the reporting of Stages of Change also shows that this form tends to be accompanied with particularly strong rhetoric and this immediately establishes the possibility that different types of evidence and persuasive strategies are at play. [Discussion of the narrative structures used to report Stages of Change work is the product of a process of discourse analysis using the tools of Fairclough (Fairclough, 1992)]. Prochaska et al. [(Prochaska et al., 1993), p. 399], for example, began an account of their work with this particularly emotive metaphor:

Of all the people alive in the world today, an estimated 500 million will die from the use of tobacco. Approximately 2.5 million will die in middle age with an average loss of 20 years of life. This group will lose a total of 5 billion life years, which ironically is the approximate age of the earth.

We accept that the optimism connected with the model may ultimately be well founded (as implied by the majority of the reporting), it may be robust [as suggested by, for example, Laforge et al. (Laforge et al., 1999) and Donovan et al. (Donovan et al., 1998)] and `useful' to practitioners [as suggested by, for example, Houlihan (Houlihan, 1999) and Haslam, (Haslam, 1999)]. The specific claims of effectiveness may also be justified. However, this paper suggests that there may be a tendency for the strength of the evidence base to be over-stated and that there is less high-quality evidence associated with the model than generally assumed. It is possible therefore that the accepted credibility that surrounds the model [Samuelson (Samuelson, 1997), for example, contends that the model is `the most important theoretical health promotion development of the decade'] is derived to a significant extent from a general faith and persuasive rhetoric.

This notion is explored in this paper using insights and data derived from an empirical review of the model, and its use in health promotion (Bunton et al., 1999) commissioned by The Health Education Board for Scotland and completed between November 1998 and April 1999.

The paper begins with introductory material containing a brief description of the model, an overview of the process by which the review was conducted and a summary of other critiques of the model. The core of the paper then considers the specific issue of concern: the general paucity of sophisticated outcome trials that assess changes in behaviour and the limitations of those that have attempted to consider such measures. The paper concludes by considering two wider issues that arise from this discussion: being conscious of the nature of the evidence that is deployed in assessing it and establishing a clear vision of the status of the model. A number of possible ways forward are then suggested.

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The nature of the Stages of Change model and expectation of models in general

Before embarking on specific examination of the Stages of Change model, as a point of subsequent reference, a brief description of its nature and the expectations associated with it is offered. The Transtheoretical Stages of Change model was developed in the early 1980s in an attempt to understand and collate a range of existing perspectives on smoking behaviour change (Prochaska and DiClemente, 1983). The framework postulated three major ideas (DiClemente and Prochaska, 1998). First, behaviour change is seen as a dynamic process that occurs in a sequenced and cyclical order, involving the following stages: `pre-contemplation' (the new behaviour is not considered), `contemplation' (the new behaviour is contemplated but not acted upon), `preparation' (efforts are made to prepare for changes involved in adopting the new behaviour), `action' (initial behaviour change is made) and `maintenance' (the new behaviour is maintained over time). Second, it is suggested that progress through these stages is driven by a series of 10 processes specific to particular stages, including `consciousness raising' (seeking information about the problem behaviour), `counter-conditioning' (substituting new alternative behaviours for problem behaviour) and `stimulus control' (controlling situations that may trigger relapse into the old behaviour). Third, the notion of levels of change recognizes that individuals can experience multiple problems that exist at different levels: symptom/situational, maladaptive cognitions, interpersonal conflicts, family/systems problems and interpersonal conflicts. So, in summary, by a process of collation, the Transtheoretical Model sought to accommodate and effectively transcend a range of existing cognitive theoretical frameworks such as the Health Belief Model, the Theory of Reasoned Action and Social Learning Theory, forming a new more comprehensive and multi-layered `supra' structure.

These intentions point to an important wider issue relating to the nature of theories and models of human behaviour, and what should be expected of them. Whilst given little explicit attention in the literature, when this matter is considered [e.g. (Earp and Ennett, 1991; Rawson, 1992)] a wide range of assumptions can be detected. Essentially, there are varied views on the extent to which models should define the scope of the phenomenon they purport to define. Whilst it is generally agreed that models are visual representations or metaphors that seek to simplify complexity, there are different views on the extent to which it is appropriate and necessary to abridge this complexity [this tension is beautifully articulated by Isaiah Berlin's essay The Hedgehog and the Fox (Berlin, 1997)]. For some, models offer a way of narrowing and simplifying our understanding of behaviour, highlighting areas in which action can pragmatically be taken. For others, there is less desire to restrict this vision, with attempts made to maintain a recognition of complexity. From these values, a range of other positions arises, summarized in Table I, and these will be deployed later in considering the Stages of Change model.

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Table I.
Summary of the features associated with models of behaviour change

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Locating the present work in the context of existing critiques

Given the intensity of debates in the published literature [e.g. between Prochaska and Velicer (Prochaska and Velicer, 1997b) and Bandura (Bandura, 1997) and Davidson (Davidson, 1992) and associated commentaries] and the strength of feeling that we have experienced in disseminating the review, before embarking on specific discussion, it is worthwhile placing this work in the context of others of a similar nature.

As far back as 1992, a critical Editorial by Robin Davidson had prompted a series of responses in the British Journal of Addiction (Davidson, 1992) and various themes can subsequently be identified from further publications. At a fundamental level, some have questioned the core internal validity of the model and this has been expressed in a range of ways. Most critically, Bandura (Bandura, 1997) has questioned whether the model is a `true' stage model at all. Ahijevych and Wewers (Ahijevych and Wewers, 1992) and Farkas et al. (Farkas et al., 1996) have also questioned the `representativeness' of the original group in Prochaska and DiClemente's 1983 work; Farkas et al., for example, suggest that `the model was developed and validated using self-selected smokers...with higher levels of consumption who intended to quit' (Farkas et al., 1996, 1278). Building on this, Pierce et al. (Pierce et al., 1998), Farkas et al. (Farkas et al., 1996) and Belding et al. (Belding et al., 1997) suggest that the model excludes a range of other variables that may have explanatory power, e.g. Pierce et al. suggest that variables not included in the model such as `level of addiction' and `quitting history' are strongly associated with cessation [(Pierce et al., 1998), p. 278]. The explanatory power of the model has also been questioned, Marcus (Marcus, 1996) and Clarke and Eves (Clarke and Eves, 1997) alluding to a concern that stage processes and behavioural outcomes are tautological or `reciprocally determined'; Marcus, for example, accepts that it is not possible to determine whether `movement in the process of change occurs before, concurrent with, or after the change in exercise stage of adoption' [(Marcus, 1996), p. 200].

These basic concerns have been reflected in a series of more specific issues related to establishing valid links between the status of individuals and the `stage' they are allocated into. In discussing the narrative expressed by smokers, McKie et al., for example, note that `the dynamic nature of assessing an individual's position on the Stages of Change model was clearly borne out...people could shift through several stages of the model in minutes as they spoke of attempts to give up' [(McKie et al., 1999), p. 9]. In a broader sense, cross-national studies have shown large variations in the distribution of populations across stages; Kearney et al., for example, note `large between-country differences (in stage distribution)...with three-fold differences in the precontemplation stage (Ireland and Italy 15% versus Greece and Portugal 46%) and in the maintenance stage (Greece 14% versus Ireland 47%)' [(Kearney et al., 1999, p. 117]. The validity of self-reported behaviour with respect to stage has also been questioned (Lechner et al., 1998; McKie, 1999). Lechner et al., for example, show that by using different models of dietary assessment, subjects can be classified into different stages, concluding [(Lechner et al., 1998), p. 8]:

...the distributions over the different stages in both studies showed that many subjects who were in action or maintenance according to the traditional classification were classified in the precontemplation stage according to the alternative classification method.

Consequently, there is evidence that significant proportions of individuals are unassignable to recognized stages (Marcus, 1996; Pierce et al., 1998; Kearney, 1999).

The external validity of the model has also been questioned with respect to its transfer into other topic domains. Clarke and Eves (Clarke and Eves, 1997) do this in relation to `negative' behaviours such as smoking and drug use to `positive' behaviours like physical activity and healthy eating, and Lauby et al. (Lauby et al., 1998) with respect to the complexities of sexual behaviour. Finally, Duncan and Cribb (Duncan and Cribb, 1996) and Piper and Brown (Piper and Brown, 1998) highlight some ethical difficulties associated with Stages of Change interventions. These include the potential for the model to exclude pre-contemplative individuals from intervention and the potential for the model to act as a subtle form of coercive control.

Despite the presence of these perspectives in the literature, there are still three broad problems. First, many of them are buried in affirmative reports or tagged on to conclusions as sources for `future research' [e.g. (Marcus et al., 1996; Steptoe et al., 1999)]. Second, except for Ashworth's review (Ashworth, 1997), Whitehead's Editorial (Whitehead, 1997) and Bandura's pointed comments (Bandura, 1997), these critiques have largely failed to find significant expression in the `mainstream' health promotion literature. Finally, with the exception of Ashworth's review (Ashworth, 1997), the critical focus has tended to be on conceptual themes at the expense of any comprehensive consideration of outcome.

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The review of the Stages of Change literature

Specific coverage of the full review processes has been reported in detail elsewhere (Bunton et al., 1999, 2000). The search was limited to the period 1985–1998, and derived from the major electronic databases including: Medline, CINAHL, EMBASE, EMBASE (Psychiatry), PsychINFO, PsycLIT, Sports Discussion, Social Citation Index and ASSIA. Using key words, `transtheoretical model', `stages of change', `motivational interviewing' and `brief intervention', 1000 publications were initially identified and for the purpose of the full review, these were narrowed to 368 that directly mentioned `stages of change' as a component of the intervention. In specifically considering outcome, this group was further reduced to 239 empirical studies with an associated data set. These were categorized according to whether they were primarily about structure (tests of the fabric or framework of the model/theory), process (tests of the ingredients, mechanisms or procedures of the model/theory) or outcome [end-point assessment or measurement after delivery of scientific health intervention(s)]. Of these, 178 (74.48%) were classed as concerned with structure, 50 (20.92%) with process and 11 (4.6%) with outcome. See Table II.

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Table II.
Summary data of structure/process/outcome analysis

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Reflection

Three specific themes arise from this work.

The general paucity of sophisticated outcome trials

The most striking feature of these data is the small number of studies that have assessed outcome. Despite the origins of the model in the early 1980s, it was not until the early 1990s that any work considering behavioural outcomes was reported. This paucity of evidence is acknowledged by Heather [(Heather, 1992), p. 829]; `the propensity of the model to catch the spirit of the times has had little to do with its scientific support but perhaps this may come later' (italics added).

Despite such confidence, much of the literature has avoided measuring behaviour change as an outcome, preferring either softer indicators such as increases in knowledge or recall of an intervention [e.g. (Campbell et al., 1994; Skinner et al., 1994; Leed-Kelly et al., 1996)] or internally generated measures of `stage progression' (e.g. moving from the `preparation' stage to `action') (Campbell, 1994; Domel et al., 1996; Cole et al., 1998; Crane et al., 1998; Grimley and Lee, 1998).

This latter type of work is particularly problematic, especially when expressed in research designs structured around intervention groups that receive stage-specific interventions against a control group who receive a non-staged intervention [e.g. (Prochaska et al., 1993; Skinner et al., 1994; Strecher et al., 1994; Voorhees et al., 1996; Schorling et al., 1997; Peterson and Aldana, 1999; Steptoe et al., 1999)]. There are two difficulties. First, stage progression does not necessarily equate to ultimate behaviour change, e.g. Clarke and Eves suggest `it is merely the intention to exercise that changes and not the behaviour itself' [(Clarke and Eves, 1997), p. 206]. Second, there is a strong possibility that the `stage progression' displayed in these studies within the `staged' intervention groups in comparison to `non-staged' match groups could be artifactual. Since specific ideas are selectively introduced to one group and not the other, and then eventually used as an outcome measure, there is a danger that subjects may, either consciously or unconsciously, absorb these prompts and comply with the suggestions.

Even in examples that attempt to consider a form of outcome, few studies include the full range of ingredients normally associated with a robust and comprehensive experimental design—the manipulation of an independent variable, the existence of a control condition, the minimizing of the effects of confounding variables and statistical measurement and analysis of a dependent variable (Harris, 1991; EPI Centre, 1996). Much of the work has been cross-sectional [e.g. (Gomel et al., 1996; Jamner et al., 1997; Kearney et al., 1999)], often containing no control groups [e.g. (Marcus et al., 1992; Marcus et al., 1996; Cole et al., 1998; Berg-Smith et al., 1999)] and using small and/or self-selected samples (Campbell, 1997; Ruggiero et al., 1997; Wilson et al., 1997). Moreover, the complex and interactive nature of stage allocation, transtheoretical processes and intervention makes the precise structuring and isolation of independent and dependent variables problematic. Therefore, it may be inherently difficult to isolate the generalized effects of an intervention from the specific influence of Stages of Change. For example, Steptoe et al. (Steptoe et al., 1999) included nicotine replacement therapy within a design that primarily was interested in behavioural counselling based on Stages of Change. These limitations are compounded by the tendency for the nature and basis of the intervention to be not explicitly described [as is suggested by Rollnick et al. (Rollnick et al., 1999)] or clouded in an array of approaches. Berg-Smith et al. (Berg-Smith et al., 1999), for example, described their work as comprising four substantial intervention models. These combined influences mean that the model tends to be, in Popper's terms, `non-falsifiable' or ascientific, a position accepted by Heather (Heather, 1992), p. 829].

Accepting these limitations, studies do exist that try to avoid these structural difficulties and attempt to assess ultimate changes in behaviour. In some, there is a degree of evidence to suggest that stage-matched interventions result in significantly higher levels of ultimate behaviour change that those that are non-stage-matched [e.g. (Prochaska et al., 1993; Campbell et al., 1994)]. However, as Ashworth [(Ashworth, 1997), p. 171] notes, this relatively small pool of literature `does not present a coherent body of evidence'.

We are also now beginning to see work that explicitly suggests that the model has been `ineffective' in achieving set health promotion aims, e.g. in relation to increasing uptake of breast screening (Crane et al., 1999), improving levels of smoking cessation (Aveyard et al., 1999; Lancaster et al., 1999; Steptoe et al., 1999), bringing about dietary changes (Green and Rossi, 1998), increasing levels of physical activity (Naylor et al., 1999), and improving biological indicators such as weight, body mass index, serum cholesterol and blood pressure (Steptoe et al., 1999).

Wider issues

As well as these specific details, the above discussion points to two wider issues relating to the nature of the Stages of Change evidence base and ultimately the very nature of the model.

The nature of evidence associated with Stages of Change

The literature highlights the tendency for supportive and critical contributions to be advanced on the basis of widely different types of evidence and that different levels of credibility are conferred to these. Occasionally, this work is built around broad conceptual development, reflection and critique (Davidson, 1992; Bandura, 1997; Cardinal, 1997; Norman et al., 1998) or practitioner knowledge (Heather, 1992; Rollnick, et al., 1997; Werch, 1997). However, the vast majority of this work can be classed as `empirical' where the model is applied to a field population [e.g. (Prochaska et al., 1993; Marcus et al., 1996; Grimley and Lee, 1998)]. Galante (Galante, 1996) characterizes this form of research as adopting an empirical, generalized and mechanical view of behaviour where the model is considered a fixed and robust resource from which objective and generalized data can be derived. This work takes on a `scientific' identity, based on grouped data, deploying various forms of survey design and using quantitative measures. For example, Prochaska and Velicer [(Prochaska and Velicer, 1997a), p. 6] suggested the need for `multi-variate measurement models and statistical methods' in Stage of Change evaluation. This type of work is traditionally considered to produce `sound' evidence and status in decision-making processes (Speller et al., 1997). Many are clearly attempting to portray Stages of Change evidence in this way and the apparent prominence of the model suggests that they have been successful.

As our review suggests, there is, however, doubt over the authority of these data and thus the assumption of valid evidence. Heather's acceptance of the model being based on `spirit' rather than `science' confirms this. Given that Stages of Change is generally portrayed as objective and scientific, this is a surprising reaction—a defence based on formal empirical research would perhaps have been expected. However, when challenged, many opt for a defence based on a fundamentally different rationale. Heather [(Heather, 1992), p. 829], for example, states:

...it is at least arguable that treatment providers must base their innovations on a sense that something is right and valuable without affording themselves the comfort of waiting for the empirical evidence to totally justify their decisions.

There are similar examples. Samuelson [(Samuelson, 1997), p. 14] calls Bandura's critique of Stages of Change `esoteric' and suggests a `pragmatic' use of the model where educators and practitioners `draw on their own observations, professional interactions, and extensive field experience'. Also, Haslam (Haslam, 1999) acknowledges then dismisses criticisms of the model, claiming that it has `intuitive' appeal. In these examples, the formal assumptions traditionally used to support the model are suspended in favour of a more intuitive, localized and holistic `sense' (Galante, 1996).

We would accept and indeed support this type of evidence having status. For example, in the field of psychotherapy research, Stiles (Stiles, 1995a,b) offers a vision of work founded on case studies and focussing on narrative accounts of processes. If the Stages of Change model is the product of softer, subjective insights (weltanschauung) which traditional scientific enquiry finds difficult to access or understand, this alternative approach is quite appropriate. Davidson (Davidson, 1992) has already opened up this avenue within Stages of Change research, favouring a form of `tacit' knowledge.

In isolation, any recourse to qualitative knowledge is not in itself inappropriate. However, concerns over the potential superficiality and incongruity of these expressions must be raised. This retreat into subjectivity clearly sits uncomfortably alongside the objective assumptions that supporters of the model invariably draw upon. Whilst tacit knowledge can be `legitimate', it is in our view not enough to declare this in a superficial way. Despite the existence of many case study-based methodologies that would allow a formal and systematic consideration of such evidence, the Stages of Change literature reflects no reporting of such work. Any recourse to subjectivity can thus be considered as rather disingenuous, reflecting a tendency within the Stages of Change movement to selectively draw on varying types of evidence to maintain an impression of worth.

The nature and status of the model

As well as variability within the evidence base, there remains a more fundamental uncertainty over the very nature of the Stages of Change model. The evaluation and cross-case comparison of any health promotion approach is to large extent dependant on the presumption that a relatively fixed and stable entity is being applied consistently across locations and time. Given the apparently variable deployment of the Stages of Change model, significant concerns can thus be raised over the validity and reliability of data across cases.

Drawing on the framework established earlier in the paper, this variability is reflected in the associated literature. Whilst Prochaska and Velicer (Prochaska and Velicer, 1997b) have stated that `the transtheoretical model has proven remarkably robust', Rollnick et al. [Rollnick et al., 1999), p. ix] suggest that `in truth, there is no such thing as it, merely a collection of different strategies for use in different situations...replicable methods simply do not exist'. There are then at least two quite different sets of assumptions of the model: one based on the presumption of a fixed and generalized pattern, the other on a more flexible and non-specific use with little effort made to differentiate between them.

Similarly, expectations of the `power' of the model vary. In particular, there has been some confusion over whether it has predictive power or is at best descriptive, which is captured in an exchange between Bandura (Bandura, 1997) and Prochaska and Velicer (Prochaska and Velicer, 1997b). Those most associated with the model have generally been reluctant to suggest that it has significant predictive power, particularly when only the Stages of Change components are deployed. Whilst many simply use only the stage component descriptively [e.g. (Wilson et al., 1997; Cole et al., 1998; Maqueen et al., 1999)] the contention would be that these approaches fail to utilize the full potential of the model, specifically the change processes. The claim is thus made that these uses are unrepresentative of the `real' model (Velicer et al., 1999). Nevertheless, many still clearly believe that the model has predictive power. Given the expectations associated with it, this may not be an unreasonable expectation—the model should contribute something prospectively to the understanding of behaviour change. This has been accepted by Prochaska and Velicer [(Prochaska and Velicer, 1997), p. 11], who state, `across a variety of problems and populations, these first three stages have been practical predictors of who signs up for health promotion programmes, who shows up, who finishes up, and who ends up better'. So, how predictive is the stage of change model?

Traditionally, the predictive capacity of a well-developed model or theory concerned with individual behaviour should be associated with its ability to define the future outcome of an intervention prior to and independent of that individual having any conscious awareness of the relevant variables and their expected effect (Rawson, 1992). Additionally, any given theoretically shaped intervention should be expected to bring about change to a degree significantly beyond any that would have happen `naturally'. This does not seem to be the case with the Stages of Change model.

As suggested already, by identifying themselves as being at a particular stage, individuals already are conscious of this status prior to any subsequent intervention. Future progress may therefore be as much a consequence of a pre-determined map and motivation. As the model itself suggests, this could be a product of inherent change processes as well as the effect of the intervention. This does not mean that the model is not useful. It does, however, raise concerns over the `power' of it and what added value it confers. Rawson [(Rawson, 1992), p. 211], for example, suggested that in comparison to uncomplicated `iconic' models (models that simply describe the isolated elements of a system), `analogic' models have greater potential in that they seek to explain `relationships and progressions between elements'. In relation to Stages of Change such higher conceptual status would be reflected in greater explicit consideration of the articulation between the main elements involved, i.e. the stage location, the promotion or activation of stage-specific processes, the intervention and an assessment of the additional contribution these elements make beyond change that would have happened despite intervention.

Previous SectionNext Section

Conclusion

Much is still not known about the Stages of Change model and these gaps may in time be filled. In our view, the model may be particularly useful when deployed in a way that reflects the features contained in the left column of Table I, i.e. it is used sensitively, flexibly and guardedly in association with a range of other theoretical resources. If one were given the opportunity to look at how the model is actually used in field situations (a task that has not yet been systematically undertaken), this may in fact be the most prominent type of use.

However, we feel that the literature has maintained an unnaturally assured facıade on two fronts. First, it has suggested that the Stages of Change model can be considered as a single and consistent entity. Second, it has tended to paint a relatively rosy picture of the success of the model, tending towards what Popper [(Popper, 1992), p. 38] has termed a `dogmatic attitude' whereby theorists `constantly claimed to find `verifications' for their favourite theories. This paper has thus attempted to temper this optimism by stressing the need to adopt a more critical assessment of the model whereby refutations of it are actively sought, openly discussed and genuinely assimilated. In this spirit, despite its popularity and prominence in practice and the mass of research associated with it, this paper highlights significant concerns about the status of the Stages of Change model that cannot be easily dismissed.

Most pessimistically, the excessive claims in the absence of sufficient analytical or reflective work raises the possibility that, despite the beliefs and extensive efforts of those deploying the model, it remains in the realms of `pseudoscience' (Kitzinger, 1990), an unnecessarily complex and elaborate facıade that (at best) conceals simple and self-evident ideas around targeting.

More positively, we suggest a number of possible avenues for further attention. There is a need to compliment the one-dimensional and mechanistic approach to evidence that focuses on whether the model `works' or not, with one that is more rounded and sophisticated in its orientation [see (Tudor Hart, 1997)]. This would include better quantitative studies that sought to isolate the Stages of Change component as a single independent variable, measure behaviour change as a dependent variable, ensure the use of control group and use representative samples. Given the inherently complex nature of these circumstances such approaches would only provide one particular insight. To provide a fuller picture, these should be complemented with qualitative case studies of practitioner utilization of Stages of Change. In response to the concerns raised by Steptoe et al. (Steptoe et al., 1999) about the use of Stages of Change in primary care, there is also need for explicit process-based implementation evaluation of the model in a range of settings. Given that the model is now the basis of significant commercial activities [see (Boseley, 1999)] such work with a seriously critical orientation is even more necessary.

The expression of the model may also have significance for the general development of health promotion policy and practice. The disproportionate popularity of the model may be acting as an additional pressure that is skewing the nature of health promotion—where Stages of Change activities begin to equate to `health promotion' at the expense of other activities and approaches. It is clearly difficult to provide definitive evidence that this is so and it could be reasonably argued that it is the those who deploy the model rather than the model itself that are culpable for such actions. There are, however, a series of indications that suggest that the model is contributing to the fostering of particular types of health promotion. Clearly, the model is associated primarily with individualistic approaches, DiClemente [(DiClemente, 1993), p. 101] unashamedly stating:

...our research has concentrated on intentional change, as opposed to societal, developmental, or imposed change, and appears to be touching upon dimensions of the basic structure underlying both the self-directed and treatment—facilitated modification of addictive behaviour...

and Prochaska and Velicer (Prochaska and Velicer, 1997) insist that:

...the future of health promotion programmes lies with stage-matched, proactive and interactive interventions.

Via narrative analysis of research reports, this emphasis can be confirmed in more detail by the detection of a consistent and formulaic structure [see, e.g. (Jamner et al., 1997; Lauby et al., 1998; Haslam, 1999)]. In general terms this involves the following elements: there are particular individualistic and behaviourally oriented health problems (e.g. smoking, drug use, low levels of physical activity, etc.); there are difficulties related to `uptake' and `adherence' to counter-acting messages; that a novel Stages of Change model has been developed that supersedes other less useful models; that the model has proven to be `effective'; and that this success has been displayed across a range of behavioural problems.

The construction of the problem in this way largely limits the potential solutions to individually focussed, topic-based interventions that exclude wider social and environmental approaches (Bunton et al., 1991). For example, in relation to the promotion of walking, Lumsdon and Mitchell [(Lumsdon and Mitchell, 1999), p. 271] have noted that:

...most of the evidence for techniques that help the sedentary adopt physical activity comes from quasi-experimental and experimental intervention studies, many of which examine various cognitive and behavioural strategies at an individual level...in comparison, interventions aimed at environmental, institutional and social levels remain largely unexplored.

Furthermore, as Reid [(Reid, 1999), p. 934] has suggested, the tendency for Stages of Change to be delivered mechanistically as a `magic bullet' may act to displace existing approaches to health promotion that are effective (in the case described by Reid, antismoking projects for young people based on `tried and tested' social influences theory are passed over in favour of Stages of Change). More widely this displacement may hinder a more varied and complex `systems' approach to health promotion (Nicholas and Gobble, 1991; Baum, 1995). A wider range of health promotion models that seek to define social, policy and community processes therefore need to be expressed and utilized.

Previous SectionNext Section

Acknowledgments

At the time of the work, S. W. was a Research Specialist, Health Education Board for Scotland. The paper does not represent the views of the Health Education Board for Scotland.

TRANSLATED KAT IN THE BIBLE

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 02:55:00 +0000

KAT FOUND IN HEBREW IN THE BIBLE

8577. תַּנִּין (tannin) -- serpent, dragon, sea monster

3803. כָּתַר (kathar) -- to surround

8598. תַּפּ֫וּחַ (tappuach) -- apple tree, apple

8574. תַּנּוּר (tannur) -- (portable) stove, firepot

8558. תָּמָר (tamar) -- palm tree, date palm

8414. תֹּ֫הוּ (tohu) -- formlessness, confusion, unreality ...

3807. כָּתַת (kathath) -- to beat, crush by beating

6985. קָט (qat) -- perhaps only

8182. שֹׁעָרִים (shoar) -- horrid, disgusting

8650. תֹּ֫רֶן (toren) -- a mast

7005. קַטָּת (Qattath) -- a city in Zebulun

3712. כִּפָּה (kippah) -- a branch, frond (of a palm tree)

8050. שְׁמוּאֵל (Shemuel) -- "name of God," a prophet of ...

935. בּוֹא (bo) -- to come in, come, go in, go

8252. שָׁקַט (shaqat) -- to be quiet or undisturbed

7526. רְצִין (Retsin) -- a king of Aram (Syria), also an ...

8160. שָׁעָה (shaah) -- a brief time, moment

7676. שַׁבָּת (shabbath) -- Sabbath

7585. שְׁאוֹל (sheol) -- underworld (place to which people ...

3645. כְּמִישׁ (Kemosh or Kemish) -- a god of the Moabites

3372. יָרֵא (yare') -- affright

4276. מַחֲצִית (machatsith) -- half, middle

620. Asenappar -- an Assyrian king

2249. חָבוֹר (Chabor) -- a river of Assyr.

854. אוֹת (eth) -- with (denoting proximity)

7673. שָׁבַת (shabath) -- to

1254. בָּרָא (bara') -- choose

8314. שָׂרָף (saraph) -- serpent

7417. רִמּוֹן (Rimmown) -- Remmon

KAT FOUND IN GREEK IN THE BIBLE

2736. κάτω; (kató) -- down, below

2596. κατά (kata) -- down, against, according to
4783. συγκατάθεσις (sugkatathesis) -- a putting down ...
2614. καταδιώκω (katadiókó) -- to pursue closely
2669. καταπονέω (kataponeó) -- to wear down
2704. καταφθείρω (kataphtheiró) -- to destroy entirely
2612. κατάδηλος (katadélos) -- quite manifest
2703. καταφεύγω (katapheugó) -- to flee for refuge
2624. κατακληροδοτέω (katakléronomeó) -- to ...
2651. καταμόνας (katamonas) -- alone.
2720. κατευθύνω (kateuthunó) -- to make straight
2605. καταγγέλλω (kataggelló) -- to proclaim
2658. καταντάω (katantaó) -- to come down to, reach
2608. κατάγνυμι (katagnumi) -- I break in pieces
2628. κατακολουθέω (katakoloutheó) -- to follow after
2617. καταισχύνω (kataischuno) -- I shame, disgrace, put ...
2640. κατάλειμμα (kataleimma) -- remnant.
2700. κατατοξεύω (katatoxeuó) -- to strike down with an ...
2715. κατεξουσιάζω (katexousiazó) -- to exercise ...
2609. κατάγω (katagó) -- to bring down
2678. κατασείω (kataseió) -- to shake
2685. κατάσκοπος (kataskopos) -- a spy
2643. καταλλαγή (katallagé) -- reconciliation
2621. κατάκειμαι (katakeimai) -- to lie down, recline
1460. ἐγκατοικέω (egkatoikeó) -- to settle down in (a ...
2604. καταγγελεύς (kataggeleus) -- a proclaimer
2691. καταστρηνιάω (katastréniaó) -- to become ...
1944. ἐπικατάρατος (epikataratos) -- accursed
2698. κατατίθημι (katatithémi) -- to lay down
2627. κατακλυσμός (kataklusmos) -- a flood

duran

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 02:24:00 +0000

DURAN

2:105

Neither those who disbelieve from the People of the Scripture nor the polytheists wish that any good should be sent down to you from your Lord. But Allah selects for His mercy whom He wills, and Allah is the possessor of great bounty

2:165

And [yet], among the people are those who take other than Allah as equals [to Him]. They love them as they [should] love Allah . But those who believe are stronger in love for Allah . And if only they who have wronged would consider [that] when they see the punishment, [they will be certain] that all power belongs to Allah and that Allah is severe in punishment

2:228

Divorced women remain in waiting for three periods, and it is not lawful for them to conceal what Allah has created in their wombs if they believe in Allah and the Last Day. And their husbands have more right to take them back in this [period] if they want reconciliation. And due to the wives is similar to what is expected of them, according to what is reasonable. But the men have a degree over them [in responsibility and authority]. And Allah is Exalted in Might and Wise.

2:233

Mothers may breastfeed their children two complete years for whoever wishes to complete the nursing [period]. Upon the father is the mothers' provision and their clothing according to what is acceptable. No person is charged with more than his capacity. No mother should be harmed through her child, and no father through his child. And upon the [father's] heir is [a duty] like that [of the father]. And if they both desire weaning through mutual consent from both of them and consultation, there is no blame upon either of them. And if you wish to have your children nursed by a substitute, there is no blame upon you as long as you give payment according to what is acceptable. And fear Allah and know that Allah is Seeing of what you do.

4:91

You will find others who wish to obtain security from you and [to] obtain security from their people. Every time they are returned to [the influence of] disbelief, they fall back into it. So if they do not withdraw from you or offer you peace or restrain their hands, then seize them and kill them wherever you overtake them. And those - We have made for you against them a clear authorization.

5:54

O you who have believed, whoever of you should revert from his religion - Allah will bring forth [in place of them] a people He will love and who will love Him [who are] humble toward the believers, powerful against the disbelievers; they strive in the cause of Allah and do not fear the blame of a critic. That is the favor of Allah ; He bestows it upon whom He wills. And Allah is all-Encompassing and Knowing

6:119

And why should you not eat of that upon which the name of Allah has been mentioned while He has explained in detail to you what He has forbidden you, excepting that to which you are compelled. And indeed do many lead [others] astray through their [own] inclinations without knowledge. Indeed, your Lord - He is most knowing of the transgressors

8:62

But if they intend to deceive you - then sufficient for you is Allah . It is He who supported you with His help and with the believers

8:71

But if they intend to betray you - then they have already betrayed Allah before, and He empowered [you] over them. And Allah is Knowing and Wise.

9:103

Take, [O, Muhammad], from their wealth a charity by which you purify them and cause them increase, and invoke [ Allah 's blessings] upon them. Indeed, your invocations are reassurance for them. And Allah is Hearing and Knowing.

16:71

And Allah has favored some of you over others in provision. But those who were favored would not hand over their provision to those whom their right hands possess so they would be equal to them therein. Then is it the favor of Allah they reject?

17:101

And We had certainly given Moses nine evident signs, so ask the Children of Israel [about] when he came to them and Pharaoh said to him, "Indeed I think, O Moses, that you are affected by magic."

20:63

They said, "Indeed, these are two magicians who want to drive you out of your land with their magic and do away with your most exemplary way.

28:83

That home of the Hereafter We assign to those who do not desire exaltedness upon the earth or corruption. And the [best] outcome is for the righteous.

29:51

And is it not sufficient for them that We revealed to you the Book which is recited to them? Indeed in that is a mercy and reminder for a people who believe

33:19

Indisposed toward you. And when fear comes, you see them looking at you, their eyes revolving like one being overcome by death. But when fear departs, they lash you with sharp tongues, indisposed toward [any] good. Those have not believed, so Allah has rendered their deeds worthless, and ever is

that, for Allah , easy.

36:57

For them therein is fruit, and for them is whatever they request [or wish]

48:15

Those who remained behind will say when you set out toward the war booty to take it, "Let us follow you." They wish to change the words of Allah . Say, "Never will you follow us. Thus did Allah say before." So they will say, "Rather, you envy us." But [in fact] they were not understanding except a little.

53:23

They are not but [mere] names you have named them - you and your forefathers - for which Allah has sent down no authority. They follow not except assumption and what [their] souls desire, and there has already come to them from their Lord guidance.

56:21

And the meat of fowl, from whatever they desire.

59:9

And [also for] those who were settled in al-Madinah and [adopted] the faith before them. They love those who emigrated to them and find not any want in their breasts of what the emigrants were given but give [them] preference over themselves, even though they are in privation. And whoever is protected from the stinginess of his soul - it is those who will be the successful.

61:8

They want to extinguish the light of Allah with their mouths, but Allah will perfect His light, although the disbelievers dislike it.

76:6

A spring of which the [righteous] servants of Allah will drink; they will make it gush forth in force [and abundance].

76:27

Indeed, these [disbelievers] love the immediate and leave behind them a grave Day.

2:282

O you who have believed, when you contract a debt for a specified term, write it down. And let a scribe write [it] between you in justice. Let no scribe refuse to write as Allah has taught him. So let him write and let the one who has the obligation dictate. And let him fear Allah , his Lord, and not leave anything out of it. But if the one who has the obligation is of limited understanding or weak or unable to dictate himself, then let his guardian dictate in justice. And bring to witness two witnesses from among your men. And if there are not two men [available], then a man and two women from those whom you accept as witnesses - so that if one of the women errs, then the other can remind her. And let not the witnesses refuse when they are called upon. And do not be [too] weary to write it, whether it is small or large, for its [specified] term. That is more just in the sight of Allah and stronger as evidence and more likely to prevent doubt between you, except when it is an immediate transaction which you conduct among yourselves. For [then] there is no blame upon you if you do not write it. And take witnesses when you conclude a contract. Let no scribe be harmed or any witness. For if you do so, indeed, it is [grave] disobedience in you. And fear Allah . And Allah teaches you. And Allah is Knowing of all things.

DH

Omninetworks

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 03:36:00 +0000

Likewise, hardly any aspect of human life will remain unchanged by transliteracy and the new communications technologies of the next half century. In this final part of the essay, I'd like to describe a little of what I think about the future omni-networked societies.

Commerce as information

As an old Catalan proverb says, On hi ha comerc, hi ha vida: where there's commerce, there's life. Commerce is the blood of nations. I like to think of it as another form of communication.

Through commerce, innovations quickly get diffused around the globe. Even when other forms of communication fail, commerce usually carries the day -- even enemies have to trade.

You only have to realize that money is really nothing but data to get an idea of the tidal changes lurking ahead. Paper money and coinage are very crude ways of storing knowledge about wealth.

As financial transactions go electronic, the pace of business gets hotter. More money sloshes around the globe during a few days' time in the 1990's than during an entire year in the 1960's, with much of that movement of money tied to speculation on currency fluctuations.

Economies will become more complex, more nonlinear, and more difficult to keep track of. Competition will sharpen. Even the slightest differences in quality or price will loom large in such a sensitive, well-informed marketing environment.

The City will bring an exciting era of trade, as never seen before. It'll be a different kind of trade, though.

Physical materials won't be exchanged as much as designs and knowledge will be. Manufacturing will be as local as possible.

What will move will be designs that provide know-how about how to build things using local materials. This reminds me of waves on the ocean; even though the wave energy travels great distances, the water itself just bobs up and down.

The City will make it possible to trade many things which aren't commodities today. Knowledge will be a commodity to be bought and sold, for example, just as wheat or petroleum get traded today.

Commodity trading has the advantage of eventually settling on prices that realistically reflect the worth and availability of goods and services. When prices climb too high, people stop buying, prompting the sellers to lower their prices to encourage people to buy again.

If prices drop too far, though, people will spy a bargain and lunge to buy, making it possible for the seller to ask for higher prices. The market is complex and dynamic, but the overall result -- the form that emerges -- is accurate pricing. It's not necessary for the traders ever to see what they're buying.

All that actually changes hands is the control of the commodity, which is really just knowledge. For that reason, world trade will be much more fluid as a result of the City's superior knowledge-processing power.

Clean air and clean water will become commodities, too. Before anything can become a commodity, however, there has to be some way to know much of it you have.

The clean air trade has begun in the 1990's with international agreements limit the amount of CFC's (chlorofluorocarbons) that each country may release.

CFC's are known to destroy the ozone layer in the atmosphere that protect living things from deadly ultraviolet radiation. Some countries sell their CFC "credits" to other countries.

Trading precious resources like clean air and water will create tremendous market pressure to invent and implement more ecologically sound ways of doing things.

The City will provide the information-processing needed to quantify damages done to assets through contamination of the air and water. (Real estate in Los Angeles would probably be more valuable if there weren't any smog.)

Those damages will be imputed to the polluters, both great and small. Hitting 'em where it counts is the best way to get things cleaned up. It's also the best way to make cleaner but more expensive technologies cost effective.

The "invisible hand" that Adam Smith wrote about is another example of information, another example of spontaneously emerging form and structure. A market is mostly a chaotic system, something like an ecosystem.

There's no way to successfully predict or control it. The form which emerges out of the hurly-burly of the market is the structure of economic relationships between groups of people. Those economic relationships are what organize production of the goods and services that people need and want.

In other words, a market is an informational system that creates wealth. The same hallmarks of information are present in markets that are also present in biological systems: diversity, competition, freedom, and selection.

Ideally, the consumer should provide the selection. Putting control over selection in the hands of consumers maximizes the flexibility and appropriateness of the market.

When the state interferes in markets, the results are often disappointing because it's difficult to engineer efficient economic relationships, just as it's impossible to know which genetic mutations will turn out to be beneficial.

The City will help markets operate more fairly and efficiently by providing buyers with useful knowledge about competing products, and by providing producers with useful knowledge about the buyers' interests.

It will be tougher for producers to cheat consumers because the City will provide consumers with copious on-the-spot knowledge about each producer.

omen

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 17:25:00 +0000

This book deals mainly with some aspects of what may be termed the psychical life of the inhabitants of the Madras Presidency, and the Native States of Travancore and Cochin. In my “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India” (1906), I stated that the confused chapter devoted to omens, animal superstitions, evil eye, charms, sorcery, etc., was a mere outline sketch of a group of subjects, which, if worked up, would furnish material for a volume. This chapter has now been remodelled, and supplemented by notes collected since its publication, and information which lies buried in the seven bulky volumes of my encyclopædic “Castes and Tribes of Southern India” (1909). The area dealt with (roughly, 182,000 square miles, with a population of 47,800,000) is so vast that I have had perforce to supplement the personal knowledge acquired in the course of wandering expeditions in various parts of Southern India, and in other ways, by recourse to the considerable mass of information, which is hidden away in official reports, gazetteers, journals of societies, books, etc.

To the many friends and correspondents, European [8]and Indian, who have helped me in the accumulation of facts, and those whose writings I have made liberal use of, I would once more express collectively, and with all sincerity, my great sense of indebtedness. My thanks are due to Mr L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer for supplying me with the illustrations of Malabar yantrams. [9]

[Contents]

Page
I. Omens 13
II. Animal Superstitions 73
III. The Evil Eye 109
IV. Snake Worship 121
V. Vows, Votive and other Offerings 137
VI. Charms 180
VII. Human Sacrifice 199
VIII. Magic and Human Life 224
IX. Magic and Magicians 237
X. Divination and Fortune-Telling 273
XI. Some Agricultural Ceremonies 289
XII. Rain-Making Ceremonies 305
Index 312

[11]

[Contents]

List of Illustrations

Malayan Exorcist with Fowl in Mouth (see p. 246) Frontispiece
Page
Sacred Vultures, Tirukazhukunram 86
Evil Eye Figures, Malabar 112
Evil Eye Figures Set Up in Fields 114
Impressions of Hand on Wall of House 119
Praying for Offspring before Lingam, Snake-Stones, and Figure of Ganēsa 124
Pulluvan with Pot-Drum 129
Vettuvans Wearing Leafy Garments 152
Silver Votive Offerings 160
Clay and Metal Offerings, South Canara 162
Subramaniya Yantram 185
Hanumān Yantram 186
Meriah Sacrifice Post 202
Jumadi Bhutha, South Canara 237
Figure Washed Ashore at Calicut 249
Korava Woman Telling Fortune 283

[13]

[Contents]

Omens and Superstitions of Southern India

I

Omens

In seeking for omens, Natives consult the so-called science of omens or science of the five birds, and are guided by them. Selected omens are always included in native calendars or panchāngams.

To the quivering and throbbing of various parts of the body as omens, repeated reference is made in the Hindu classics. Thus, in Kalidāsa’s Sakuntala, King Dushyanta says: “This hermitage is tranquil, and yet my arm throbs. Whence can there be any result from this in such a place? But yet the gates of destiny are everywhere.” Again, Sakuntala says: “Alas! why does my right eye throb?” to which Gautami replies: “Child, the evil be averted. May the tutelary deities of your husband’s family confer happy prospects!” In the Raghuvamsa, the statement occurs that “the son of Paulastya, being greatly incensed, drove an arrow deep into his right arm, which was throbbing, and which, therefore, prognosticated his union with Sīta.” A quivering sensation in the right arm is supposed to indicate marriage with a beautiful woman; in the right eye some good luck. [14]

During a marriage among the Telugu Tottiyans, who have settled in the Tamil country, a red ram without blemish is sacrificed. It is first sprinkled with water, and, if it shivers, this is considered a good omen. It is recorded,1 in connection with the legends of the Badagas of the Nīlgiris, that “in the heart of the Banagudi shola (grove), not far from the Doddūru group of cromlechs, is an odd little shrine to Karairāya, within which are a tiny cromlech, some sacred water-worn stones, and sundry little pottery images representing a tiger, a mounted man, and some dogs. These keep in memory, it is said, a Badaga who was slain in combat with a tiger; and annually a festival is held, at which new images are placed there, and vows are paid. A Kurumba (jungle tribe) makes fire by friction, and burns incense, throws sanctified water over the numerous goats brought to be sacrificed, to see if they will shiver in the manner always held necessary in sacrificed victims, and then slays, one after the other, those which have shown themselves duly qualified.”

In many villages, during the festival to the village deity, water is poured over a sheep’s back, and it is accepted as a good sign if it shivers. “When the people are economical, they keep on pouring water till it does shiver, to avoid the expense of providing a second victim for sacrifice. But, where they are more scrupulous, if it does not shiver, it is taken as a sign that the goddess will not accept it, and it is taken away.”2

Before the thieving Koravas set out on a predatory expedition, a goat is decorated, and taken to a shrine. It is then placed before the idol, which is asked whether the expedition will be successful. If the body of the [15]animal quivers, it is regarded as an answer in the affirmative; if it does not, the expedition is abandoned.

If, in addition to quivering, the animal urinates, no better sign could be looked for. Thieves though they are, the Koravas make it a point of honour to pay for the goat used in the ceremony. It is said that, in seeking omens from the quivering of an animal, a very liberal interpretation is put on the slightest movement. It is recorded by Bishop Whitehead3 that, when an animal has been sacrificed to the goddess Nukalamma at Coconada, its head is put before the shrine, and water poured on it. If the mouth opens, it is accepted as a sign that the sacrifice is accepted.

At the death ceremonies of the Idaiyans of Coimbatore, a cock is tied to a sacrificial post, to which rice is offered. One end of a thread is tied to the post, and the other end to a new cloth. The thread is watched till it shakes, and then broken. The cock is then killed.

Of omens, both good and bad, in Malabar, the following comprehensive list is given by Mr Logan4:—

“Good.—Crows, pigeons, etc., and beasts as deer, etc., moving from left to right, and dogs and jackals moving inversely, and other beasts found similarly and singly; wild crow, ruddy goose, mungoose, goat, and peacock seen singly or in couples either at the right or left. A rainbow seen on the right and left, or behind, prognosticates good, but the reverse if seen in front. Buttermilk, raw rice, puttalpira (Trichosanthes anguina, snake-gourd), priyangu flower, honey, ghī (clarified butter); red cotton juice, antimony sulphurate, metal mug, bell ringing, lamp, lotus, karuka grass, raw fish, flesh, flour, ripe fruits, sweetmeats, gems, sandalwood, elephants, pots filled with water, a virgin, a couple of Brāhmans, Rājas, [16]respectable men, white flower, white yak tail,5 white cloth, and white horse. Chank shell (Turbinella rapa), flagstaff, turban, triumphal arch, fruitful soil, burning fire, elegant eatables or drinkables, carts with men in, cows with their young, mares, bulls or cows with ropes tied to their necks, palanquin, swans, peacock and crane warbling sweetly. Bracelets, looking-glass, mustard, bezoar, any substance of white colour, the bellowing of oxen, auspicious words, harmonious human voice, such sounds made by birds or beasts, the uplifting of umbrellas, hailing exclamations, sound of harp, flute, timbrel, tabor, and other instruments of music, sounds of hymns of consecration and Vēdic recitations, gentle breeze all round at the time of a journey.

“Bad.—Men deprived of their limbs, lame or blind, a corpse or wearer of a cloth put on a corpse, coir (cocoanut fibre), broken vessels, hearing of words expressive of breaking, burning, destroying, etc.; the alarming cry of alas! alas! loud screams, cursing, trembling, sneezing, the sight of a man in sorrow, one with a stick, a barber, a widow, pepper, and other pungent substances. A snake, cat, iguana (Varanus), blood-sucker (lizard), or monkey passing across the road, vociferous beasts such as jackals, dogs, and kites, loud crying from the east, buffalo, donkey, or temple bull, black grains, salt, liquor, hide, grass, dirt, faggots, iron, flowers used for funeral ceremonies, a eunuch, ruffian, outcaste, vomit, excrement, stench, any horrible figure, bamboo, cotton, lead, cot, stool or other vehicle carried with legs upward, dishes, cups, etc., with mouth downwards, vessels filled with live coals, which are broken and not burning, broomstick, ashes, winnow, hatchet.”

In the category of good omens among the Nāyars of Travancore, are placed the elephant, a pot full of water, sweetmeats, fruit, fish, and flesh, images of gods, kings, a cow with its calf, married women, tied bullocks, gold [17]lamps, ghī, and milk. In the list of bad omens come a donkey, broom, buffalo, untied bullock, barber, widow, patient, cat, washerman. The worst of all omens is to allow a cat to cross one’s path. An odd number of Nāyars, and an even number of Brāhmans, are good omens, the reverse being particularly bad. On the Vinayakachaturthi day in the month of Avani, no man is allowed to look at the rising moon, on penalty of incurring unmerited obloquy.

By the Pulayas of Travancore, it is considered lucky to see another Pulaya, a Native Christian, an Izhuva with a vessel in the hand, a cow behind, or a boat containing sacks of rice. On the other hand, it is regarded as a very bad omen to be crossed by a cat, to see a fight between animals, a person with a bundle of clothes, or to meet people carrying steel instruments.

It is a good omen for the day if, when he gets up in the morning, a man sees any of the following:—his wife’s face, the lines on the palm of his right hand, his face in a mirror, the face of a rich man, the tail of a black cow, the face of a black monkey, or his rice fields. There is a legend that Sīta used to rise early, and present herself, bathed and well dressed, before her lord Rāma, so that he might gaze on her face, and be lucky during the day. This custom is carried out by all good housewives in Hindu families. A fair skinned Paraiyan, or a dark skinned Brāhman, should not, in accordance with a proverb, be seen the first thing in the morning.

Hindus are very particular about catching sight of some auspicious object on the morning of New Year’s Day, as the effects of omens seen on that occasion are believed to last throughout the year. Of the Vishu festival, held in celebration of the New Year in Malabar, the following account is given by Mr Gopal Panikkar.6 [18]

“Being the commencement of a new year, native superstition surrounds it with a peculiarly solemn importance. It is believed that a man’s whole prosperity in life depends upon the nature, auspicious or otherwise, of the first things that he happens to fix his eyes upon on this particular morning. According to Nair, and even general Hindu mythology, there are certain objects which possess an inherent inauspicious character. For instance, ashes, firewood, oil, and a lot of similar objects, are inauspicious ones, which will render him who chances to notice them first fare badly in life for the whole year, and their obnoxious effects will be removed only on his seeing holy things, such as reigning princes, oxen, cows, gold, and such like, on the morning of the next new year. The effects of the sight of these various materials are said to apply even to the attainment of objects by a man starting on a special errand, who happens for the first time to look at them after starting. However, with this view, almost every family religiously takes care to prepare the most sightworthy objects on the new year morning. Therefore, on the previous night, they prepare what is known as a kani. A small circular bell-metal vessel is taken, and some holy objects are arranged inside it. A grandha or old book made of palmyra leaves, a gold ornament, a new-washed cloth, some ‘unprofitably gay’ flowers of the konna tree (Cassia Fistula), a measure of rice, a so-called looking-glass made of bell-metal, and a few other things, are all tastefully arranged in the vessel, and placed in a prominent room inside the house. On either side of this vessel, two brass or bell-metal lamps, filled with cocoanut oil clear as diamond sparks, are kept burning, and a small plank of wood, or some other seat, is placed in front of it. At about five o’clock in the morning of the day, some one who has got up first wakes the inmates, both male and female, of the house, and takes them blindfolded, so that they may not gaze at anything else, to the seat near the kani. The members are seated, one after another, in the seat, and are then, and not till then, [19]asked to open their eyes, and carefully look at the kani. Then each is made to look at some venerable member of the house, or sometimes a stranger even. This over, the little playful urchins of the house fire small crackers which they have bought for the occasion. The kani is then taken round the place from house to house, for the benefit of the poor families, which cannot afford to prepare such a costly adornment.”

I gather further, in connection with the Vishu festival, that it is the duty of every devout Hindu to see the village deity the first of all things in the morning. For this purpose, many sleep within the temple precincts, and those who sleep in their own houses are escorted thither by those who have been the first to make their obeisance. Many go to see the image with their eyes shut, and sometimes bound with a cloth.7

If a person places the head towards the east when sleeping, he will obtain wealth and health; if towards the south, a lengthening of life; if towards the west, fame; if towards the north, sickness. The last position, therefore, should be avoided.8 In the Telugu country, when a child is roused from sleep by a thunderclap, the mother, pressing it to her breast, murmurs, “Arjuna Sahādēva.” The invocation implies the idea that thunder is caused by the Mahābhārata heroes, Arjuna and Sahādēva.9 To dream of a temple car in motion, foretells the death of a near relative. Night, but not day dreams, are considered as omens for good or evil. Among those which are auspicious, may be mentioned riding on a cow, bull, or elephant, entering a temple or palace, a golden horse, climbing a mountain or tree, drinking liquor, eating flesh, curds and rice, [20]wearing white cloths, or jewelry set with precious stones, being dressed in white cloths, and embracing a woman, whose body is smeared with sandal paste. A person will be cured of sickness if he dreams of Braāhmans, kings, flowers, jewels, women, or a looking-glass. Wealth is ensured by a dream that one is bitten in the shade by a snake, or stung by a scorpion. One who dreams that he has been bitten by a snake is considered to be proof against snake-bite; and if he dreams of a cobra, his wife or some near relative is believed to have conceived. Hindu wives believe that to tell their husband’s name, or pronounce it even in a dream, would bring him to an untimely end. If a person has an auspicious dream, he should get up and not go to sleep again. But, if the dream is of evil omen, he should pray that he may be spared from its ill effects, and may go to sleep again.

The arrival of a guest is foreshadowed by the hissing noise of the oven, the slipping of a winnow during winnowing, or of a measure when measuring rice. If one dines with a friend or relation on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or Saturday, it is well; if on a Tuesday, ill-feeling will ensue; if on a Thursday, endless enmity; if on a Sunday, hatred. While eating, one should face east, west, south, or north, according as one wishes for long life, fame, to become vainglorious, or for justice or truth. Evil is foreshadowed if a light goes out during meals, or while some auspicious thing, such, for example, as a marriage, is being discussed. A feast given to the jungle Paliyans by some missionaries was marred at the outset by the unfortunate circumstance that betel and tobacco were placed by the side of the food, these articles being of evil omen as they are placed in the grave with the dead. Chewing a single areca nut, along with betel [21]leaf secures vigour, two nuts are inauspicious, three are excellent, and more bring indifferent luck. The basal portion of the betel leaf must be rejected, as it produces disease; the apical part, as it induces sin; and the midrib and veins, as they destroy the intellect. A leaf on which chunam (lime) has been kept, should be avoided, as it may shorten life.

Before the Koyis shift their quarters, they consult the omens, to see whether the change will be auspicious or not. Sometimes the hatching of a clutch of eggs provides the answer, or four grains of four kinds of seed, representing the prosperity of men, cattle, sheep, and land, are put on a heap of ashes under a man’s bed. Any movement among them during the night is a bad omen.10

When a Kondh starts on a shooting expedition, if he first meets an adult female, married or unmarried, he will return home, and ask a child to tell the females to keep out of the way. He will then make a fresh start, and, if he meets a female, will wave his hand to her as a sign that she must keep clear of him. The Kondh believes that, if he sees a female, he will not come across animals in the jungle to shoot. If a woman is in her menses, her husband, brothers, and sons living under the same roof, will not go out shooting for the same reason.

It is noted by Mr F. Fawcett11 that it is considered unlucky by the Koravas, when starting on a dacoity or housebreaking, “to see widows, pots of milk, dogs urinating, a man leading a bull, or a bull bellowing. On the other hand, it is downright lucky when a bull bellows at the scene of the criminal operation. To see a man goading a bull is a good omen when starting, and a bad one at the scene. The eighteenth day of the Tamil month, [22]Avani, is the luckiest day of all for committing crimes. A successful criminal exploit on this day ensures good luck throughout the year. Sundays, which are auspicious for weddings, are inauspicious for crimes. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays are unlucky until noon for starting out from home. So, too, is the day after new moon.” Fridays are unsuitable for breaking into the houses of Brāhmans or Kōmatis, as they may be engaged in worshipping Ankalamma, to whom the day is sacred.

Some Bōyas in the Bellary district enjoy inām (rent free) lands, in return for propitiating the village goddesses by a rite called bhūta bali, which is intended to secure the prosperity of the village. The Bōya priest gets himself shaved at about midnight, sacrifices a sheep or buffalo, mixes its blood with rice, and distributes the rice thus prepared in small balls throughout the village. When he starts on this business, all the villagers bolt their doors, as it is not considered auspicious to see him then.

When a student starts for the examination hall, he will, if he sees a widow or a Brāhman, retrace his steps, and start again after the lapse of a few minutes. Meeting two Brāhmans would indicate good luck, and he would proceed on his way full of hope.

If, when a person is leaving his house, the head or feet strike accidentally against the threshold, he should not go out, as it forebodes some impending mischief. Sometimes, when a person returns home from a distance, especially at night, he is kept standing at the door, and, after he has washed his hands and feet, an elderly female or servant of the house brings a shallow plate full of water mixed with lime juice and chunam (lime), with some chillies and pieces of charcoal floating on it. The plate is carried three times round the person, and the contents are then thrown into the street without being seen by the man. He then enters the house. If a person knocks at [23]the door of a house in the night once, twice, or thrice, it will not be opened. If the knock is repeated a fourth time, the door will be opened without fear, for the evil spirit is said to knock only thrice.

A tickling sensation in the sole of the right foot foretells that the person has to go on a journey. The omens are favourable if any of the following are met with by one who is starting on a journey, or special errand:—

Married woman.
Virgin.
Prostitute.
Two Brāhmans.
Playing of music.
One carrying musical instruments.
Money.
Fruit or flowers.
A light, or clear blazing fire.
Umbrella.
Cooked food.
Milk or curds.
Cow.
Deer.
Corpse.
Two fishes.
Recital of Vēdas.
Sound of drum or horn.
Spirituous liquor.

Bullock.
Mutton.
Precious stones.
One bearing a silver armlet.
Sandalwood.
Rice.
Elephant.
Horse.
Pot full of water.
Married woman carrying a water-pot from a tank.
Pot of toddy.
Black monkey.
Dog.
Royal eagle.
Parrot.
Honey.
Hearing kind words.
A Gāzula Balija with his pile of bangles on his back.

If, on similar occasions, a person comes across any of the following, the omens are unfavourable:—

Widow.
Lightning.
Fuel.
Smoky fire.
Hare.
Crow flying from right to left.
Snake.
New pot.
Blind man.
Lame man.
Sick man.
Salt.

Tiger.
Pot of oil.
Leather.
Dog barking on a housetop.
Bundle of sticks.
Buttermilk.
Empty vessel.
A quarrel.
Man with dishevelled hair.
Oilman.
Leper.
Mendicant.

[24]

Sometimes people leave their house, and sleep elsewhere on the night preceding an inauspicious day, on which a journey is to be made. Unlucky days for starting on a journey are vāra-sūlai, or days on which Siva’s trident (sūla) is kept on the ground. The direction in which it lies, varies according to the day of the week. For example, Sunday before noon is a bad time to start towards the west, as the trident is turned that way. It is said to be unlucky to go westward on Friday or Sunday, eastward on Monday or Saturday, north on Tuesday or Wednesday, south on Thursday. A journey begun on Tuesday is liable to result in loss by thieves or fire at home. Loss, too, is likely to follow a journey begun on Saturday, and sickness a start on Sunday. Wednesday and Friday are both propitious days, and a journey begun on either with a view to business will be lucrative. The worst days for travelling are Tuesday, Saturday, and Sunday.12 On more than one occasion, a subordinate in my office overstayed his leave on the ground that his guru (spiritual preceptor) told him that the day on which he should have returned was an unlucky one for a journey.

If a traveller sees a hare on his way, he may be sure that he will not succeed in the object of his journey. If, however, the hare touches him, and he does not at once turn back and go home, he is certain to meet with a great misfortune. There is an authority for this superstition in the Rāmayana. After Rāma had recovered Sīta and returned to Ayodha, he was informed that, whilst a washerman and his wife were quarrelling, the former had exclaimed that he was not such a fool as the king had been to take back his wife after she had been carried away by a stranger. Rāma thought this over, and resolved to [25]send his wife into the forest. His brother, Lutchmana, was to drive her there, and then to leave her alone. On their way they met a hare, and Sīta, who was ignorant of the purpose of the journey, begged Lutchmana to return, as the omen was a bad one.13

If a dog scratches its body, a traveller will fall ill; if it lies down and wags its tail, some disaster will follow. To one proceeding on a journey, a dog crossing the path from right to left is auspicious. But, if it gets on his person or his feet, shaking its ears, the journey will be unlucky.

A person should postpone an errand on which he is starting, if he sees a cobra or rat-snake. In a recent judicial case, a witness gave evidence to the effect that he was starting on a journey, and when he had proceeded a short way, a snake crossed the road. This being an evil omen, he went back and put off his journey till the following day. On his way he passed through a village in which some men had been arrested for murder, and found that one of two men, whom he had promised to accompany and had gone on without him, had been murdered.

Sneezing once is a good sign; twice, a bad sign. When a child sneezes, those near it usually say “dirgāyus” (long life), or “sathāyus” (a hundred years). The rishi or sage Markandēya, who was remarkable for his austerities and great age, is also known as Dirgāyus. Adults who sneeze pronounce the name of some god, the common expression being “Srimadrangam.” When a Badaga baby is born, it is a good omen if the father sneezes before the umbilical cord has been cut, and an evil one if he sneezes after its severance. In the Teluga country it is believed that a child who sneezes on a [26]winnowing fan, or on the door-frame, will meet with misfortune unless balls of boiled rice are thrown over it; and a man who sneezes during his meal, especially at night, will also be unlucky unless water is sprinkled over his face, and he is made to pronounce his own name, and that of his birthplace and his patron deity.14

Gaping is an indication that evil spirits have effected an entrance into the body. Hence many Brāhmans, when they gape, snap their fingers as a preventive.15 When a great man yawns, his sleep is promoted by all the company with him snapping their fingers with great vehemence, and making a singular noise. It was noted by Alberuni16 that Hindus “spit out and blow their noses without any respect for the elder ones present, and crack their lice before them. They consider the crepitus ventris as a good omen, sneezing as a bad omen.” In Travancore, a courtier must cover the mouth with the right hand, lest his breath should pollute the king or other superior. Also, at the temples, a low-caste man must wear a bandage over his nose and mouth, so that his breath may not pollute the idols.17 A Kudumi woman in Travancore, at the menstrual period, should stand at a distance of seven feet, closing her mouth and nostrils with the palm of her hand, as her breath would have a contaminating effect. Her shadow, too, should not fall on any one.

A Kumbāra potter, when engaged in the manufacture of the pot or household deity for the Kurubas, should cover his mouth with a bandage, so that his breath may not defile it. The Koragas of South Canara are said to be regarded with such intense loathing that, up to quite [27]recent times, one section of them called Ande or pot Kurubas, continually wore a pot suspended from their necks, into which they were compelled to spit, being so utterly unclean as to be prohibited from even spitting on the highway.18 In a note on the Paraiyans (Pariahs), Sonnerat, writing in the eighteenth century,19 says that, when drinking, they put the cup to their lips, and their fingers to their mouths, in such a way that they are defiled with the spittle. A Brāhman may take snuff, but he should not smoke a cheroot or cigar. When once the cheroot has touched his lips, it is defiled by the saliva, and, therefore, cannot be returned to his mouth.20

At the festivals of the village deities in the Telugu country, an unmarried Mādiga (Telugu Pariah) woman, called Mātangi21 (the name of a favourite goddess) spits upon the people assembled, and touches them with her stick. Her touch and saliva are believed to purge all uncleanliness of body and soul, and are said to be invited by men who would ordinarily scorn to approach her. At a festival called Kathiru in honour of a village goddess in the Cochin State, the Pulayans (agrestic slaves) go in procession to the temple, and scatter packets of palm-leaves containing handfuls of paddy (unhusked rice) rolled up in straw among the crowds of spectators along the route. “The spectators, both young and old, scramble to obtain as many of the packets as possible, and carry them home. They are then hung in front of the houses, for it is believed that their presence will help to promote the prosperity of the family, until the festival comes round [28]again next year. The greater the number of trophies obtained for a family by its members, the greater, it is believed, will be the prosperity of the family.”22

In a note on the Kulwādis or Chalavādis of the Hassan district in Mysore, Captain J. S. F. Mackenzie writes23 as follows:—

“Every village has its Holigiri—as the quarters inhabited by the Holiars (formerly agrestic serfs) is called—outside the village boundary hedge. This, I thought, was because they are considered an impure race, whose touch carries defilement with it. Such is the reason generally given by the Brāhman, who refuses to receive anything directly from the hands of a Holiar, and yet the Brāhmans consider great luck will wait upon them if they can manage to pass through the Holigiri without being molested. To this the Holiars have a strong objection, and, should a Brāhman attempt to enter their quarters, they turn out in a body and slipper him, in former times it is said to death. Members of the other castes may come as far as the door, but they must not enter the house, for that would bring the Holiar bad luck. If, by chance, a person happens to get in, the owner takes care to tear the intruder’s cloth, tie up some salt in one corner of it, and turn him out. This is supposed to neutralise all the good luck which might have accrued to the trespasser, and avert any evil which might have befallen the owner of the house.”

The Telugu Tottiyans, who have settled in the Tamil country, are said by Mr F. R. Hemingway not to recognise the superiority of Brāhmans. They are supposed to possess unholy powers, especially the Nalla (black) Gollas, and are much dreaded by their neighbours. They do [29]not allow any stranger to enter their villages with shoes on, or on horseback, or holding up an umbrella, lest their god should be offended. It is believed that, if any one breaks this rule, he will be visited with illness or some other punishment.

I am informed by Mr S. P. Rice that, when smallpox breaks out in a Hindu house, it is a popular belief that to allow strangers or unclean persons to go into the house, to observe festivals, and even to permit persons who have combed their hair, bathed in oil, or had a shave, to see the patient, would arouse the anger of the goddess, and bring certain death to the sick person. Strangers, and young married women are not admitted to, and may not approach the house, as they may have had sexual intercourse on the previous day.

It is believed that the sight or breath of Muhammadans, just after they have said their prayers at a mosque, will do good to children suffering from various disorders. For this purpose, women carry or take their children, and post themselves at the entrance to a mosque at the time when worshippers leave it. Most of them are Hindus, but sometimes poor Eurasians may be seen there. I once received a pathetic appeal from a Eurasian woman in Malabar, imploring me to lay my hands on the head of her sick child, so that its life might be spared.

In teaching the Grāndha alphabet to children, they are made to repeat the letter “ca” twice quickly without pausing, as the word “ca” means “die.” In Malabar, the instruction of a Tiyan child in the alphabet is said by Mr F. Fawcett to begin on the last day of the Dasara festival in the fifth year of its life. A teacher, who has been selected with care, or a lucky person, holds the child’s right hand, and makes it trace the letters of the [30]Malayālam alphabet in rice spread on a plate. The forefinger, which is the one used in offering water to the souls of the dead, and in other parts of the death ceremonies, must not be used for tracing the letters, but is placed above the middle finger, merely to steady it. For the same reason, a doctor, when making a pill, will not use the forefinger. To mention the number seven in Telugu is unlucky, because the word (yēdu) is the same as that for weeping. Even a treasury officer, who is an enlightened university graduate, in counting money, will say six and one. The number seven is, for the same reason, considered unlucky by the Koravas, and a house-breaking expedition should not consist of seven men. Should this, however, be unavoidable, a fiction is indulged in of making the house-breaking implement the eighth member of the gang.24 In Tamil the word ten is considered inauspicious, because, on the tenth day after the death of her husband, a widow removes the emblems of married life. Probably for this reason, the offspring of Kallan polyandrous marriages style themselves the children of eight and two, not ten fathers. Lābha is a Sanskrit word meaning profit or gain, and has its equivalent in all the vernacular languages. Hindus, when counting, commence with this word instead of the word signifying one. In like manner, Muhammadans use the word Bismillah or Burketh, apparently as an invocation like the medicinal ℞ (Oh! Jupiter, aid us). When the number a hundred has been counted, they again begin with the substitute for one, and this serves as a one for the person who is keeping the tally. Oriya merchants say labho (gain) instead of eko (one), when counting out the seers of rice for the elephants’ rations. The people of the Oriya Zemindaris often use, not the year of the [31]Hindu cycle or Muhammadan era, but the year of the reigning Rāja of Puri. The first year of the reign is called, not one, but labho. The counting then proceeds in the ordinary course, but, with the exception of the number ten, all numbers ending with seven or nothing are omitted. This is called the onko. Thus, if a Rāja has reigned two and a half years, he would be said to be in the twenty-fifth onko, seven, seventeen and twenty being omitted.25 For chewing betel, two other ingredients are necessary, viz., areca nuts and chunam (lime). For some reason, Tamil Vaishnavas object to mentioning the last by name, and call it moonavadu, or the third.

At a Brāhman funeral, the sons and nephews of the deceased go round the corpse, and untie their kudumi (hair knot), leaving part thereof loose, tie up the rest into a small bunch, and slap their thighs. Consequently, when children at play have their kudumi partially tied, and slap their thighs, they are invariably scolded owing to the association with funerals. Among all Hindu classes it is considered as an insult to the god to bathe or wash the feet on returning home from worship at a temple, and, by so doing, the punyam (good) would be lost. Moreover, washing the feet at the entrance to a home is connected with funerals, inasmuch as, on the return from the burning-ground, a mourner may not enter the house until he has washed his feet. The Badagas of the Nīlgiris hold an agricultural festival called devvē, which should on no account be pronounced duvvē, which means burning-ground.

A bazaar shop-keeper who deals in colours will not sell white paint after the lamps have been lighted. In like manner, a cloth-dealer refuses to sell black cloth, [32]and the dealer in hardware to sell nails, needles, etc., lest poverty should ensue. Digging operations with a spade should be stopped before the lamps are lighted. A betel-vine cultivator objects to entering his garden or plucking a leaf after the lighting of the lamps; but, if some leaves are urgently required, he will, before plucking them, pour water from a pot at the foot of the tree on which the vine is growing.

Arrack (liquor) vendors consider it unlucky to set their measures upside down. Some time ago, the Excise Commissioner informs me, the Madras Excise Department had some aluminium measures made for measuring arrack in liquor shops. It was found that the arrack corroded the aluminium, and the measures soon leaked. The shop-keepers were told to turn their measures upside down, in order that they might drain. This they refused to do, as it would bring bad luck to their shops. New measures with round bottoms, which would not stand up, were evolved. But the shop-keepers began to use rings of indiarubber from soda-water bottles, to make them stand. An endeavour was then made to induce them to keep their measures inverted by hanging them on pegs, so that they would drain without being turned upside down. The case illustrates how important a knowledge of the superstitions of the people is in the administration of their affairs. Even so trifling an innovation as the introduction of a new arrangement for maintaining tension in the warp during the process of weaving gave rise a few years ago to a strike among the hand-loom weavers at the Madras School of Arts.

When a Paidi (agriculturists and weavers in Ganjam) is seriously ill, a male or female sorcerer (bejjo or bejjano) is consulted. A square divided into sixteen compartments is drawn on the floor with rice flour. In each compartment [33]are placed a leaf-cup of Butea frondosa, a quarter-anna piece, and some food. Seven small bows and arrows are set up in front thereof in two lines. On one side of the square, a big cup filled with food is placed. A fowl is sacrificed, and its blood poured thrice round this cup. Then, placing water in a vessel near the cup, the sorcerer or sorceress throws into it a grain of rice, giving out at the same time the name of some god or goddess. If the rice sinks, it is believed that the illness is caused by the anger of the deity, whose name has been mentioned. If the rice floats, the names of various deities are called out, until a grain sinks. When selecting a site for a new dwelling hut, the Māliah Savaras place on the proposed site as many grains of rice in pairs as there are married members in the family, and cover them over with a cocoanut shell. They are examined on the following day, and, if they are all there, the site is considered auspicious. Among the Kāpu Savaras, the grains of rice are folded up in leaflets of the bael tree (Ægle Marmelos), and placed in a split bamboo.

It is recorded by Gloyer26 that “when a Dōmb (Vizagapatam hill tribe) house has to be built, the first thing is to select a favourable spot, to which few evil spirits (dūmas) resort. At this spot they put, in several places, three grains of rice arranged in such a way that the two lower grains support the upper one. To protect the grains, they pile up stones round them, and the whole is lightly covered with earth. When, after some time, they find on inspection that the upper grain has fallen off, the spot is regarded as unlucky, and must not be used. If the position of the grains remains unchanged, the omen is regarded as auspicious. They drive in the first post, which must have a certain length, say of [34]five, seven, or nine ells, the ell being measured from the tip of the middle finger to the elbow. The post is covered on the top with rice straw, leaves, and shrubs, so that birds may not foul it, which would be an evil omen.”

In Madras, a story is current with reference to the statue of Sir Thomas Munro, that he seized upon all the rice depôts, and starved the people by selling rice in egg-shells, at one shell for a rupee. To punish him, the Government erected the statue in an open place without a canopy, so that the birds of the air might insult him by polluting his face. In the Bellary district, the names Munrol and Munrolappa are common, and are given in hope that the boy may attain the same celebrity as the former Governor of Madras. (I once came across a Telugu cultivator, who rejoiced in the name of Curzon). One of Sir Thomas Munro’s good qualities was that, like Rāma and Rob Roy, his arms reached to his knees, or, in other words, he possessed the quality of an Ajanubahu, which is the heritage of kings, or those who have blue blood in them.

In a case of dispute between two Koravas,27 “the decision is sometimes arrived at by means of an ordeal. An equal quantity of rice is placed in two pots of equal weight, having the same quantity of water, and there is an equal quantity of fire-wood. The judges satisfy themselves most carefully as to quantity, weights, and so on. The water is boiled, and the man whose rice boils first is declared to be the winner of the dispute. The loser has to recoup the winner all his expenses. It sometimes happens that both pots boil at the same time; then a coin is to be picked out of a pot containing boiling oil.”

At one of the religious ceremonies of the Koravas, offerings of boiled rice (pongal) are made to the deity, [35]Polēramma, by fasting women. The manner in which the boiling food bubbles over from the cooking-pot is eagerly watched, and accepted as an omen for good or evil. A festival called Pongal is observed by Hindus on the first day of the Tamil month Tai, and derives its name from the fact that rice boiled in milk is offered to propitiate the Sun God.

Before the ceremony of walking through fire28 (burning embers) at Nidugala on the Nīlgiris, the omens are taken by boiling two pots of milk, side by side, on two hearths. If the milk overflows uniformly on all sides, the crops will be abundant for all the villages. But, if it flows over on one side only, there will be plentiful crops for villages on that side only. For boiling the milk, a light obtained by friction must be used. After the milk-boiling ceremonial, the pūjāri (priest), tying bells on his legs, approaches the fire-pit, carrying milk freshly drawn from a cow, which has calved for the first time, and flowers of Rhododendron, Leucas, or jasmine. After doing pūja (worship), he throws the flowers on the embers, and they should remain unscorched for a few seconds. He then pours some of the milk over the embers, and no hissing sound should be produced. The omens being propitious, he walks over the glowing embers, followed by a Udaya29 and the crowd of celebrants, who, before going through the ordeal, count the hairs on their feet. If any are singed, it is a sign of approaching ill-fortune, or even death.

It is recorded by the Rev. J. Cain30 that, when the [36]Koyis of the Godaāvari district determine to appease the goddess of smallpox or cholera, they erect a pandal (booth) outside their village under a nīm tree (Melia Azadirachta). They make the image of a woman with earth from a white-ant hill, tie a cloth or two round it, hang a few peacock’s feathers round its neck, and place it under the pandal on a three-legged stool made from the wood of the silk-cotton tree (Cochlospermum Gossypium). They then bring forward a chicken, and try to persuade it to eat some of the grains which they have thrown before the image, requesting the goddess to inform them whether she will leave their village or not. If the chicken picks up some of the grains, they regard it as a most favourable omen; but, if not, their hearts are filled with dread of the continued anger of the goddess. At the Bhūdēvi Panduga, or festival of the earth goddess, according to Mr F. R. Hemingway, the Koyis set up a stone beneath a Terminalia tomentosa tree, which is thus dedicated to the goddess Kodalamma. Each worshipper brings a cock to the priest, who holds it over grains of rice, which have been sprinkled before the goddess. If the bird pecks at the rice, good luck is ensured for the coming year, whilst, if perchance the bird pecks three times, the offerer of that particular bird can scarcely contain himself for joy. If the bird declines to touch the grains, ill-luck is sure to visit the owner’s house during the ensuing year.

Concerning a boundary oath in the Mulkangiri tāluk of Vizagapatam, Mr C. A. Henderson writes to me as follows:—

“The pūjāri (priest) levelled a piece of ground about a foot square, and smeared it with cow-dung. The boundary was marked with rice-flour and turmeric, and a small heap of rice and cow-dung was left in the middle. A sword was laid across the heap. The pūjāri touched the rice-flour [37]line with the tips of his fingers, and then pressed his knuckles on the same place, thus leaving an exit on the south side. He then held a chicken over the central heap, and muttered some mantrams. The chicken pecked at the rice, and an egg was placed on the heap. The chicken then pecked at the rice again. The ceremony then waited for another party, who performed a similar ceremony. There was some amusement because their chickens would not eat. The chickens were decapitated, and their heads placed in the square. The eggs were then broken. It was raining, and there was a resulting puddle of cow-dung, chicken’s blood, egg, and rice, of which the representatives of each party took a portion, and eat it, or pretended to do so, stating to whom the land belonged. There is said to be a belief that, if a man swears falsely, he will die.”

Though not bearing on the subject of omens, some further boundary ceremonies may be placed under reference. At Sāttamangalam, in the South Arcot district, the festival of the goddess Māriamma is said to be crowned by the sacrifice at midnight of a goat, the entrails of which are hung round the neck of the Toti (scavenger), who then goes, stark naked, save for this one adornment, round all the village boundaries.31

It is recorded by Bishop Whitehead32 that, in some parts of the Tamil country, e.g., in the Trichinopoly district, at the ceremony for the propitiation of the village boundary goddess, a priest carries a pot containing boiled rice and the blood of a lamb which has been sacrificed to the boundary stone, round which he runs three times. The third time he throws the pot over his shoulder on to another smaller stone, which stands at the foot of the boundary stone. The pot is dashed to pieces, and [38]the rice and blood scatter over the two stones and all round them. The priest then goes away without looking back, followed by the crowd of villagers in dead silence. In the Cuddapah district, when there is a boundary dispute in a village, an image of the goddess Gangamma is placed in the street, and left there for two days. The head of a buffalo and several sheep are offered to her, and the blood is allowed to run into the gutter. The goddess is then worshipped, and she is implored to point out the correct boundary.33 In Mysore, if there is a dispute as to the village boundaries, the Holeya34 Kuluvādi is believed to be the only person competent to take the oath as to how the boundary ought to run. The old custom for settling such disputes is thus described by Captain J. S. F. Mackenzie:35

“The Kuluvādi, carrying on his head a ball made of the village earth, in the centre of which is placed some earth, passes along the boundary. If he has kept the proper line, everything goes well, but, should he, by accident even, go beyond his own proper boundary, then the ball of earth, of its own accord, goes to pieces. The Kuluvādi is said to die within fifteen days, and his house becomes a ruin. Such is the popular belief.”

Some years ago Mr H. D. Taylor was called on to settle a boundary dispute between two villages in Jeypore under the following circumstances. As the result of a panchāyat (council meeting), the men of one village had agreed to accept the boundary claimed by the other party if the head of their village walked round the boundary and eat earth at intervals, provided that no harm came to him within six months. The man accordingly perambulated [39]the boundary eating earth, and a conditional order of possession was given. Shortly afterwards the man’s cattle died, one of his children died of smallpox, and finally he himself died within three months. The other party then claimed the land on the ground that the earth-goddess had proved him to have perjured himself. It was urged in defence that the man had been made to eat earth at such frequent intervals that he contracted dysentery, and died from the effects of earth-eating.36

When the time for the annual festival of the tribal goddess of the Kuruvikkārans (Marāthi-speaking beggars) draws nigh, the headman or an elder piles up Vigna Catiang seeds in five small heaps. He then decides in his mind whether there is an odd or even number of seeds in the majority of heaps. If, when the seeds are counted, the result agrees with his forecast, it is taken as a sign of the approval of the goddess, and arrangements for the festival are made. Otherwise it is abandoned for the year.

At the annual festival of Chaudēswari, the tribal goddess of Dēvānga weavers, the priest tries to balance a long sword on its point on the edge of the mouth of a pot. A lime fruit is placed in the region of the navel of the idol, who should throw it down spontaneously. A bundle of betel leaves is cut across with a knife, and the cut ends should unite. If the omens are favourable, a lamp made of rice-flour is lighted, and pongal (boiled rice) offered to it.

It is recorded by Canter Visscher37 that, in the building of a house in Malabar, the carpenters open three or four cocoanuts, spilling the juice as little as possible, and put some tips of betel leaves into them. From the way these float on the liquid they foretell whether the house will [40]be lucky or unlucky, whether it will stand for a long or short period, and whether another will ever be erected on its site.

Korava women, if their husbands are absent on a criminal expedition long enough to arouse apprehension of danger, pull a long piece out of a broom, and tie to one end of it several small pieces dipped in oil. If the stick floats in water, all is well; but, should it sink, two of the women start at once to find the men.38

In the village of Chakibunda in the Cuddapah district, there is a pool of water at the foot of a hill. Those who are desirous of getting children, wealth, etc., go there and pour oil into the water. The oil is said not to float as is usual in greasy bubbles, but to sink and never rise. They also offer betel leaves, on which turmeric and kunkumam have been placed. If these leaves sink, and after some time reappear without the turmeric and kunkumam, but with the marks of nails upon them, the person offering them will gain his wishes. The contents of the leaves, and the oil, are supposed to be consumed by some divine being at the bottom of the pool.39 At Madicheruvu, in the Cuddapah district, there is a small waterfall in the midst of a jungle, which is visited annually by a large number of pilgrims. Those who are anxious to know if their sins are forgiven stand under the fall. If they are acceptable the water falls on their heads, but, if they have some great guilt weighing on them, the water swerves on one side, and refuses to be polluted by contact with the sinner.40

Among the Vādas (Telugu fishermen) the Mannāru is an important individual who not only performs worship, but is consulted on many points. If a man does not [41]secure good catches of fish, he goes to the Mannāru to ascertain the cause of his bad luck. The Mannāru holds in his hand a string on which a stone is tied, and invokes various gods and goddesses by name. Every time a name is mentioned, the stone either swings to and fro like a pendulum, or performs a circular movement. If the former occurs, it is a sign that the deity whose name has been pronounced is the cause of the misfortune, and must be propitiated in a suitable manner.

The Nomad Bauris or Bāwariyas, who commit robberies and manufacture counterfeit coin, keep with them a small quantity of wheat and sandal seeds in a tin or brass case, which they call dēvakadana or god’s grain, and a tuft of peacock’s feathers. They are very superstitious, and do not embark on any enterprise without first ascertaining by omens whether it will be attended with success or not. This they do by taking at random a small quantity of grains out of the dēvakadana, and counting the number thereof, the omen being considered good or bad according as the number is odd or even.41 A gang of Donga Dāsaris, before starting on a thieving expedition, proceed to the jungle near their village in the early part of the night, worship their favourite goddesses, Huligavva and Ellamma, and sacrifice a sheep or fowl before them. They place one of their turbans on the head of the animal as soon as its head falls on the ground. If the turban turns to the right it is considered a good sign, the goddess having permitted them to proceed on the expedition; if to the left they return home. Hanumān (the monkey god) is also consulted as to such expeditions. They go to a Hanumān temple, and, after worshipping him, garland him with a wreath of flowers. The garland hangs [42]on both sides of the neck. If any of the flowers on the right side drop down first, it is regarded as a permission granted by the god to start on a plundering expedition; and, conversely, an expedition is never undertaken if any flower happens to drop from the left side first.42 The Kallans are said by Mr F. S. Mullaly43 to consult the deity before starting on depredations. Two flowers, the one red and the other white, are placed before the idol, a symbol of their god Kalla Alagar. The white flower is the emblem of success. A child of tender years is told to pluck a petal of one of the two flowers, and the success of the undertaking rests upon the choice made by the child. The Pulluvan astrologers of Malabar sometimes calculate beforehand the result of a project in which they are engaged, by placing before the god two bouquets of flowers, one red, the other white, of which a child picks out one with its eyes closed. Selection of the white bouquet predicts auspicious results, of the red the reverse. In the same way, when the Kammālans (Tamil artisans) appoint their Anjivīttu Nāttāmaikkāran to preside over them, five men selected from each of the five divisions meet at the temple of the caste goddess, Kāmākshi Amman. The names of the five men are written on five slips of paper, which, together with some blank slips, are thrown before the shrine of the goddess. A child, taken at random from the assembled crowd, is made to pick up the slips, and he whose name turns up first is proclaimed Anjivīttu Nāttāmaikkāran.

Eclipses are regarded as precursors of evil, which must, if possible, be averted. Concerning the origin thereof, according to tradition in Malabar, Mr Gopal Panikkar writes as follows44:— [43]

“Tradition says that, when an eclipse takes place, Rāhu the huge serpent is devouring the sun or moon, as the case may be. An eclipse being thus the decease of one of those heavenly bodies, people must, of necessity, observe pollution for the period during which the eclipse lasts. When the monster spits out the body, the eclipse is over. Food and drink taken during an eclipse possess poisonous properties, and people therefore abstain from eating and drinking until the eclipse is over. They bathe at the end of the eclipse, so as to get rid of the pollution. Any one shutting himself up from exposure may be exempted from this obligation to take a bath.”

Deaths from drowning are not unknown in Madras at times of eclipse, when Hindus bathe in the sea, and get washed away by the surf. It is said45 that, before an eclipse, the people prepare their drums, etc., to frighten the giant, lest he should eat up the moon entirely. Images of snakes are offered to the deity on days of eclipse by Brāhmans on whose star day the eclipse falls, to appease the wrath of the terrible Rāhu. It is noted by Mr S. M. Natesa Sastri46 that “the eclipse must take place on some asterism or other, and, if that asterism happens to be that in which any Hindu was born, he has to perform some special ceremonies to absolve himself from impending evil. He makes a plate of gold or silver, or of palm leaf, according to his means, and ties it on his forehead with Sanskrit verses inscribed on it. He sits with this plate for some time, performs certain ceremonies, bathes with the plate untied, and presents it to a Brāhman with some fee, ranging from four annas to several thousands of rupees. The belief that an eclipse is a calamity to the sun or moon is such a strong Hindu belief, that no [44]marriage takes place in the month in which an eclipse falls.”

I gather47 that, “during an eclipse, many of the people retire into their houses, and remain behind closed doors until the evil hour has passed. The time is in all respects inauspicious, and no work begun or completed during this period can meet with success; indeed, so great is the dread, that no one would think of initiating any important work at this time. More especially is it fatal to women who are pregnant, for the evil will fall upon the unborn babe, and, in cases of serious malformation or congenital lameness, the cause is said to be that the mother looked on an eclipse. Women, therefore, not only retire into the house, but, in order that they may be further protected from the evil, they burn horn shavings. The evils of an eclipse are not limited to human beings, but cattle and crops also need protection from the malignant spirits which are supposed to be abroad. In order that the cattle may be preserved, they are as far as possible taken indoors, and especially those which have young calves; and, to make assurance doubly sure, their horns are smeared with chunam (lime). The crops are protected by procuring ashes from the potter’s field, which seem to be specially potent against evil spirits. With these ashes images are made, and placed on the four sides of the field. Comets, too, are looked upon as omens of evil.”

When a person is about to occupy a new house, he takes particular care to see that the planet Venus does not face him as he enters it. With this star before him, he sometimes postpones the occupation, or, if he is obliged to enter, he reluctantly does so through the back-door.

On the day of the capture of Seringaptam, which, being the last day of a lunar month, was inauspicious, [45]the astrologer repeated the unfavourable omen to Tīpu Sultān, who was slain in the course of the battle. It is recorded48 that “to different Bramins he gave a black buffalo, a milch buffalo, a male buffalo, a black she-goat, a jacket of coarse black cloth, a cap of the same material, ninety rupees, and an iron pot filled with oil; and, previous to the delivery of this last article, he held his head over the pot for the purpose of seeing the image of his face; a ceremony used in Hindostan to avert misfortune.”

The time at which the address of welcome by the Madras Municipal Corporation to Sir Arthur Lawley on his taking over the Governorship of Madras was changed from 12–30 P.M. to 1 P.M. on a Wednesday, as the time originally fixed fell within the period of Rahukālam, which is an inauspicious hour on that day.

It is considered by a Hindu unlucky to get shaved for ceremonial purposes in the months of Ādi, Purattāsi, Margali, and Māsi, and, in the remaining months, Sunday, Tuesday, and Saturday should be avoided. Further, the star under which a man was born has to be taken into consideration, and it may happen that an auspicious day for being shaved does not occur for some weeks. It is on this account that orthodox Hindus are sometimes compelled to go about with unkempt chins. Even for anointing the body, auspicious and inauspicious days are prescribed. Thus, anointing on Sunday causes loss of beauty, on Monday brings increase of riches, and on Thursday loss of intellect. If a person is obliged to anoint himself on Sunday, he should put a bit of the root of oleander (Nerium) in the oil, and heat it before applying it. This is supposed to avert the evil influences. Similarly on Tuesday dry earth, on Thursday roots of Cynodou Dactylon, and on Friday ashes must be used. [46]

It is considered auspicious if a girl attains puberty on a Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, and the omens vary according to the month in which the first menstrual period occurs. Thus the month of Vaiyāsi ensures prosperity, Āni male issue, Māsi happiness, Margali well-behaved children, Punguni long life and many children. At the first menstrual ceremony of a Tiyan girl in Malabar, her aunt, or, if she is married, her husband’s sister, pours gingelly (Sesamum) oil over her head, on the top of which a gold fanam (coin) has been placed. The oil is poured from a little cup made from a leaf of the jak tree (Artocarpus integrifolia), flows over the forehead, and is received with the fanam in a dish. It is a good omen if the coin falls with the obverse upwards.

If a Brāhman woman loses her tāli (marriage badge), it is regarded as a bad omen for her husband. As a Dēva-dāsi (dancing-girl) can never become a widow, the beads in her tāli are considered to bring good luck to those who wear them. And some people send the tāli required for a marriage to a Dēva-dāsi, who prepares the string for it, and attaches to it black beads from her own tāli. A Dēva-dāsi is also deputed to walk at the head of Hindu marriage processions. Married women do not like to do this, as they are not proof against evil omens, which the procession may come across, and it is believed that Dēva-dāsis, to whom widowhood is unknown, possess the power of warding off the effects of unlucky omens. It may be remarked, en passant, that Dēva-dāsis are not at the present day so much patronised at Hindu marriages as in former days. Much is due in this direction to the progress of enlightened ideas, which have of late been strongly put forward by Hindu social reformers. General Burton narrates49 how a civilian of the old school built a house at [47]Bhavāni, and established a corps de ballet, i.e., a set of nautch girls, whose accomplishments extended to singing God Save the King, and this was kept up by their descendants, so that, when he visited the place in 1852, he was “greeted by the whole party, bedizened in all their finery, and squalling the National Anthem.” With this may be contrasted a circular from a modern European official, which states that “during my jamabandy (land revenue settlement) tour, people have sometimes been kind enough to arrange singing or dancing parties, and, as it would have been discourteous to decline to attend what had cost money to arrange, I have accepted the compliment in the spirit in which it was offered. I should, however, be glad if you would let it be generally known that I am entirely in accord with what is known as the anti-nautch movement in regard to such performances.”

It was unanimously decided, in 1905, by the Executive Committee of the Prince and Princess of Wales’ reception committee, that there should be no performance by nautch girls at the entertainment to their Royal Highnesses at Madras.

The marriage ceremonies of Ārē Dammaras (Marāthi-speaking acrobats) are supervised by an old Basavi woman, and the marriage badge is tied round the bride’s neck by a Basavi (public woman dedicated to the deity).

When a marriage is contemplated among the Idaiyans (Tamil shepherds) of Coimbatore, the parents of the prospective bride and bridegroom go to the temple, and throw before the idol a red and white flower, each wrapped in a betel leaf. A small child is then told to pick up one of the leaves. If the one selected contains the white flower, it is considered auspicious, and the marriage will be contracted. The Dēvānga weavers, before settling the marriage of a girl, consult some village goddess or the [48]tribal goddess Chaudēswari, and watch the omens. A lizard chirping on the right is good, and on the left bad. Sometimes, red and white flowers wrapped in green leaves are thrown in front of the idol, and the omen is considered good or bad, according to the flower which a child picks up. Among the hill Urālis of Coimbatore, a flower is placed on the top of a stone or figure representing the tribal goddess, and, after worship, it is addressed in the words: “Oh! swāmil (goddess), drop the flower to the right if the marriage is going to be propitious, and to the left if otherwise.” Should the flower remain on the image without falling either way, it is greeted as a very happy omen. When a marriage is in contemplation among the Agamudaiyans (Tamil cultivators), some close relations of the young man proceed to some distance northward, and wait for omens. If these are auspicious, they are satisfied. Some, instead of so doing, go to a temple, and seek the omens either by placing flowers on the idol, and watching the directions in which they fall, or by picking up a flower from a large number strewn in front of the idol. If the flower picked up, and the one thought of, are of the same colour, it is regarded as a good omen. Among the Gudigāras (wood-carvers) of South Canara, the parents of the couple go to a temple, and receive from the priest some flowers which have been used in worship. These are counted, and, if their number is even, the match is arranged. At a marriage among the Malaiālis of the Kollaimalai hills, the garlands with which the bridal couple are adorned, are thrown into a well after the tāli has been tied on the bride’s neck. If they float together, it is an omen that the two will love each other.

Among the Telugu Janappans (gunny-bag makers), on the day fixed for the betrothal, those assembled wait silently listening for the chirping of a lizard, which is [49]an auspicious sign. It is said that the match is broken off if the chirping is not heard. If the omen proves auspicious, a small bundle of nine to twelve kinds of pulses and grain is given by the bridegroom’s father to the father of the bride. This is preserved, and examined several days after the marriage. If the pulses and grain are in good condition, it is a sign that the newly married couple will have a prosperous career. During the marriage ceremonies of the Muhammadan Daknis or Deccanis, two big pots, filled with water, are placed near the milk-post. They are kept for forty days, and then examined. If the water remains sweet, and does not “teem with vermin,” it is regarded as a good omen. The seed grains, too, which, as among many Hindu castes, were sown at the time of the wedding, should by this time have developed into healthy seedlings. At a Rona (Oriya cultivator) wedding, the Dēsāri who officiates ties to the ends of the cloths of the bridal couple a new cloth, to which a quarter-anna piece is attached, betel leaves and areca nuts, and seven grains of rice. Towards the close of the marriage rites on the third day, the rice is examined, to see if it is in a good state of preservation, and its condition is regarded as an omen for good or evil.

On the occasion of a wedding among the Badagas of the Nīlgiris, a procession goes before dawn on the marriage day to the forest, where two sticks of Mimusops hexandra are collected, to do duty as the milk-posts. The early hour is selected, to avoid the chance of coming across inauspicious objects. At the close of the Agamudaiyan marriage ceremonies, the twig of Erythrina indica or Odina wodier, of which the milk-post was made, is planted. If it takes root and grows, it is regarded as a favourable omen. At a Palli (Tamil cultivator) wedding [50]two lamps, called kuda vilakku (pot light) and alankara vilakku (ornamental light), are placed by the side of the milk-post. The former consists of a lighted wick in an earthenware tray placed on a pot. It is considered an unlucky omen if it goes out before the conclusion of the ceremonial.

Prior to the betrothal ceremony of the Kammas (Telugu cultivators), a near relation of the future bridegroom proceeds with a party to the home of the future bride. On the way thither, they look for omens, such as the crossing of birds in an auspicious direction. Immediately on the occurrence of a favourable omen, they burn camphor, and break a cocoanut, which must split in two with clean edges. One half is sent to the would-be bridegroom, and the other taken to the bride’s house. When this is reached, she demands the sagunam (omen) cocoanut. If the first cocoanut does not split properly, others are broken till the desired result is obtained.

In the Telugu country, the services of a member of the Bōya caste are required if a Brāhman wishes to perform Vontigadu, a ceremony by which he hopes to induce favourable auspices, under which to celebrate a marriage. The story has it that Vontigadu was a destitute Bōya, who died of starvation. On the morning of the day on which the ceremony, for which favourable auspices are required, is performed, a Bōya is invited to the house. He is given a present of gingelly (Sesamum) oil, wherewith to anoint himself. This done, he returns, carrying in his hand a dagger, on the point of which a lime has been stuck. He is directed to the cowshed, and there given a good meal. After finishing the meal, he steals from the shed, and dashes out of the house, uttering a piercing yell, and waving his dagger. He on no account looks behind him. The inmates of the [51]house follow for some distance, throwing water wherever he has trodden. By this means, all possible evil omens for the coming ceremony are done away with.

A curious mock marriage ceremony is celebrated among Brāhmans, when an individual marries a third wife. It is believed that a third marriage is very inauspicious, and that the bride will become a widow. To prevent this mishap, the man is made to marry the arka plant (Calotropis gigantea), which grows luxuriantly in wastelands, and the real marriage thus becomes the fourth. The bridegroom, accompanied by a Brāhman priest and another Brāhman, repairs to a spot where this plant is growing. It is decorated with a cloth and a piece of string, and symbolised into the sun. All the ceremonies, such as making hōmam (sacred fire), tying the tāli (marriage badge), etc., are performed as at a regular marriage, and the plant is cut down. On rathasapthami day, an orthodox Hindu should bathe his head and shoulders with arka leaves in propitiation of Surya (the sun). The leaves are also used during the worship of ancestors by some Brāhmans. Among the Tangalān Paraiyans, if a young man dies before he is married, a ceremony called kannikazhital (removing bachelorhood) is performed. Before the corpse is laid on the bier, a garland of arka flowers is placed round its neck, and balls of mud from a gutter are laid on the head, knees, and other parts of the body. In some places, a variant of the ceremony consists in the erection of a mimic marriage booth, which is covered with leaves of the arka plant, flowers of which are placed round the neck as a garland. Adulterers were, in former times, seated on a donkey, with their face to the tail, and marched through the village. The public disgrace was enhanced by placing a garland of the despised arka leaves on their head. [52]Uppiliyan women convicted of immorality are said to be garlanded with arka flowers, and made to carry a basket of mud round the village. A Konga Vellāla man, who has been found guilty of undue intimacy with a widow, is readmitted to the caste by being taken to the village common, where he is beaten with an arka stick, and by providing a black sheep for a feast. When a Kuruvikkāran man has to submit to trial by ordeal, seven arka leaves are tied to his palms, and a piece of red-hot iron is placed thereon. His innocence is established, if he is able to carry it while he takes seven long strides. The juice of the arka plant is a favourite agent in the hands of suicides.

At a Brāhman wedding the bridegroom takes a blade of the sacred dharba grass, passes it between the eyebrows of the bride and throws it away saying, “With this grass I remove the influence of any bad mark thou mayest possess, which is likely to cause widowhood.”

There is a Tamil proverb relating to the selection of a wife, to the effect that curly hair gives food, thick hair brings milk, and very stiff hair destroys a family. As a preliminary to marriage among the Kurubas (Canarese shepherds), the bridegroom’s father observes certain curls (suli) on the head of the proposed bride. Some of these are believed to forebode prosperity, and others misery to the family into which the girl enters by marriage. They are, therefore, very cautious in selecting only such girls as possess curls of good fortune. One of the good curls is the bāshingam on the forehead, and bad ones are the pēyanākallu at the back of the head, and the edirsuli near the right temple.50 By the Pallis (Tamil cultivators) a curl on the forehead is considered as an indication that the girl will become a widow, and one [53]on the back of the head portends the death of the eldest brother of her husband. By the Tamil Maravans, a curl on the forehead resembling the head of a snake is regarded as an evil omen.

A woman, pregnant for the first time, should not see a temple car adorned with figures of a lion, or look at it when it is being dragged along with the image of the god seated in it. If she does, the tradition is that she will give birth to a monster.

In some places, before a woman is confined, the room in which her confinement is to take place is smeared with cow-dung, and, in the room at the outer gate, small wet cow-dung cakes are stuck on the wall, and covered with margosa (Melia Azadirachta) leaves and cotton seeds. These are supposed to have a great power in averting evil spirits, and preventing harm to the newly-born babe or the lying-in woman.51 In the Telugu country, it is the custom among some castes, e.g., the Kāpus and Gamallas, to place twigs of Balanites Roxburghii or Calotropis gigantea (arka) on the floor or in the roof of the lying-in chamber. Sometimes a garland of old shoes is hung up on the door-post of the chamber. A fire is kindled, into which pieces of old leather, hair, nails, horns, hoofs, and bones of animals are thrown, in the belief that the smoke arising therefrom will protect the mother and child against evil spirits. Among some classes, when a woman is pregnant, her female friends assemble, pile up before her door a quantity of rice-husk, and set fire to it. To one door-post they tie an old shoe, and to the other a bunch of tulsi (Ocimum sanctum), in order to prevent the entry of any demon. A bitch is brought in, painted, and marked in the way that the women daily mark their own foreheads. Incense is burnt, and an [54]oblation placed before it. The woman then makes obeisance to it, and makes a meal of curry and rice, on which cakes are placed. If there is present any woman who has not been blessed with children, she seizes some of the cakes, in the hope that, by so doing, she may ere long have a child.52 In some places, when a woman is in labour, her relations keep on measuring out rice into a measure close to the lying-in room, in the belief that delivery will be accelerated thereby. Sometimes a gun is fired off in an adjacent room with the same object, and I have heard of a peon (orderly), whose wife was in labour, borrowing his master’s gun, to expedite matters.

Some Hindus in Madras believe that it would be unlucky for a newly-married couple to visit the museum, as their offspring would be deformed as the result of the mother having gazed on the skeletons and stuffed animals.

Twins are sometimes objects of superstition, especially if they are of different sexes, and the male is born first. The occurrence of such an event is regarded as foreboding misfortune, which can only be warded off by marrying the twins to one another, and leaving them to their fate in the jungle. Cases of this kind have, however, it is said, not been heard of within recent times.

There is a proverb that a child born with the umbilical cord round the body will be a curse to the caste. If a child is born with the cord round its neck like a garland, it is believed to be inauspicious for its uncle, who is not allowed to see it for ten days, or even longer, and then a propitiatory ceremony has to be performed. By the Koravas the birth of a child with the cord round its neck is believed to portend the death of the father or maternal uncle. This unpleasant effect is warded off by [55]the father or the uncle killing a fowl, and wearing its entrails round his neck, and afterwards burying them along with the cord. In other castes it is believed that a child born with the cord round its neck will be a curse to its maternal uncle, unless a gold or silver string is placed on the body, and the uncle sees its image reflected in a vessel of oil. If the cord is entwined across the breast, and passes under the armpit, it is believed to be an unlucky omen for the father and paternal uncle. In such cases, some special ceremony, such as looking into a vessel of oil, is performed. I am informed by the Rev. S. Nicholson that, if a Māla (Telugu Pariah) child is born with the cord round its neck, a cocoanut is immediately offered. If the child survives, a cock is offered to the gods on the day on which the mother takes her first bath. When the cord is cut, a coin is placed over the navel for luck. The dried cord is highly prized as a remedy for sterility. The placenta is placed by the Mālas in a pot, in which are nīm (Melia Azadirachta) leaves, and the whole is buried in some convenient place, generally the backyard. If this was not done, dogs or other animals might carry off the placenta, and the child would be of a wandering disposition.

The birth of a Korava child on a new moon night is believed to augur a notorious thieving future for the infant. Such children are commonly named Venkatigādu after the god at Tirupati.53 The birth of a male child on the day in which the constellation Rohini is visible portends evil to the maternal uncle; and a female born under the constellation Moolam is supposed to carry misery with her to the house which she enters by marriage.

Dōmb children in Vizagapatam are supposed to be [56]born without souls, and to be subsequently chosen as an abode by the soul of an ancestor. The coming of the ancestor is signalised by the child dropping a chicken bone which has been thrust into its hand, and much rejoicing follows among the assembled relations.

By some Valaiyans (Tamil cultivators), the naming of infants is performed at the Aiyanar temple by any one who is under the influence of inspiration. Failing such a one, several flowers, each with a name attached to it, are thrown in front of the idol. A boy, or the priest, picks up one of the flowers, and the infant receives the name which is connected with it. In connection with the birth ceremonies of the Koyis of the Godāvari district, the Rev. J. Cain writes54 that, on the seventh day, the near relatives and neighbours assemble together to name the child. Having placed it on a cot, they put a leaf of the mowha tree (Bassia) in its hand, and pronounce some name which they think suitable. If the child closes its hand over the leaf, it is regarded as a sign that it acquiesces, but, if the child rejects the leaf or cries, they take it as a sign that they must choose another name, and so throw away the leaf, and substitute another leaf and name, until the child shows its approbation.

It is noted,55 in connection with the death ceremonies of the Kondhs, that, if a man has been killed by a tiger, purification is made by the sacrifice of a pig, the head of which is cut off with a tangi (axe) by a Pāno, and passed between the legs of the men in the village, who stand in a line astraddle. It is a bad omen to him, if the head touches any man’s legs. According to another account, the head of the decapitated pig is placed in a [57]stream, and, as it floats down, it has to pass between the legs of the villagers. If it touches the legs of any of them, it forebodes that he will be killed by a tiger.

The sight of a cat, on getting out of bed, is extremely unlucky, and he who sees one will fail in all his undertakings during the day. “I faced the cat this morning,” or “Did you see a cat this morning?” are common sayings when one fails in anything. The Paraiyans are said to be very particular about omens, and, if, when a Paraiyan sets out to arrange a marriage with a certain girl, a cat or a valiyan (a bird) crosses his path, he will give up the girl. I have heard of a superstitious European police officer, who would not start in search of a criminal, because he came across a cat.

House dogs should, if they are to bring good luck, possess more than eighteen visible claws. If a dog scratches the wall of a house, it will be broken into by thieves; and, if it makes a hole in the ground within a cattle-shed, the cattle will be stolen. A dog approaching a person with a bit of shoe-leather augurs success; with flesh, gain; with a meaty bone, good luck; with a dry bone, death. If a dog enters a house with wire or thread in its mouth, the master of the house must expect to be put in prison. A dog barking on the roof of a house during the dry weather portends an epidemic, and in the wet season a heavy fall of rain. There is a proverb “Like a dying dog climbing the roof,” which is said of a person who is approaching his ruin. The omen also signifies the death of several members of the family, so the dog’s ears and tail are cut off, and rice is steeped in the blood. A goat which has climbed on to the roof is treated in like manner, dragged round the house, or slaughtered. At the conclusion of the first menstrual ceremony of a Kāppiliyan (Canarese farmer) girl, some [58]food is placed near the entrance to the house, which a dog is allowed to eat. While so doing, it receives a severe beating. The more noise it makes, the better is the omen for the girl having a large family. If the animal does not howl, it is supposed that the girl will bear no children.

The sight of a jackal is very lucky to one proceeding on an errand. Its cry to the east and north of a village foretells something good for the villagers, whereas the cry at midday means an impending calamity. If a jackal cries towards the south in answer to the call of another jackal, some one will be hung; and, if it cries towards the west, some one will be drowned. A bachelor who sees a jackal running may expect to be married shortly. If the offspring of a primipara dies, it is sometimes buried in a place where jackals can get at it. It is believed that, if a jackal does not make a sumptuous meal off the corpse, the woman will not be blessed with more children. The corpses of the Koramas of Mysore are buried in a shallow grave, and a pot of water is placed on the mound raised over it. Should the spot be visited during the night by a pack of jackals, and the water drunk by them to slake their thirst after feasting on the dead body, the omen is accepted as a proof that the liberated spirit has fled to the realms of the dead, and will never trouble man, woman, child, or cattle.

When a person rises in the morning, he should not face or see a cow’s head, but should see its hinder parts. This is in consequence of a legend that a cow killed a Brāhman by goring him with its horns. In some temples, a cow is made to stand in front of the building with its tail towards it, so that any one entering may see its face. It is said that, if a cow voids urine at the time of purchase, it is considered a very good omen, but, if she [59]passes dung, a bad omen. The hill Kondhs will not cut the crops with a sickle having a serrated edge, such as is used by the Oriyas, but use a straight-edged knife. The crops, after they have been cut, are threshed by hand, and not with the aid of cattle. The serrated sickle is not used, because it produces a sound like that of cattle grazing, which would be unpropitious. If cattle were used in threshing the crop, it is believed that the earth-god would feel insulted by the dung and urine of the animals.

A timber merchant at Calicut in Malabar is said to have spent more than a thousand rupees in propitiating the spirit of a deceased Brāhman under the following circumstances. He had built a new house, and, on the morning after the kutti pūja (house-warming) ceremony, his wife and children were coming to occupy it. Just as they were entering the grounds, a cow ran against one of the children, and knocked it down. This augured evil, and, in a few days, the child was attacked by smallpox. One child after another caught the disease, and at last the man’s wife also contracted it. They all recovered, but the wife was laid up with some uterine disorder. An astrologer was sent for, and said that the site on which the house was built was once the property of a Brāhman, whose spirit still haunted it, and must be appeased. Expensive ceremonies were performed by Brāhmans for a fortnight. The house was sold to a Brāhman priest for a nominal price. A gold image of the deceased Brāhman was made, and, after the purification ceremonies had been carried out, taken to the sacred shrine at Rāmēsvaram, where arrangements were made to have daily worship performed to it. The house, in its purified state, was sold back by the Brāhman priest. The merchant’s wife travelled by train to Madras, to [60]undergo treatment at the Maternity Hospital. The astrologer predicted that the displeasure of the spirit would be exhibited on the way by the breaking of dishes and by furniture catching fire—a strange prediction, because the bed on which the woman was lying caught fire by a spark from the engine. After the spirit had been thus propitiated, there was peace in the house.

It is noted56 that, in the middle of the threshold of nearly all the gateways of the ruined fortifications round the Bellary villages may be noticed a roughly carved cylindrical or conical stone, something like a lingam. This is the boddu-rāyi, literally the navel-stone, and so the middle stone. It was planted there when the fort was first built, and is affectionately regarded as being the boundary of the village site. Once a year, in May, just before the sowing season commences, a ceremony takes place in connection with it. Reverence is first made to the bullocks of the village, and in the evening they are driven through the gateway past the boddu-rāyi, with tom-toms, flutes, and other kinds of music. The Barike (village servant) next does pūja (worship) to the stone, and then a string of mango leaves is tied across the gateway above it. The villagers now form sides, one party trying to drive the bullocks through the gate, and the other trying to keep them out. The greatest uproar and confusion naturally follow, and, in the midst of the turmoil, some bullock or other eventually breaks through the guardians of the gate, and gains the village. If that first bullock is a red one, the red grains on the red soil will flourish in the coming season. If he is white, white crops, such as cotton and white cholam, will prosper. If he is red and white, both kinds will do well. [61]

Various Oriya castes worship the goddess Lakshmi on Thursdays, in the month of November, which are called Lakshmi varam, or Lakshmi’s day. The goddess is represented by a basket filled with grain, whereon some place a hair-ball which has been vomited by a cow. The ball is called gāya panghula, and is usually one or two inches in diameter. The owner of a cow which has vomited such a ball, regards it as a propitious augury for the prosperity of his family. A feast is held on the day on which the ball is vomited, and, after the ball has been worshipped, it is carefully wrapped up, and kept in a box, in which it remains till it is required for further worship. Some people believe that the ball continues to grow year by year, and regard this as a very good sign. Bulls are said not to vomit the balls, and only very few cows do so.

“Throughout India,” Mr J. D. E. Holmes writes,57 “but more especially in the Southern Presidency, among the native population, the value of a horse or ox principally depends on the existence and situation of certain hair-marks on the body of the animal. These hair-marks are formed by the changes in the direction in which the hair grows at certain places, and, according to their shape, are called a crown, ridge, or feather mark. The relative position of these marks is supposed to indicate that the animal will bring good luck to the owner and his relatives. There is a saying that a man may face a rifle and escape, but he cannot avoid the luck, good or evil, foretold by hair-marks. So much are the people influenced by these omens that they seldom keep an animal with unlucky marks, and would not allow their mares to be covered by a stallion having unpropitious marks.”

It is recorded by Bishop Whitehead58 that “we went to see the Mahārāja (of Mysore) at his stables, and [62]he showed us his fine stud of horses. Among them was the State horse, which is only used for religious ceremonies, and is ridden only by the Mahārāja himself. It is pure white, without spot or blemish, and has the five lucky marks. This horse came from Kathiawar, and is now about twenty years old. The Mahārāja is trying to get another, to replace it when it dies. But it is not easy to get one with the unusual points required.”

Two deaths occurring in a family in quick succession, were once believed to be the result of keeping an unlucky horse in the stable. I have heard of a Eurasian police officer, who attributed the theft of five hundred rupees, his official transfer to an unhealthy district, and other strokes of bad luck, to the purchase of a horse with unlucky curls. All went well after he had got rid of the animal.

From a recent note on beliefs about the bull,59 I gather that “Manu enjoins a grihasta or householder to always travel with beasts which are well broken in, swift, endowed with lucky marks, and perfect in colour and form, without urging them much with the goad. Marks are accounted lucky if they appear in certain forms, and at certain spots. One of these marks is usually known as sudi in Telugu, and suli in Tamil. A sudi is nothing but a whorl or circlet of hair, a properly formed sudi being perfectly round in form, and nearly resembling the sudivalu, the chakrayudha of Vishnu, which is a short circular weapon commonly known as the discus of Vishnu. Every ox should have at least two of these circlets or twists of hair, one on the face, and one on the back, right about its centre. Two curls may occur on the face, but they should not be one above the other, in which case they are known [63]as kodē mel kodē, or umbrella above umbrella. The purchaser of such a bull, it is believed, will soon have some mishap in his house. Some, however, hold that this curl is not really so bad as it is supposed to be. If the curls are side by side, they are accounted lucky. In that case they are known as damāra suli, or double kettle-drum circlet, from the kettle-drums placed on either side of Brāhmani bulls in temple processions. It is sometimes known as the kalyāna (marriage) suli, because such a kettle-drum is often used in marriage processions. A curl on the hump is held to be a very good one, bringing prosperity to the purchaser. It is known as the kirita suli, or the crown circlet. The dewlaps should have a curl on either side, or none. A curl on only one side is described as not lucky. On the back of the animal, a curl must be perfectly round. If it is elongated, and stretches on one side, it is known as the pādai suli, or the bier circlet. Kattiri suli, or the scissor circlet, is found usually in the region of the belly, and is an unlucky sign. On the body is sometimes found the pūrān suli, the circlet named after the centipede from its supposed resemblance to it. On the legs is often found the velangu suli, or chain circlet, from its being like a chain bound round the legs. Both these are said to be bad marks, and bulls having them are invariably hard to sell. Attempts at erasure of unlucky marks are frequently noticed, for the reason that an animal with a bad mark is scarcely, if ever, sold to advantage. One of the most common and most effective ways of erasing an unlucky mark is to brand it pretty deep, so that the hair disappears, and the curl is no more observable. Animals so branded are regarded with considerable suspicion, and it is often difficult to secure purchasers for them.” [64]

The following are some of the marks on horses and cattle recorded by Mr Holmes:60—

(a) Horses

1. Deobund (having control over evil spirits), also termed dēvuman or dēvumani, said by Muhammadans to represent the Prophet’s finger, and by Hindus to represent a temple bell. This mark is a ridge, one to three inches long, situated between the throat and counter along the line of the trachea. It is the most lucky mark a horse can possess. It is compared to the sun, and, therefore, when it is present, none of the evil stars can shine, and all unlucky omens are overruled.

2. Khorta-gad (peg-driver), or khila-gad, is a ridge of hair directed downwards on one or both hind-legs. It is said that no horse in the stable will be sold, so long as a horse with this mark is kept.

3. Badi (fetter), a ridge of hair directed upwards on one or both forearms on the outer side, and said to indicate that the owner of the animal will be sent to jail.

4. Thanni (teat). Teat-like projections on the sheath of the male are considered unlucky.

(b) Cattle

5. Bhashicam suli is a crown on the forehead above the line of the eyes, named after the chaplet worn by bride and bridegroom during the marriage ceremony. If the purchaser be a bachelor or widower, this mark indicates that he will marry soon. If the purchaser be a married man, he will either have the misfortune to [65]lose his wife and marry again, or the good fortune to obtain two wives.

6. Mukkanti suli. Three crowns on the forehead, arranged in the form of a triangle, said to represent the three eyes of Siva, of which the one on the forehead will, if opened, burn up all things within the range of vision.

7. Pādai suli. Two ridges of hair on the back on either side of the middle line, indicating that the purchaser will soon need a coffin.

8. Tattu suli. A crown situated on the back between the points of the hips, indicating that any business undertaken by the purchaser will fail.

9. A bullock with numerous spots over the body, like a deer, is considered very lucky.

The following quaint omen is recorded by Bishop Whitehead.61 At a certain village, when a pig is sacrificed to the village goddess Angalamman, its neck is first cut slightly, and the blood allowed to flow on to some boiled rice placed on a plantain leaf, and then the rice soaked in its own blood is given to the pig to eat. If the pig eats it, the omen is good, if not, the omen is bad; but, in any case, the pig has its head cut off by the pūjāri (priest).

If a Brāhmani kite (Haliastur indus), when flying, is seen carrying something in its beak, the omen is considered very auspicious. The sight of this bird on a Sunday morning is also auspicious, so, on this day, people may be seen throwing pieces of mutton or lumps of butter to it.62

If an owl takes refuge in a house, the building is at once deserted, the doors are closed, and the house is [66]not occupied for six months, when an expiatory sacrifice must be performed. Brāhmans are fed, and the house can only be re-entered after the proper hour has been fixed upon. This superstition only refers to a thatched house; a terraced house need not be vacated.63 Ill-luck will follow, should an owl sit on the housetop, or perch on the bough of a tree near the house. One screech forebodes death; two screeches forebode success in any approaching undertaking; three, the addition of a girl to the family by marriage; four, a disturbance; five, that the hearer will travel. Six screeches foretell the coming of guests; seven, mental distress; eight, sudden death; and nine signify favourable results. A species of owl, called pullu, is a highly dreaded bird. It is supposed to cause all kinds of illness to children, resulting in emaciation. At the sound of the screeching, children are taken into a room, to avoid its furtive and injurious gaze. Various propitiatory ceremonies are performed by specialists to secure its good-will. Amulets are worn by children as a preventive against its evil influences. To warn off the unwelcome intruder, broken pots, painted with black and white dots, are set up on housetops. In the Bellary district, the flat roofs of many houses may be seen decked with rags, fluttering from sticks, piles of broken pots, and so forth. These are to scare away owls, which, it is said, sometimes vomit up blood, and sometimes milk. If they sit on a house and bring up blood, it is bad for the inmates; if milk, good. But the risk of the vomit turning out to be blood is apparently more feared than the off chance of its proving to be milk is hoped for, and it is thought best to be on the safe side, and keep the owl at a distance.64 The Kondhs [67]believe that, if an owl hoots over the roof of a house, or on a tree close thereto, a death will occur in the family at an early date. If the bird hoots close to a village, but outside it, the death of one of the villagers will follow. For this reason, it is pelted with stones, and driven off. The waist-belt of a Koraga, whom I saw at Udipi in South Canara, was made of owl bones.

Should a crow come near the house, and caw in its usual rapid raucous tones, it means that calamity is impending. But, should the bird indulge in its peculiar prolonged guttural note, happiness will ensue. If a crow keeps on cawing incessantly at a house, it is believed to foretell the coming of a guest. The belief is so strong that some housewives prepare more food than is required for the family. There is also an insect called virunthoo poochee, or guest insect. If crows are seen fighting in front of a house, news of a death will shortly be heard. In some places, if a crow enters a house, it must be vacated for not less than three months, and, before it can be re-occupied, a purification ceremony must be performed, and a number of Brāhmans fed. Among the poorer classes, who are unable to incur this expense, it is not uncommon to allow a house which has been thus polluted to fall into ruins.65 In Malabar, there is a belief that ill-luck will result if, on certain days, a crow soils one’s person or clothes. The evil can only be removed by bathing with the clothes on, and propitiating Brāhmans. On other days, the omen is a lucky one. On srādh (memorial) days, pindams (balls of cooked rice) are offered to the crows. If they do not touch them, the ceremony is believed not to have been properly performed, and the wishes of the dead man are not satisfied. If the crows, after repeated trials, fail to eat the rice, the celebrant makes up his mind [68]to satisfy these wishes, and the crows are then supposed to relish the balls. On one occasion, my Brāhman assistant was in camp with me on the Palni hills, the higher altitudes of which are uninhabited by crows, and he had perforce to march down to the plains, in order to perform the annual ceremony in memory of his deceased father. On another occasion, a Brāhman who was staying on the Palni hills telegraphed to the village of Periakulam for two crows, which duly arrived confined in a cage. The srādh ceremony was performed, and the birds were then set at liberty. On the last day of the death ceremonies of the Oddēs (navvies), some rice is cooked, and placed on an arka (Calotropis gigantea) leaf as an offering to the crows. The arka plant, which grows luxuriantly on waste lands, is, it may be noted, used by Brāhmans for the propitiation of rishis (sages) and pithrus (ancestors).66 For seven days after the death of a Paniyan of Malabar, a little rice gruel is placed near the grave by the Chemmi (priest), who claps his hands as a signal to the evil spirits in the vicinity, who, in the shape of a pair of crows, are supposed to partake of the food, which is hence called kāka conji, or crow’s gruel. On the third day after the death of a Bēdar (Canarese cultivator), a woman brings to the graveside some luxuries in the way of food, which is mixed up in a winnowing tray into three portions, and placed in front of three stones set over the head, abdomen, and legs of the deceased, for crows to partake of. On the sixth day after the death of a Korava, the chief mourner kills a fowl, and mixes its blood with rice. This he places, with betel leaves and areca nuts, near the grave. If it is carried off by crows, everything is considered to have been settled satisfactorily. When a jungle Urāli has been excommunicated from his caste, he must kill a sheep or [69]goat before the elders, and mark his forehead with its blood. He then gives a feast to the assembly, and puts part of the food on the roof of his house. If the crows eat it, he is received back into the caste. A native clerk some time ago took leave in anticipation of sanction, on receipt of news of a death in his family at a distant town. His excuse was that his elder brother had, on learning that his son had seen two crows in coitu, sent him a post-card stating that the son was dead. The boy turned out to be alive, but the card, it was explained, was sent owing to a superstitious belief that, if a person sees two crows engaged in sexual congress, he will die unless one of his relations sheds tears. To avert this catastrophe, false news as to the death are sent by post or telegraph, and subsequently corrected by a letter or telegram announcing that the individual is alive. A white (albino) crow, which made its appearance in the city of Madras a few years ago, caused considerable interest among the residents of the locality, as it was regarded as a very good omen.

Among some classes in Mysore, there is a belief that, if a death occurs in a house on Tuesday or Friday, another death will speedily follow unless a fowl is tied to one corner of the bier. The fowl is buried with the corpse. Those castes which do not eat fowls replace it by the bolt of the door.67 Among the Tamils, if a burial takes place on a Saturday, a fowl must be buried or burnt, or another death will shortly occur in the family. There is a Tamil proverb that a Saturday corpse will not go alone. When a fowl is sacrificed to the deity by the jungle Paliyans of the Palni hills, the head ought to be severed at one blow, as this is a sign of the satisfaction of the god for the past, and of protection for the future. Should the head still hang, this would be a bad omen, foreboding calamities for the [70]ensuing year.68 An interesting rite in connection with pregnancy ceremonies among the Oddēs (navvies) is the presentation of a fowl or two to the pregnant woman by her maternal uncle. The birds are tended with great care, and, if they lay eggs abundantly, it is a sign that the woman will be prolific.

By some it is considered unlucky to keep pigeons about a dwelling-house, as they are believed, on account of their habit of standing on one leg, to lead to poverty. The temple or blue-rock pigeon is greatly venerated by Natives, who consider themselves highly favoured if the birds build in their houses. Should a death occur in a house where there are tame pigeons, all the birds will, it is said, at the time of the funeral, circle thrice round the loft, and leave the locality for ever. House sparrows are supposed to possess a similar characteristic, but, before quitting the house of mourning, they will pull every straw out of their nests. Sparrows are credited with bringing good luck to the house in which they build their nests. For this purpose, when a house is under construction, holes are left in the walls or ceiling, or earthen pots are hung on the walls by means of nails, as an attractive site for nesting. One method of attracting sparrows to a house is to make a noise with rupees as in the act of counting out coins.

There are experts who are able to interpret the significance of the chirping of lizards, which, inter alia, foretells the approach of a case of snake-bite, and whether the patient will die or not. The fall of a lizard on different parts of the body is often taken as an omen for good or evil, according as it alights on the right or left side, hand or foot, head or shoulders. A Native of Cochin foretold from the chirping of a lizard that a robbery would take [71]place at a certain temple. In accordance with the prophecy, the temple jewels were looted, and the prophet was sent to prison under suspicion of being an accomplice of the thieves, but subsequently released. The hook-swinging ceremony is said69 to be sometimes performed after the consent of the goddess has been obtained. If a lizard is heard chirping on the right, it is regarded as a sign of her consent. It is believed that the man who is swung suffers no pain if the cause is a good one, but excruciating agony if it is a bad one.

If an “iguana” (Varanus) enters a house, misfortune is certain to occur within a year, unless the house is shut up for six months. The appearance of a tortoise in a house, or in a field which is being ploughed, is inauspicious. In the Cuddapah district, a cultivator applied for remission of rent, because one of his fields had been left waste owing to a tortoise making its appearance in it. If, under these circumstances, the field had been cultivated, the man, his wife, or his cattle, would have died. It was pointed out that, as the tortoise was one of Vishnu’s incarnations, it should have been considered as an honour that the animal visited the field; but the reply was that a tortoise would be honoured in the water, but not on the land.70

The sight of two snakes coiled round each other in sexual congress is considered to portend some great evil. The presence of a rat-snake (Zamenis mucosus) in a house at night is believed to bring good fortune to the inmates. Its evil influence is in its tail, a blow from which will cause a limb to shrink in size and waste away.

In a valley named Rapuri Kanama in the Cuddapah district, there is a pond near a Siva temple to Gundheswara. [72]Those desirous of getting children, wealth, etc., should go there with a pure heart, bathe in the pond, and then worship at the temple. After this, they should take a wild pine-apple leaf, and place it on the border of the pond. If their wishes are to be granted, a crab rises from the water, and bites the leaf in two. If their wishes will not be granted, the crab rises, but leaves the leaf untouched. If, however, the person has not approached the pond with a pure heart, he will be set upon by a swarm of bees, which live in the vicinity, and will be driven off.71

If the nest of a clay-building insect is found in a house, the birth of a child is foretold; if a mud nest, of a male child; if a nest made of jungle lac, of a girl.72 [73]

1 “Gazetteer of the Nilgiris,” 1908, i. 338.

2 Bishop Whitehead, Madras Museum Bull., 1907, No. 3, v. 134.

3 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, No. 3, v. 139–40.

4 Malabar, 1887, i. 177–8.

5 Used as a fly-flapper (chamara).

6 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd edition, 99–100.

7 N. Sunkuni Wariar, “Ind. Ant.,” 1892, xxi. 96.

8 K. Srikantaliar, “Ind. Ant.,” 1892, xxi. 193.

9 M. N. Venkataswami, “Ind. Ant.,” 1905, xxxiv. 176.

10 “Gazetteer of the Godāvari District,” 1907, i. 66.

11 “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

12 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.,” 1881, x. 366.

13 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 293.

14 “Gazetteer of the Godāvari District,” 1907, i. 47.

15 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 21.

16 India, Trübner, Oriental Series, 1888, i. 182.

17 Rev. S. Mateer, “Native Life in Travancore,” 1883, 330–52.

18 M. J. Walhouse, Journ. Anthrop. Inst., 1874, iv. 373.

19 Voyage to the East Indies, 1777 and 1781.

20 Rev. J. A. Sharrock, “South Indian Missions,” 1910, 9.

21 See Emma Rosenbusch (Mrs Clough), “While sewing Sandals, or Tales of a Telugu Pariah Tribe.”

22 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 114.

23 “Ind. Ant.,” 1873, ii. 65.

24 F. Fawcett, “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

25 S. P. Rice, “Occasional Essays on Native South Indian Life,” 1901, 95–6.

26 Jeypore, Breklum, 1901.

27 F. Fawcett, “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

28 Fire-walking, see Thurston, “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India,” 1907, 471–86.

29 Udaya is one of the divisions of the Badagas, which ranks as superior to the other divisions.

30 Koyis, see Cain, Madras Christian College Magazine (old series), v. 352–9, and vi. 274–80; also “Ind. Ant.,” v., 1876, and viii., 1879.

31 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 98.

32 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, No. 3, v. 166.

33 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 291.

34 The Holeyas were formerly agrestic serfs.

35 “Ind. Ant.,” 1873, ii. 66.

36 Earth-eating (geophagy), see my “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India,” 1907, 552–4.

37 Letters from Malabar, Translation, Madras, 1862.

38 F. Fawcett, “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

39 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 288.

40 Ibid., 285.

41 M. Paupa Rao Naidu, “The Criminal Tribes of India,” Madras, 1907, No. 3.

42 T. M. Natesa Sastri, Calcutta Review, 1905, cxxi. 501.

43 “Notes on the Criminal Classes of the Madras Presidency,” 1892, 90.

44 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd. ed., 58–9.

45 Letters from Madras, 1843.

46 “Hindu Feasts, Fasts, and Ceremonies,” Madras, 1903, 32–3.

47 Madras Weekly Mail, 15th October, 1908.

48 Rev. E. W. Thompson, “The Last Siege of Seringapatam,” 1907.

49 “An Indian Olio,” 98.

50 “Manual of the North Arcot District” 1895, i. 223–4.

51 S. M. Natesa Sastri, “Ind. Ant.,” 1889, xviii. 287.

52 Rev. J. Cain, “Ind. Ant.,” 1875, iv. 198.

53 F. Fawcett, “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

54 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 358.

55 “Manual of the Ganjam District,” 1882, 71–2.

56 “Gazetteer of the Bellary District,” 1904, i. 61.

57 Madras Agricult. Bull., 1900, ii. No. 42.

58 Madras Dioc. Mag., 1908.

59 Madras Weekly Mail, 7th October 1909.

60 Loc. cit.

61 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v., No. 3, 173.

62 Many of the bird superstitions here recorded were published in an article in the Madras Mail.

63 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 293.

64 “Gazetteer of the Bellary District,” 1904, i. 61.

65 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 293.

66 See Thurston, “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India,” 1907, 44–7.

67 J. S. F. Mackenzie, “Ind. Ant.,” 1873, ii., 68.

68 Rev. F. Dahmen, “Anthropos,” 1908, iii. 28.

69 Rev. M. Phillips, “Evolution of Hinduism,” 1903, 123.

70 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 292.

71 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 288.

72 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 66.

[Contents]

II

Animal Superstitions

[Contents]

1. Mammals

There is a belief that the urine of a wild monkey (langūr) called kondamuccha, which it discharges in a thick stream, possesses the power of curing rheumatic pains, if applied to the affected part with a mixture of garlic. Some of the poorer classes in the villages of Kurnool obtain a sale even for stones on which this monkey has urinated, and hill people suffering from chronic fever sometimes drink its blood.1 I am informed by Mr A. Ff. Martin, that he has seen a Muduvar on the Travancore hills much pulled down by fever seize an expiring black monkey (Semnopithecus johni), and suck the blood from its jugular vein. Childless Muduvar couples are dieted to make them fruitful, the principal diet for the man being plenty of black monkey. The flesh of the black monkey (Nīlgiri langūr) is sold in the Nīlgiri bazaars as a cure for whooping-cough. When Savara (hill tribe in Ganjam) children are seriously ill and emaciated, offerings are said by Mr G. V. Ramamurthi Pantulu to be made to monkeys, not in the belief that the illness is caused by them, but because the sick child, in its wasted condition, has the attenuated figure of these animals. The offerings consist of rice and [74]other articles of food, which are placed in baskets suspended from branches of trees in the jungle.

Some years ago, a drinking fountain was erected at the Madras Museum, in which the water issued from the mouth of a lion. It entirely failed in its object, as the Native visitors would not use it, because the animal was represented in the act of vomiting.

I am informed by Mr C. Hayavadana Rao that the Bēpāris, who are traders and carriers between the hills and plains in the Vizagapatam Agency tracts, regard themselves as immune from the attacks of tigers, if they take certain precautions. Most of them have to pass through places infested with these beasts, and their favourite method of keeping them off is as follows. As soon as they encamp at a place, they level a square bit of ground, and light fires in it, round which they pass the night. It is their firm belief that the tiger will not enter the square, from fear lest it should become blind, and eventually be shot. Mr Hayavadana Rao was once travelling towards Malkangiri from Jeypore, when he fell in with a party of Bēpāris thus encamped. At that time the villages about Malkangiri were being ravaged by a notorious man-eater. In connection with man-eating tigers, Mr S. M. Fraser narrates2 that, in Mysore, a man-eater was said to have attacked parties bearing corpses to the burning-ground.

“The acquisition,” he writes, “of such a curious taste may perhaps be explained by the following passage in a letter from the Amildar. It is a custom among the villagers here not to burn or bury the dead bodies of pregnant females, but to expose them in the neighbouring jungles to be eaten by vultures and wild beasts. The body is tied to a tree, in a sitting posture, and a pot of water is [75]put close by. Not long ago some cowherd boys came across the dead body of a woman tied to a tree, and noticed the foot-prints of a tiger round it, but the body was untouched. The boys cut the rope binding the body, which fell to the ground, and the next day the corpse was found eaten away by the tiger.”

The village of Hulikal, or tiger’s stone, on the Nīlgiris is so called because in it a Badaga once killed a notorious man-eater. The spot where the beast was buried is shown near the Pillaiyar (Ganēsa) temple, and is marked by three stones. It is said that there was formerly a stone image of the slain tiger thereabouts.3 When a tiger enters the dwelling of a Savara (hill tribe in Ganjam) and carries off an inmate, the village is said to be deserted, and sacrifices are offered to some spirits by the inhabitants. It is noted by Mr F. Fawcett4 that the Savaras have names for numerals up to twelve only. This is accounted for by a story that, long ago, some Savaras were measuring grain in a field, and, when they had completed twelve measures, a tiger pounced on them, and devoured them. So, ever after, they have not dared to have a numeral above twelve for fear of a tiger repeating the performance. In the Vizagapatam district, a ballad is sung by the Dāsaris (a mendicant caste) about the goddess Yerakamma, who is reputed to have been the child of Dāsari parents, and to have had the possession of second sight foretold by a Yerukala fortune-teller. She eventually married, and one day begged her husband not to go to his field, as she was sure he would be killed by a tiger if he did. He went notwithstanding, and was slain as she had foreseen. She killed herself by committing sati (suttee, or burning [76]of the living widow) on the spot where her shrine still stands. The Muduvars are said by Mr Martin to share with other jungle folk the belief that, if any animal is killed by a tiger or leopard so as to lie north and south, it will not be eaten by the beast of prey. Nor will it be revisited, so that sitting over a “kill” which has fallen north and south, in the hope of getting a shot at the returning tiger or leopard, is a useless proceeding. The Billava toddy-drawers believe that, if the spathe of the palm tree is beaten with the bone of a buffalo which has been killed by a tiger, the yield of toddy will, if the bone has not touched the ground, be greater than if an ordinary bone is used.

I once received an application for half a pound of tiger’s fat, presumably for medicinal purposes. The bones of tigers and leopards ground into powder, and mixed with their fat, gingelly (Sesamum) oil, and a finely powdered blue stone, make an ointment for the cure of syphilitic sores. The bones of a leopard or hyæna, ground into powder and made into a paste with ox-gall and musk, are said to be a useful ointment for application to rheumatic joints. The addition of the fat of tigers or leopards makes the ointment more effective. I am told that when, on one occasion, a European shot a tiger, the Natives were so keen on securing some of the fat, that the shikāris (hunters) came to him to decide as to the proper distribution among themselves and the camp servants.

The leopard is looked upon as in some way sacred by the hill Kondhs. They object to a dead leopard being carried through their villages, and oaths are taken on a leopard’s skin.

Writing in 1873, Dr Francis Day states5 that “at [77]Cannanore (in Malabar), the Rājah’s cat appears to be exercising a deleterious influence on one branch at least of the fishing, viz., that for sharks. It appears that, in olden times, one fish daily was taken from each boat as a perquisite for the Rājah’s cat, or the poocha meen (cat-fish) collection. The cats apparently have not augmented so much as the fishing boats, so this has been converted into a money payment of two pies a day on each successful boat.”

In connection with cats, there is a tradition that a Jōgi (Telugu mendicant) bridegroom, before tying the bottu (marriage badge) on his bride’s neck, had to tie it by means of a string dyed with turmeric round the neck of a female cat. People sometimes object to the catching of cats by Jōgis for food, as the detachment of a single hair from the body of a cat is considered a heinous offence. To overcome the objection, the Jōgi says that he wants the animal for a marriage ceremony. On one occasion, I saw a Mādiga (Telugu Pariah) carrying home a bag full of kittens, which he said he was going to eat. Some time ago, some prisoners, who called themselves Billaikāvus (cat-eaters), were confined in the Vizagapatam jail. I am informed that these people are Māla Paidis, who eat cat flesh.

The gun with which a wolf has been shot falls under some evil influence, and it is said not to shoot straight afterwards. Hence some shikāris (hunters) will not shoot at a wolf.

The hyæna is believed to beat to death, or strangle with its tail, those whom it seizes. The head of a hyæna is sometimes buried in cattle-sheds, to prevent cattle disease. Its incisor teeth are tied round the loins of a woman in labour, to lessen the pains.6 [78]

There is a belief that, when a bear seizes a man, it tickles him to death.7 Bears are supposed, owing to the multilobulated external appearance of the kidneys, to gain an additional pair of these organs every year of their life. They are believed to collect ripe wood-apples (Feronia elephantum) during the season, and store them in a secure place in the forest. After a large quantity has been collected, they remove the rind, and heap together all the pulp. They then bring honey and the petals of sweet-smelling flowers, put them on the heap of pulp, thresh them with their feet and sticks in their hands, and, when the whole has become a consistent mass, feast on it. The Vēdans (hunters) watch them when so engaged, drive them off, and rob them of their feast, which they carry off, and sell as karadi panchamritham, or bear delicacy made of five ingredients. The ordinary ingredients of panchamritham are slices of plantain (banana) fruits, jaggery (crude sugar) or sugar, cocoanut scrapings, ghī (clarified butter), honey, and cardamom seeds.

It is believed that the flesh or blood of some animals, which have certain organs largely developed, will cure disease of corresponding organs in the human subject. Thus, the flesh of the jackal, which is credited with the possession of very powerful lungs, is said to be a remedy for asthma.

By the jungle Paliyans of the Palni hills, the following device is adopted to protect themselves from the attacks of wild animals, the leopard in particular. Four jackals’ tails are planted in four different spots, chosen so as to include the area in which they wish to be safe from the brute. Even if a leopard entered the magic square, [79]it could do the Paliyan no harm, as its mouth is locked.8

There is a belief that the urine of wild dogs (Cyon dukhunensis) is extremely acrid, and that they sprinkle with it the bushes through which they drive their prey (deer and wild pigs), and then rush upon the latter, when blinded by the pungent fluid. According to another version, they jerk the urine into their victim’s eyes with their tails.

The Koyis of the Godāvari district are said by the Rev. J. Cain9 to hold in reverence the Pāndava brothers, Arjuna and Bhīma, and claim descent from the latter by his marriage with a wild woman of the woods. The wild dogs or dhols are regarded as the dūtas or messengers of the brothers, and they would on no account kill a dhol, even though it should attack their favourite calf. They even regard it as imprudent to interfere with these dūtas, when they wish to feast upon their cattle. The long black beetles, which appear in large numbers at the beginning of the hot weather, are called by the Koyis the Pāndava flock of goats.

At a sale of cattle, the vendor sometimes takes a small quantity of straw in his hand, and, putting some cow-dung on it, presents it to the purchaser.10 The five products of the cow, known as pānchagavyam—milk, curds, butter, urine, and fæces—are taken by Hindus to remove pollution from confinement, a voyage across the seas, and other causes. It is on record11 that the Tanjore Nayakar, having betrayed Madura and suffered for it, was told by his Brāhman advisers that he had better [80]be born again. So a colossal cow was cast in bronze, and the Nayakar shut up inside. The wife of his Brāhman guru (religious preceptor) received him in her arms, rocked him on her knees, and caressed him on her breast, and he tried to cry like a baby. It is recorded by Frazer12 that, when a Hindu child’s horoscope portends misfortune or crime, he is born again from a cow thus. Being dressed in scarlet, and tied on a new sieve, he is passed between the hind-legs of a cow forward through the fore-legs, and again in the reverse direction, to simulate birth. The ordinary birth ceremonies are then gone through, and the father smells his son as a cow smells her calf.

Tradition runs to the effect that, at the time of the separation of Rāmēsvaram island from the mainland, the cows became prisoners thereon. Not being able, like the cows of Cape Cod, which are fed on herrings’ heads, to adapt themselves to a fish diet, they became gradually converted into diminutive metamorphosed cows, which may still be seen grazing on the shore. The legend is based on the fancied resemblance of the horned coffer-fishes (Ostracion cornutus), which are frequently caught by the fishermen, to cattle. Portions of the skulls of cats and dogs, which are sometimes picked up on the beach, also bear a rude resemblance to the skull of a cow, the horns being represented by the zygoma.

A story is told at Cochin that the beautiful blue and white tiles from Canton, which adorn the floor of the synagogue of the White Jews, were originally intended for the Durbar hall of a former Rāja of Cochin. But a wily Jew declared that bullock’s blood must have been used in the preparation of the glaze, and offered to take [81]them off the hands of the Rāja, who was only too glad to get rid of them.

The afterbirths (placentæ) of cattle are tied to a tree which yields a milky juice, in the belief that the cow will thereby give a better yield of milk.

There is a custom among the Tellis (Oriya oil-pressers) that, if a cow dies with a rope round its neck, or on the spot where it is tethered, the family is under pollution until purification has been effected by means of a pilgrimage, or by bathing in a sacred river. The Holodia section of the Tellis will not rear male calves, and do not castrate their bulls. Male calves are disposed of by sale as speedily as possible.

If the jungle Paliyans of Tinnevelly come across the carcase of a cow or buffalo near a stream, they will not go near it for a long time. They absolutely refuse to touch leather, and one of them declined to carry my camera box, because he detected that it had a leather strap.

The Bākudas of South Canara will not carry a bedstead, unless the legs are first taken off, and it is said that this objection rests upon the supposed resemblances between the four-legged cot and the four-legged ox. In like manner, the Koragas have a curious prejudice against carrying any four-legged animal, dead or alive. This extends to anything with four legs, such as a chair, table, etc., which they cannot be prevailed on to lift, unless one leg is removed. As they work as coolies, this is said sometimes to cause inconvenience.13

Among the Sembaliguda Gadabas of Vizagapatam, there is a belief that a piece of wild buffalo horn, buried in the ground of the village, will avert or cure cattle disease.14

The jungle Kādirs believe that their gods occasionally [82]reside in the body of a “bison” (Bos gaurus), and have been known to worship a bull shot by a sportsman.

The goddess Gāngadēvi is worshipped by the Kēvutos (fishing caste) of Ganjam at the Dasara festival, and goats are sacrificed in her honour. In the neighbourhood of the Chilka lake, the goats are not sacrificed, but set at liberty, and allowed to graze on the Kālikadēvi hill. There is a belief that animals thus dedicated to the goddess do not putrify when they die, but dry up.

The Tiyans (toddy-drawers) of Malabar carry, tucked into the waist-cloth, a bone loaded with lead at both ends, which is used for tapping the flower-stalk of the palm tree to bring out the juice. A man once refused to sell one of these bones to Mr F. Fawcett at any price, as it was the femur of a sāmbar (Cervus unicolor), which possessed such virtue that it would fetch juice out of any tree. Deer’s horn, ground into a fine paste, is said to be an excellent balm for pains and swellings. It is sometimes made into a powder, which is mixed with milk or honey, and produces a potion which is supposed to aid the growth of stunted women.15

A Yānādi shikāri (hunter) has been known, when skinning a black buck (antelope) shot by a European, to cut out the testicles, and wrap them up in his loin-cloth, to be subsequently taken as an aphrodisiac. Antelope horn, when powdered and burnt, is said to drive away mosquitoes, and keep scorpions away. A paste made with antelope horn is used as an external application for sore throat. Antelope and chinkāra (Indian gazelle) horns, if kept in grain baskets, are said to prevent weevils from attacking the grain.

The Gadabas of Vizagapatam will not touch a horse, as they are palanquin-bearers, and have the same objection [83]to the rival animal that a cab-driver has to a motor-car. In South Canara, none but the lowest Pariah will rub a horse down. If a Malai Vellāla of Coimbatore touches one of these animals, he has to perform a religious ceremonial for the purpose of purification.

The members of the elephant sept of the Oriya Haddis, when they see the foot-prints of an elephant, take some of the dust from the spot, and make a mark on the forehead with it. They also draw the figure of an elephant, and worship it, when they perform srādh and other ceremonies. Wild elephants are said to be held in veneration by the jungle Kādirs, whereas tame ones are believed to have lost the divine element.16

When cholera breaks out in a Kondh village, all males and females smear their bodies from head to foot with pig’s fat liquefied by heat, and continue to do so until a few days after the disappearance of the dread disease. During this time they do not bathe, lest the smell of the fat should be washed away.

Some women rub the blood of the small garden-bat, which has well-developed ears, into the artificially dilated lobes of their ears, so as to strengthen them. The wings of bats are highly prized as a hairwash. They are crushed, and mixed with cocoanut oil, and other ingredients. The mixture is kept underground in a closed vessel for three months, and then used to prevent the hair from falling out or turning grey.17 The Paniyans of Malabar are said to eat land-crabs for a similar purpose.

The common striped or palm-squirrel (Sciurus palmarum) was, according to a legend, employed by Rāma to assist the army of monkeys in the construction of the bridge to connect Rāmēsvaram island with Ceylon, whither Rāvana [84]had carried off his wife Sīta. The squirrel helped the monkeys by rolling in the sand on the shore, so as to collect it in its hairy coat, and then depositing it between the piled up stones, so as to cement them together. Seeing it fatigued by its labours, Rāma sympathetically stroked its back with the three middle fingers of his right hand, marks of which still persist in the squirrels at the present day. There is a further legend that, once upon a time, one of the gods, having compassion on the toddy-drawers because their life was a hard one, and because they were constantly exposed to danger, left at the foot of a palmyra tree some charmed water, the value of which was that it saved from injury any one falling from a height. A toddy-drawer, however, got drunk, and, forgetting to drink the elixir, went home. When he returned, he found that a squirrel had drunk it, and vowed vengeance on it. And that is why every toddy-drawer will always kill a squirrel, and also why the squirrel, from whatever height it may fall, comes to no harm.18 In a note on the Pariah caste in Travancore, the Rev. S. Mateer narrates19 a legend that the Shānāns (Tamil toddy-drawers) are descended from Adi, the daughter of a Pariah woman at Karuvur, who taught them to climb the palm tree, and prepared a medicine which would protect them from falling from the high trees. The squirrels also ate some of it, and enjoy a similar immunity. There is a Tamil proverb that, if you desire to climb trees, you must be a Shānān. The story was told by Bishop Caldwell of a Shānān who was sitting upon a leaf-stalk at the top of a palmyra palm in a high wind, when the stalk gave way, and he came down to the ground quite safely, sitting on the [85]leaf, which served the purpose of a natural parachute. Woodpeckers are called Shānāra kurivi by bird-catchers, because they climb trees like Shānāns.

There is a legend that, before the Kāliyūga began, the Pāndavas lived on the Nīlgiris. A kind of edible truffle (Mylitta lapidescens) is known as little man’s bread on these hills. The Badaga legendary name for it is Pāndva-unna-buthi, or dwarf bundle of food,20 i.e., food of the dwarfs, who are supposed to have built the pāndu kūlis or kistvaens. Being so small, they called in the black-naped hare (Lepus nigricollis) to plough their fields. The black patches on their necks are the inherited mark of the yoke. The blood of the hare is administered to children suffering from cough.

Brāmans use a porcupine quill for parting their wives’ hair in a ceremony connected with the period of gestation known as sīmantam. It is said21 that among the Nāmbūtiri Brāhmans, the quill should have three white marks on it. The quills of porcupines are sold by Jōgis (Telugu mendicants) to goldsmiths, for use as brushes.

There is a tradition among the fishing folk of Rāmēsvaram island that a box of money was once found in the stomach of a dugong (Halicore dugong), and an official is consequently invited to be present at the examination of the stomach contents, so that the possessors of the carcase may not be punished under the Treasure Trove Act for concealing treasure. The fat of the dugong is believed to be efficacious in the treatment of dysentery, and is administered in the form of sweetmeats, or used instead of ghī (clarified butter) in the preparation of food. [86]

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2. Birds

The following story is current concerning the sacred vultures of Tirukazhukunram. The Ashtavasus, or eight gods who guard the eight points of the compass, did penance, and Siva appeared in person before them. But, becoming angry with them, he cursed them, and turned them into vultures. When they asked for forgiveness, Siva directed that they should remain at the temple of Vedagiri Iswara. One pair of these birds still survives, and come to the temple daily at noon for food. Two balls of rice cooked with ghī (clarified butter) and sugar, which have been previously offered to the deity, are placed at a particular spot on the hill. The vultures, arriving simultaneously, appropriate a ball apiece. The temple priests say that, every day, one of the birds goes on a pilgrimage to Benares, and the other to Rāmēsvaram. It is also said that the pair will never come together, if sinners are present at the temple.

When a person is ill, his family sometimes make a vow that they will ofter a few pounds of mutton to the Braāhmani kite (Haliastur indus, Garuda pakshi) on the patient’s recovery. It is believed that, should the offering be acceptable, the sick person will speedily get better, and the bird will come to demand its meat, making its presence known by sitting on a tree near the house, and crying plaintively. The shadow of a Braāhmani kite falling on a cobra is said to stupefy the snake. The Kondhs do not consider it a sin to kill this bird, which is held in veneration throughout Southern India. A Kondh will kill it for so slight an offence as carrying off his chickens.

Sacred Vultures, Tirukazhukunram.

To face p. 86.

The crow is believed to possess only one eye, which moves from socket to socket as occasion demands. The [87]belief is founded on the legend that an Asura, disguised as a crow, while Rāma was sleeping with his head on Sīta’s lap in the jungles of Dandaka, pecked at her breasts, so that blood issued therefrom. On waking, Rāma, observing the blood, and learning the cause of it, clipped a bit of straw, and, after infusing it with the Brahma astra (miraculous weapon), let it go against the crow Asura, who appealed to Rāma for mercy. Taking pity on it, Rāma told the Asura to offer one of its eyes to the weapon, and saved it from death. Since that time, crows are supposed to have only one eye. The Kondhs will not kill crows, as this would be a sin amounting to the killing of a friend. According to their legend, soon after the creation of the world, there was a family consisting of an aged man and woman, and four children, who died one after the other in quick succession. Their parents were too infirm to take the necessary steps for their cremation, so they threw the bodies away on the ground at some distance from their home. God appeared to them in their dreams one night, and promised that he would create the crow, so that it might devour the dead bodies. Some Koyis believe that hell is the abode of an iron crow, which feeds on all who go there. There is a legend in the Kavarathi Island of the Laccadives, that a Māppilla tangal (Muhammadan priest) once cursed the crows for dropping their excrement on his person, and now there is not a crow on the island.

It is believed that, if a young crow-pheasant is tied by an iron chain to a tree, the mother, as soon as she discovers the captive, will go and fetch a certain root, and by its aid break the chain, which, when it snaps, is converted into gold.

In some Kāpu (Telugu cultivator) houses, bundles of ears of rice may be seen hung up as food for sparrows, [88]which are held in esteem. The hopping of sparrows is said to resemble the gait of a person confined in fetters, and there is a legend that the Kāpus were once in chains, and the sparrows set them at liberty, and took the bondage on themselves. Native physicians prescribe the flesh and bones of cock sparrows for those who have lost their virility. The birds are cleaned, and put in a mortar, together with other medicinal ingredients. They are pounded together for several hours, so that the artificial heat produced by the operation converts the mixture into a pulpy mass, which is taken in small doses. The flesh of quails and partridges is also believed to possess remedial properties.

A west coast housewife, when she buys a fowl, goes through a mystic ritual to prevent it from getting lost. She takes it thrice round the fireplace, saying to it: “Roam over the country and the forest, and come home safe again.” Some years ago, a rumour spread through the Koyi villages that an iron cock was abroad very early in the morning, and upon the first village in which it heard one or more cocks crow it would send a pestilence, and decimate the village. In one instance, at least, this led to the immediate extermination of all the cocks in the village.

The Indian roller (Coracias indica), commonly called the blue jay, is known as pāla-pitta or milk bird, because it is supposed that, when a cow gives little milk, the yield will be increased if a few of the feathers of this bird are chopped up, and given to it along with grass.

The fat of the peacock, which moves gracefully and easily, is supposed to cure stiff joints. Peacock’s feathers are sold in the bazaar, and the burnt ashes are used as a cure for vomiting.

The deposit of white magnesite in the “Chalk Hills” of the Salem district is believed to consist of the bones [89]of the mythical bird Jatayu, which fought Rāvana, to rescue Sīta from his clutches.

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3. Reptiles and Batrachians.

It is recorded by Canter Visscher22 that, “in the mountains and remote jungles of this country (Malabar), there is a species of snake of the shape and thickness of the stem of a tree, which can swallow men and beasts entire. I have been told an amusing story about one of these snakes. It is said that at Barcelore a chego (Chogan) had climbed up a cocoanut tree to draw toddy or palm wine, and, as he was coming down, both his legs were seized by a snake which had stretched itself up alongside the tree with its mouth wide open, and was sucking him in gradually as he descended. Now, the Indian, according to the custom of his country, had stuck his teifermes (an instrument not unlike a pruning knife), into his girdle with the curve turned outwards; and, when he was more than half swallowed, the knife began to rip up the body of the snake so as to make an opening, by which the lucky man was most unexpectedly able to escape. Though the snakes in this country are so noxious to the natives, yet the ancient veneration for them is still maintained. No one dares to injure them or to drive them away by violence, and so audacious do they become that they will sometimes creep between people’s legs when they are eating, and attack their bowls of rice, in which case retreat is necessary until the monsters have satiated themselves, and taken their departure.”

Another snake story, worthy of the Baron Münchausen, is recorded in Taylor’s “Catalogue raisonné of Oriental Manuscripts.”23 [90]

“The Coya (Koyi) people eat snakes. About forty years since a Brāhman saw a person cooking snakes for food, and, expressing great astonishment, was told by the forester that these were mere worms; that, if he wished to see a serpent, one should be shown him; but that, as for themselves, secured by the potent charms taught them by Ambikēsvarer, they feared no serpents. As the Brāhman desired to see this large serpent, a child was sent with a bundle of straw and a winnowing fan, who went, accompanied by the Brāhman, into the depths of the forest, and, putting the straw on the mouth of a hole, commenced winnowing, when smoke of continually varying colours arose, followed by bright flame, in the midst of which a monstrous serpent having seven heads was seen. The Brāhman was speechless with terror at the sight, and, being conducted back by the child, was dismissed with presents of fruits.”

It is stated by Mr Gopal Panikkar24 that, “people believe in the existence inside the earth of a precious stone called manikkakkallu. These stones are supposed to have been made out of the gold, which has existed in many parts of the earth from time immemorial. Certain serpents of divine nature have been blowing for ages on these treasures of gold, some of which dwindle into a small stone of resplendent beauty and brightness called manikkam. The moment their work is finished, the serpents are transformed into winged serpents, and fly up into the air with the stones in their mouths.”

According to another version of this legend,25 “people in Malabar believe that snakes guard treasure. But silver they will have none. Even in the case of gold, the snakes are said to visit hidden treasure for twelve years occasionally, and, only when they find that the [91]treasure is not removed in the meantime, do they begin to guard it. When once it has begun to watch, the snake is said to be very zealous over it. It is said to hiss at it day and night. This constant application is believed to diminish its proportions, and to make it assume a smaller appearance. In time, in the place of the pointed tail, the reptile is said to get wings, and the treasure, by the continuous hissing, to assume the form of a precious stone. When this is done, the snake is said to fly with its precious acquisition. So strong is this belief that, when a comet appeared some ten years ago, people firmly believed that it was the flight of the winged serpent with the precious stone.”

Natives, when seeking for treasure, arm themselves with a staff made from one of the snake-wood trees, in the belief that the snakes which guard the treasure will retire before it.

In Malabar, it is believed that snakes wed mortal girls, and fall in love with women. When once they do so, they are said to be constantly pursuing them, and never to leave them, except for an occasional separation for food. The snake is said never to use its fangs against its chosen woman. So strong is the belief, that women in Malabar would think twice before attempting to go by themselves into a bush.26

There is a temple in Ganjam, the idol in which is said to be protected from desecration at night by a cobra. When the doors are being shut, the snake glides in, and coils itself round the lingam. Early in the morning, when the priest opens the door, it glides away, without attempting to harm any of the large number of spectators, who never fail to assemble.27 [92]

The town of Nāgercoil in Travancore derives its name from the temple dedicated to the snake-god (nāga kovil), where many stone images of snakes are deposited. There is a belief that snake-bite is not fatal within a mile of the temple.

The safety with which snake-charmers handle cobras is said to be due to the removal of a stone, which supplied their teeth with venom, from under the tongue or behind the hood. This stone is highly prized as a snake poison antidote. It is said to be not unlike a tamarind stone in size, shape, and appearance; and is known to be genuine if, when it is immersed in water, bubbles continue to rise from it, or if, when put into the mouth, it gives a leap, and fixes itself to the palate. When it is applied to the punctures made by the snake’s poison fangs, it is said to stick fast and extract the poison, falling off of itself as soon as it is saturated. After the stone drops off, the poison which it has absorbed is removed by placing it in a vessel of milk which becomes darkened in colour. A specimen was submitted to Faraday, who expressed his belief that it was a piece of charred bone, which had been filled with blood, and then charred again.28

There is, in Malabar, a class of people called mantravādis (dealers in magical spells), who are believed to possess an hereditary power of removing the effects of snake poison by repeating mantrams, and performing certain rites. If a house is visited by snakes, they can expel them by reciting such mantrams on three small pebbles, and throwing them on to the roof. In cases of snake-bite, they recite mantrams and wave a cock over the patient’s body from the head towards the feet. Sometimes a number of cocks have to be sacrificed before [93]the charm works. The patient is then taken to a tank (pond) or well, and a number of pots of water are emptied over his head, while the mantravādi utters mantrams. There are said to be certain revengeful snakes, which, after they have bitten a person, coil themselves round the branches of a tree, and render the efforts of the mantravādi ineffective. In such a case, he, through the aid of mantrams, sends ants and other insects to harass the snake, which comes down from the tree, and sucks the poison from the punctures which it has made.

In the early part of the last century, a certain Tanjore pill had a reputation as a specific against the bite of mad dogs, and of the most poisonous snakes.29

The following note on a reputed cure for snake poisoning, used by the Oddēs (navvies), was communicated to me by Mr Gustav Haller.

“A young boy, who belonged to a gang of Oddēs, was catching rats, and put his hand into a bamboo bush, when a cobra bit him, and clung to his finger when he was drawing his hand out of the bush. I saw the dead snake, which was undoubtedly a cobra. I was told that the boy was in a dying condition, when a man of the same gang said that he would cure him. He applied a brown pill to the wound, to which it stuck without being tied. The man dipped a root into the water, and rubbed it on the lad’s arm from the shoulder downwards. The arm, which was benumbed, gradually became sensitive, and at last the fingers could move, and the pill dropped off. The moist root was rubbed on to the boy’s tongue, and into the corner of the eyes, before commencing operations. The man said that a used pill is quite efficacious, but should be well washed to get rid of the poison. In the manufacture of the pills, five leaves of a creeper are dried, and ground to powder. [94]The pill must be inserted for nine days between the bark and cambium of a margosa tree (Melia Azadirachta) during the new moon, when the sap ascends.”

The creeper referred to is Tinospora cordifolia (gul bēl), and the roots are apparently those of the same climbing shrub. There is a widespread belief that gul bēl growing on a margosa tree is more efficacious as a medicine than that which is found on other kinds of trees.

In cases of snake-bite, the Dommara snake-charmers place over the seat of the bite a black stone, which is said to be composed of various drugs mixed together and burnt. It is said to drop off, as soon as it has absorbed all the poison. It is then put into milk or water to extract the poison, and the fluid is thrown away as being dangerous to life if swallowed. The Mandulas (wandering medicine men) use as an antidote against snake-bite a peculiar wood, of which a piece is torn off, and eaten by the person bitten.30 Among the Vīramushtis (professional mendicants), there is a subdivision called Nāga Mallika (Rhinacanthus communis), the roots of which are believed to cure snake-bite. The jungle Paliyans of the Palni hills are said31 to carry with them certain leaves, called naru valli vēr, which they believe to be a very efficient antidote to snake-bite. As soon as one of them is bitten, he chews the leaves, and also applies them to the punctures. The Kudumi medicine men of Travancore claim to be able to cure snake-bite by the application of certain leaves ground into a paste, and by exercising their magical powers. The Telugu Tottiyans are noted for their power of curing snake-bites by means of mystical incantations, and the original inventor of this mode [95]of treatment has been deified under the name of Pāmbalamman.

The jungle Yānādis are fearless in catching cobras, which they draw out of their holes without any fear of their fangs. They claim to be under the protection of a charm, while so doing. A correspondent writes that a cobra was in his grounds, and his servant called in a Yānādi to dislodge it. The man caught it alive, and, before killing it, carefully removed the poison-sac with a knife, and swallowed it as a protection against snake-bite.

The Nāyādis of Malabar, when engaged in catching rats in their holes, wear round the wrist a snake-shaped metal ring, to render them safe against snakes which may be concealed in the hole.

A treatment for cobra-bite is to take a chicken, and make a deep incision into the beak at the basal end. The cut surface is applied to the puncture made by the snake’s fangs, which are opened up with a knife. After a time the chicken dies, and, if the patient has not come round, more chicken must be applied until he is out of danger. The theory is that the poison is attracted by the blood of the chicken, and enters it. The following treatment for cobra bite is said32 to be in vogue in some places:—

“As soon as a person has been bitten, a snake-charmer is sent for, who allures the same or another cobra whose fangs have not been drawn to the vicinity of the victim, and causes it to bite him at as nearly as possible the same place as before. Should this be fulfilled, the bitten man will as surely recover as the snake will die. It is believed that, if a person should come across two cobras together, they will give him no quarter. To avoid being pursued [96]by them, he takes to his heels, after throwing behind some garment, on which the snakes expend their wrath. When they have completed the work of destruction, the pieces to which the cloth has been reduced, are gathered together, and preserved as a panacea for future ills.”

A fisherman, who is in doubt as to whether a water-snake which has bitten him is poisonous or not, sometimes has resort to a simple remedy. He dips his hands into the mud, and eats several handfuls thereof.33

The fragrant inflorescence of Pandanus fascicularis is believed to harbour a tiny snake, which is more deadly than the cobra. Incautious smelling of the flowers may, it is said, lead to death.

The earth-snake (Typhlops braminus) is known as the ear-snake, because it is supposed to enter the ear of a sleeper, and cause certain death.

The harmless tree-snake (Dendrophis pictus) is more dreaded than the cobra. It is believed that, after biting a human being, it ascends the nearest palmyra palm, where it waits until it sees the smoke ascending from the funeral pyre of the victim. The only chance of saving the life of a person who has been bitten is to have a mock funeral, whereat a straw effigy is burnt. Seeing the smoke, the deluded snake comes down from the tree, and the bitten person recovers.

The green tree-snake (Dryophis mycterizans) is said to have a habit of striking at the eyes of people, to prevent which a rag is tied round the head of the snake, when it is caught. Another, and more curious belief is that a magical oil can be prepared from its dead body. A tender cocoanut is opened at one end, and the body of the snake is put into the cocoanut, which, after being closed, is buried in a miry place, and allowed to remain [97]there until the body decays, and the water in the cocoanut becomes saturated with the products of decomposition. When this has taken place, the water is taken out, and used as oil for a lamp. When a person carries such a lamp lighted, his body will appear to be covered all over by running green tree-snakes, to the great dismay of all beholders.34

For the following note on beliefs concerning the green tree-snake (Dryophis), I am indebted to Dr N. Annandale. A recipe for making a good curry, used by women who are bad cooks, is to take a tree-snake, and draw it through the hands before beginning to make the curry. To cure a headache, kill a tree-snake, and ram cotton seed and castor-oil down its throat, until the whole body is full. Then bury it, and allow the seeds to grow. Take the seeds of the plants that spring up, and separate the cotton from the castor seeds. Ram them down the throat of a second snake. Repeat the process on a third snake, and make a wick from the cotton of the plant that grows out of its body, and oil from the castor plants. If you light the wick in a lamp filled with the oil, and take it outside at night, you will see the whole place alive with green tree-snakes. Another way of performing the same experiment is to bore a hole in a ripe cocoanut, put in a live tree-snake, and stop the hole up. Then place the cocoanut beneath a cow in a cowshed for forty days, so that it is exposed to the action of the cow’s urine. A lamp fed with oil made from the cocoanut will enable you to see innumerable tree-snakes at night.

The bite of the sand-snake (Eryx Johnii) is believed to cause leprosy and twisting of the hands and feet. An earth-snake, which lives at Kodaikānal on the Palni [98]hills, is credited with giving leprosy to any one whose skin it licks. In the treatment of leprosy, a Russell’s viper (Vipera russellii) is stuffed with rice, and put in an earthen pot, the mouth of which is sealed with clay. The pot is buried for forty days, and then exhumed. Chickens are fed with the rice, and the patient is subsequently fed on the chickens. The fat of the rat-snake (Zamenis mucosus) is used as an external application in the treatment of leprosy. An old woman, during an epidemic of cholera at Bezwāda, used to inject the patients hypodermically with an aqueous solution of cobra venom.

Mischievous children, and others, when they see two persons quarrelling, rub the nails of the fingers of one hand against those of the other, and repeat the words “Mungoose and snake, bite, bite,” in the hope that thereby the quarrel will be intensified, and grow more exciting from the spectator’s point of view.

When a friend was engaged in experiments on snake venom, some Dommaras (jugglers) asked for permission to unbury the corpses of the snakes and mungooses for the purpose of food.

If a snake becomes entangled in the net of a Bestha fisherman in Mysore when it is first used, the net is rejected, and burnt or otherwise disposed of.

There is a widespread belief among children in Malabar, that a lizard (Calotes versicolor) sucks the blood of those whom it looks at. As soon, therefore, as they catch sight of this creature, they apply saliva to the navel, from which it is believed that the blood is extracted.

A legend is recorded by Dr Annandale,35 in accordance with which every good Muhammadan should kill the [99]blood-sucker (lizard), Calotes gigas, at sight, because, when some fugitive Muhammadans were hiding from their enemies in a well, one of these animals came and nodded its head in their direction till their enemies saw them.

A similar legend about another lizard is described as existing in Egypt. Dr Annandale further records that the Hindus and Muhammadans of Ramnād in the Ramnād district regard the chamæleon (Chamæleon calcaratus) as being possessed by an evil spirit, and will not touch it, lest the spirit should enter their own bodies. I have been told that the bite of a chamæleon is more deadly than that of a cobra.

There is a popular belief that the bite of the Brahmini lizard (Mabuia carinata), called aranai in Tamil, is poisonous, and there is a saying that death is instantaneous if aranai bites. The same belief exists in Ceylon, and Mr Arthur Willey informs me that deaths attributed to the bite of this animal are recorded almost annually in the official vital statistics. I have never heard of a case of poisoning by the animal in question. There is a legend that, “when the cobra and the arana were created, poison was supplied to them, to be sucked from a leaf. The arana sucked it wholesale, leaving only the leaf smeared over with poison for the cobra to lap poison from; thereby implying that the cobra is far less venomous than the arana. Thus people greatly exaggerate the venomous character of the arana.”36

It has already been noted (p. 73) that, when Savara children are emaciated from illness, offerings are made to monkeys. Blood-suckers are also said to be propitiated, because they have filamentous bodies. A blood-sucker [100]is captured, small toy arrows are tied round its body, and a piece of cloth is tied round its head. Some drops of liquor are then poured into its mouth, and it is set at liberty.

The Marātha Rājas of Sandūr belong to a family called Ghorpade, which name is said to have been earned by one of them scaling a precipitous fort by clinging to an “iguana” (Varanus), which was crawling up it. The flesh of the “iguana” is supposed to be possessed of extraordinary invigorating powers, and a meal off this animal is certain to restore the powers of youth. Its bite is considered very dangerous, and it is said that, when it has once closed its teeth on human flesh, it will not reopen them, and the only remedy is to cut out the piece it has bitten.37 This animal and the crocodile are believed to proceed from the eggs laid by one animal. They are laid and hatched near water, and, of the animals which come out of them, some find their way into the water, while others remain on land. The former become crocodiles, and the latter “iguanas.” The flesh of the crocodile is administered as a cure for whooping-cough.

It is popularly believed that, if a toad falls on a pregnant woman, the child that is to be born will die soon after birth. The only remedy is to capture the offending toad, and fry it in some medicinal oil, which must be administered to the child in order to save it from death.38

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4. Fishes

It is recorded39 that “Matsya gundam (fish pool) is a curious pool in the Machēru (fish river) near the village of Matam, close under the great Yendrika hill. [101]The pool is crowded with mahseer (Barbus tor) of all sizes. These are wonderfully tame, the bigger ones feeding fearlessly from one’s hand, and even allowing their backs to be stroked. They are protected by the Mādgole zamindars, who on several grounds venerate all fish. Once, the story goes, a Brinjāri caught one, and turned it into curry, whereon the king of the fish solemnly cursed him, and he and all his pack-bullocks were turned into rocks, which may be seen there to the present day. At Sivarātri, a festival occurs at the little thatched shrine near by, the priest at which is a Bagata (Telugu freshwater fisher), and part of the ritual consists in feeding the sacred fish. The Mādgole zamindars claim to be descended from the rulers of Matsya Dēsa. They are installed on a stone throne shaped like a fish, display a fish on their banners, and use a figure of a fish as a signature. Some of their dependents wear ear-rings shaped like a fish.”

A tank at Coondapoor contained a species of fish locally known as the flower-fish, which was especially reserved for the table of Tīpu Sultan, being fat and full of blood.40 The sacred fish at Tirupparankunram near Madura are said to have been sages in a bygone age, and it is believed to be very meritorious to look at them. They are said to appear on the surface of the water only if you call out “Kāsi Visvanātha.” But it is said that a handful of peas thrown into the pool is more effective. The Ambalakkārans (Tamil cultivators) admit that they are called Valaiyans, but repudiate any connection with the caste of that name. They explain the appellation by a story that, when Siva’s ring was swallowed by a fish in the Ganges, one of their ancestors invented the first net (valai) made in the world. [102]

Some Natives will not eat the murrel fish (Ophiocephalus striatus), owing to its resemblance to a snake. Some Halēpaiks (Canarese toddy-drawers) avoid eating a fish called Srinivāsa, because they fancy that the streaks on the body bear a resemblance to the Vaishnavite sectarian mark (nāmam). Members of the Vamma gōtra of the Janappans (Telugu traders) abstain from eating the bombadai fish, because, when some of their ancestors went to fetch water in a marriage pot, they found a number of this fish in the water collected in the pot.

When a new net is used for the first time by the Besthas of Mysore, the first fish which is caught is cut, and the net is smeared with its blood. One of the meshes of the net is burnt, after incense has been thrown into the fire.

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5. Invertebrates

The Sahavāsis of Mysore are described41 as “immigrants, like the Chitpāvanas. Sahavāsi means co-tenant or associate, and the name is said to have been earned by the community in the following manner. In remote times, a certain Brāhman came upon hidden treasure, but, to his amazement, the contents appeared in his eyes to be all live scorpions. Out of curiosity, he hung one of them outside his house. A little while after, a woman of inferior caste, who was passing by the house, noticed it to be gold, and, upon her questioning him about it, the Brāhman espoused her, and by her means was able to enjoy the treasure. He gave a feast in honour of his acquisition of wealth. He was subsequently outcasted for his mésalliance with the low caste female, while those who ate with him were put under a ban, and thus acquired the nickname.” [103]

It is commonly said that the scorpion has great reverence for the name of Ganēsa, because it is supposed that when, on seeing a scorpion, one cries out “Pilliyar annai” (in the name of Ganēsa), the scorpion will suddenly stop; the truth of the matter being that any loud noise arrests the movements of the animal.42

At the temple of Kolaramma at Kolar in Mysore, a pit under the entrance is full of scorpions, and the customary offerings are silver scorpions. The village goddess at Nangavaram in the Trichinopoly district is called Sattāndi Amman, and her idol represents her in the act of weaving a garland of scorpions. It is generally supposed that no scorpion can live in this village, and that the sacred ashes from Sattāndi Amman’s shrine are a specific for scorpion stings. People sometimes carry some of the ashes about with them, in case they should be stung.43 At Royachoti in the Cuddapah district, a festival is held on the occasion of the god going hunting. The idol Vīrabudra is carried to a mantapam outside the town, and placed on the ground. Beneath the floor of the mantapam there is a large number of scorpions. Whilst the god is taking his rest, the attendants catch these scorpions, and hold them in their hands without being stung. As long as the god remains in the mantapam, the scorpions do not sting, but, directly he leaves it, they resume their poisonous propensities.44 The peon (attendant) in the zoological laboratory of one of the Madras colleges would put his hand with impunity into a jar of live scorpions, of which he believed that only a pregnant female would sting him with hurt. Lieutenant-Colonel [104]D. D. Cunningham records45 the case of a certain Yōgi (religious mendicant), who was insusceptible to the stings of scorpions, “which would fix their stings so firmly into his fingers that, when he raised and shook his hand about, they remained anchored and dangling by their tails, whilst neither then nor afterwards did he show the slightest sign of pain or inconvenience. The immunity may possibly have been the result of innate idiosyncratic peculiarity in the constitution of the performer, or more probably represented the outcome of artificial exemption acquired at the expense of repeated inoculations with the virus, and corresponding development of its antitoxin.”

A sweeper man, who had a mole on his back in shape somewhat resembling a scorpion, believed himself to be immune against scorpion sting, and would confidently insert the poison spine of a live scorpion into his skin. In a letter to a medical officer, a Native wrote, that, when a pregnant woman is stung by a scorpion, the child which is in the womb at the time of such stinging, when delivered, does not suffer from the sting of a scorpion, if ever it is stung during its lifetime. Some families keep in their homes small pots called thēlkodukku undi (scorpion sting vessels), and occasionally drop therein a copper coin, which is supposed to secure immunity against scorpion sting. The Sakuna Pakshi mendicants of Vizagapatam have a remedy for scorpion sting in the root of a plant called thēlla visari (scorpion antidote), which they carry about with them on their rounds. The root should be collected on a new-moon day which falls on a Sunday. On that day, the Sakuna Pakshi bathes, cuts off his loin-cloth, and goes stark-naked to a selected spot, [105]where he gathers the roots. If a supply thereof is required, and the necessary combination of moon and day is not forthcoming, the roots should be collected on a Sunday or Wednesday. In cases of scorpion sting, Dommara medicine-men rub up patent boluses with human milk or juice of the milk-hedge plant (Euphorbia Tirucalli), and apply them to the parts. Among quaint remedies for scorpion sting may be noted, sitting with an iron crowbar in the mouth, and the application of chopped lizard over the puncture. The excrement of lizards fed on scorpions, and the undigested food in the stomach of a freshly killed goat, dried and reduced to powder, are also believed to be effective remedies. There is a belief that scorpions have the power of reviving, even after being completely crushed into pulp. We are, therefore, warned not to rest secure till the animal has actually been cremated.

The whip-scorpion Thelyphonus is believed to be venomous, some Natives stating that it stings like a scorpion, others that it ejects a slimy fluid which burns, and produces blisters. The caudal flagellum of Thelyphonus, of course, possesses no poison apparatus.

When the umbilical cord of a Kondh baby sloughs off, a spider is burnt in the fire, and its ashes are placed in a cocoanut shell, mixed with castor-oil, and applied by means of a fowl’s feather to the navel.

The eggs of red ants, boiled in margosa (Melia Azadirachta) oil, are said to be an invaluable remedy for children suffering from asthma.

If a house is infested by mosquitoes, or the furniture and bedding by bugs, the names of a hundred villages or towns should be written on a piece of paper. Care must be taken that all the names end in uru, kōttai, palayam, etc. The paper is fastened to the [106]ceiling or bed-post, and relief from the pests will be instantaneous.46

The Oriya Haddis, on the evening of the tenth day after a death, proceed to some distance from the house, and place food and fruits on a cloth spread on the ground. They then call the dead man by his name, and eagerly wait till some insect settles on the cloth. As soon as this happens, the cloth is folded up, carried home, and shaken over the floor close to the spot where the household gods are kept, so that the insect falls on the sand spread on the floor. A light is then placed on the sanded floor, and covered with a new pot. After some time, the pot is removed, and the sand examined for any marks which may be left on it.

A devil, in the disguise of a dung-beetle of large size, is believed to haunt the house wherein a baby has been newly born, and the impact of the insect against the infant will bring about its instant death.

The following case was brought to my notice by the Chemical Examiner to Government. In Malabar, a young man, apparently in good health, walked home with two other men after a feast, chewing betel. Arriving at his home, he retired to rest, and was found dead in the morning. Blood was described as oozing out of his eyes. It was given out that the cause of death was an insect, which infests betel leaves, and is very poisonous. The belief in death from chewing or swallowing the veththilai or vettila poochi (betel insect) is a very general one, and is so strong that, when a person suffers from giddiness, after chewing betel, he is afraid that he has partaken of the poisonous insect. Native gentlemen take particular care to examine every betel leaf, wipe it with a cloth, and smear chunam (lime) over it, before chewing. [107]The poochi is called by Gundert47 vettila pāmpu or moorkhan (snake), or vettila thēl (scorpion). It has been described48 as “a poisonous creature, which lives adhering to the betel leaf. Its presence cannot be easily detected, and many deaths occur among persons who are in the habit of carelessly chewing betel. The poison passes into the system through the moisture of the mouth, and death ensues within an hour and a half. It generally inhabits the female leaf, i.e., the leaf that opens at night. The following symptoms are seen when a person is affected with the poison:—exhaustion, delirium, copious perspiration, and change of colour of the skin. Treatment:—administer internally the juice of the leaves of a tree called arippēra. Make the patient suck the milk of the breast of a woman, whose baby is more than eighty days old.”

A perichæte earthworm was sent to me from Malabar as a specimen of vettila poochi, with a note to the effect that, when it is accidentally chewed, the chief symptom is drawing in of the tongue, and consequent death from suffocation. The antidote was said to be salt and water, and the leaves of the goa (guava) tree. From South Canara, Mr H. Latham sent me a planarian worm, about two inches in length, which is believed to be the vettila poochi. His camp boy told him of a case in which death was said to have resulted from eating one of these animals cooked with some jak fruit.

A few years ago, a scare arose in connection with an insect, which was said to have taken up its abode in imported German glass bangles, which compete with the indigenous industry of the Gāzula bangle-makers. The insect was reported to lie low in the bangle till it [108]was purchased, when it would come out and nip the wearer, after warning her to get her affairs in order before succumbing. A specimen of a broken bangle, from which the insect was said to have burst forth, was sent to me. But the insect was not forthcoming.

As a further example of the way in which the opponents of a new industry avail themselves of the credulity of the Native, I may cite the recent official introduction of the chrome-tanning industry in Madras. In connection therewith, a rumour spread more or less throughout the Presidency that the wearing of chrome-tanned boots or sandals gave rise to leprosy, blood poisoning, and failure of the eyesight. [109]

1 “Manual of the Kurnool District,” 1886, 114.

2 Journ. Bombay Nat. Hist. Soc., 1902, xiv., No. 2, 388–91.

3 “Gazetteer of the Nilgiris,” 1908, i. 328.

4 Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, i. 241–2.

5 “Report on the Sea Fisheries of India and Burma,” 1873, lxxvi.

6 “Manual of the Kurnool District,” 1886, 115.

7 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 23.

8 Rev. F. Dahmen, “Anthropos,” 1908, iii. 30.

9 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 359.

10 H. J. Stokes, “Ind. Ant.,” 1874, iii. 90.

11 J. S. Chandler, Calcutta Review, July, 1903, cxvii. 28.

12 “Totemism,” 1887, 33.

13 M. J. Walhouse, Journal Anthrop. Inst., 1874, iv. 376.

14 H. D. Taylor, “Madras Census Report,” 1891.

15 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

16 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 22.

17 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

18 S. P. Rice, “Occasional Essays on Native South Indian Life,” 1901, 211.

19 Journ. Roy. Asiat. Soc., 1884, xvi. 181.

20 Report, Govt. Botanical Gardens, Nīlgiris, 1903.

21 “Gazetteer of Malabar,” 1908, i. 163.

22 Letters from Malabar, Translation, Madras, 1862.

23 1862, iii. 464.

24 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd ed., 59.

25 C. Karunakara Menon, Calcutta Review, July, 1901.

26 C. Karunakara Menon, Calcutta Review, July, 1901.

27 Madras Mail, 22nd July, 1905.

28 Vide, Yule and Burnell, “Hobson-Jobson,” ed. 1903, 874–9.

29 Asiatic Journal, ii. 381.

30 Bishop Whitehead, Madras Diocesan Magazine, July, 1906.

31 Rev. F. Dahmen, “Anthropos,” 1908, iii. 22.

32 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

33 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

34 M. Upendra Pai, Madras Christian Coll. Mag., 1895., xiii., No. 1, 29.

35 Mem. Asiat. Soc., Bengal, 1906, i., No. 10.

36 T. K. Gopal Panikkar, “Madras and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd ed., 65–6.

37 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 293–4.

38 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

39 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 286.

40 “Manual of the South Canara District,” 1895, ii. 242.

41 “Mysore Census Report,” 1891, part i. 235.

42 S. K. Sundara Charlu, Indian Review, 1905, vi., No. 6, 421.

43 “Gazetteer of the Trichinopoly District,” 1907, i. 283.

44 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 288.

45 “Plagues and Pleasures of Life in Bengal,” 1907, 196–8.

46 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

47 “Malayālam Dictionary,” 1872, 983.

48 Kērala Chintamani.

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III

The Evil Eye

The objection which a high caste Brāhman has to being seen by a low caste man when he is eating his food is based on a belief allied to that of the evil eye. The Brāhmanical theory of vision, as propounded in the sacred writings, and understood by orthodox pandits, corresponds with the old corpuscular theory. The low caste man being in every respect inferior to the Brāhman, the matter or subtle substance proceeding from his eye, and mixing with the objects seen by him, must of necessity be inferior and bad. So food, which is seen by a low caste man, in virtue of the radii perniciosi which it has received, will contaminate the Brāhman. This, it has been pointed out,1 is “a good illustration of the theory propounded by Mr E. S. Hartland at the York meeting of the British Association (1906), that both magic and religion, in their earliest forms, are based on the conception of a transmissible personality, the mana of the Melanesian races.”

A friend once rode accidentally into a weaver’s feast, and threw his shadow on their food, and trouble arose in consequence. On one occasion, when I was in camp at Coimbatore, the Oddēs (navvies) being afraid of my evil eye, refused to fire a new kiln of bricks for the new [110]club chambers, until I had taken my departure. On another occasion, I caught hold of a ladle, to show my friend Dr Rivers what were the fragrant contents of a pot, in which an Oddē woman was cooking the evening meal. On returning from a walk, we heard a great noise proceeding from the Oddē men who had meanwhile returned from work, and found the woman seated apart on a rock, and sobbing. She had been excommunicated, not because I touched the ladle, but because she had afterwards touched the pot. After much arbitration, I paid up the necessary fine, and she was received back into her caste.

The following passage occurred in an official document, which was sent to Sir M. E. Grant Duff, when he was Governor of Madras.2 The writer was Mr Andrew, C.S.

“Sir C. Trevelyan visited Walajapet many years ago. When there, he naturally asked to see the cloths, carpets, etc. (which are manufactured there). Soon after (owing to the railway of course), trade began to diminish, and to this day, I hear that even the well-to-do traders think it was owing to the visit, as they believe that, if a great man takes particular notice of a person or place, ill-luck will follow. A month ago, I was walking near Ranipet, and stopped for a minute to notice a good native house, and asked whose it was, etc. A few hours after, the house took fire (the owner, after his prayers upstairs, had left a light in his room), and the people in the town think that the fire was caused by my having noticed the house. So, when His Excellency drove through Walajapet last July, the bazaar people did not show their best cloths, fearing ill-luck would follow, but also because they thought he would introduce their trade in carpets, etc., into the Central Jail, Vellore, and so ruin them.”

[111]

In villages, strangers are not allowed to be present, when the cows are milked. Sudden failure of milk, or blood-stained milk, are attributed to the evil eye, to remove the influence of which the owner of the affected cow resorts to the magician. When the hill Kondhs are threshing the crop, strangers may not look on the crop, or speak to them, lest their evil eye should be cast on them. If a stranger is seen approaching the threshing-floor, the Kondhs keep him off by signalling with their hands, without speaking.

In Malabar, a mantram, which is said to be effective against the potency of the evil eye, runs as follows:—“Salutation to thee, O God! Even as the moon wanes in its brightness at the sight of the sun, even as the bird chakora (crow-pheasant) disappears at the sight of the moon, even as the great Vasuki (king of serpents) vanishes at the sight of the chakora, even as the poison vanishes from his head, so may the potency of his evil eye vanish with thy aid.”3 In Malabar, fear of the evil eye is very general. At the corner of the upper storey of almost every Nāyar house near a road or path is suspended some object, often a doll-like hideous creature, on which the eye of the passers-by may rest.4

“A crop,” Mr Logan writes,5 “is being raised in a garden visible from the road. The vegetables will never reach maturity, unless a bogey of some sort is set up in their midst. A cow will stop giving milk, unless a conch (Turbinella rapa) shell is tied conspicuously about her horns. [Māppilla cart-drivers tie black ropes round the neck, or across the faces of their bullocks.] When a [112]house or shop is being built, there surely is to be found exposed in some conspicuous position an image, sometimes of extreme indecency, a pot covered with cabalistic signs, a prickly branch of cactus, or what not, to catch the evil eye of passers-by, and divert their attention from the important work in hand.”

Many of the carved wooden images recall forcibly to mind the Horatian satire:—“Olim truncus eram.... Obscenoque ruber porrectus ab inguine palus.”

For the following note on the evil eye in Malabar, I am indebted to Mr S. Appadorai Iyer.

“It is not the eye alone that commits the mischief, but also the mind and tongue. Man is said to do good or evil through the mind, word and deed, i.e., manasa, vācha, and karmana. When a new house is being constructed, or a vegetable garden or rice-field are in a flourishing condition, the following precautions are taken to ward off the evil eye:—

”(a) In Buildings

“1. A pot with black and white marks on it is suspended mouth downwards.

“2. A wooden figure of a monkey, with pendulous testicles, is suspended.

“3. The figure of a Malayāli woman, with protuberant breasts, is suspended.

”(b) In Gardens and Fields

“1. A straw figure, covered with black cloth daubed with black and white dots, is placed on a long pole. If the figure represents a male, it has pendent testicles, and, if a female, well developed breasts. Sometimes, male and female figures are placed together in an embracing posture. [113]

“2. Pots, as described above, are placed on bamboo poles.

Evil Eye Figures, Malabar.

To face page 112.

“3. A portion of the skull of a bull, with horns attached, is set up on a long pole.

“The figures, pots, and skulls, are primarily intended to scare away crows, stray cattle, and other marauders, and secondly to ward off the evil eye. Instances are quoted, in which handsome buildings have fallen down, and ripe fruits and grain crops have withered through the influence of the eye, which has also been held responsible for the bursting of a woman’s breasts.”

In Madras, human figures, made of broken bricks and mortar, are kept permanently in the front of the upstairs verandah. Some years ago, Sir George Birdwood recorded the flogging, by order of the Police Magistrate of Black Town (now George Town), Madras, of a Hindu boy for exhibiting an indecent figure in public view. What he had explicitly done was to set up, in accordance with universal custom, a phallic image before a house that was in course of erection by a Hindu gentleman, who was first tried under the indictment, but was acquitted, he, the owner, not having been the person who had actually exhibited the image.6

Monstrous Priapi, made in straw, with painted clay pots for heads, pots smeared with chunam (lime) and studded with black dots, or palmyra palm fruits coated with chunam, may often be seen set up in the fields, to guard the ripening crop. In a note on the Tamil Paraiyans, the Rev A. C. Clayton writes as follows:7

“Charms, in the form of metal cylinders, are worn to avoid the baneful influence of the evil eye. To prevent [114]this from affecting the crops, Paraiyans put up scarecrows in their fields. These are usually small broken earthen pots, whitewashed or covered with spots of whitewash, or even adorned with huge clay noses and ears, and made into grotesque faces. For the same reason, more elaborate figures, made of mud and twigs in human shape, are sometimes set up.”

The indecent figures carved on temple cars, are intended to avert the evil eye. During temple or marriage processions, two huge human figures, male and female, made of bamboo wicker-work, are carried in front for the same purpose. At the buffalo races in South Canara, which take place when the first crop has been gathered, there is a procession, which is sometimes headed by two dolls represented in coitu borne on a man’s head. At a race meeting near Mangalore, one of the devil-dancers had the genitalia represented by a long piece of cloth and enormous testicles.

Sometimes, in case of illness, a figure is made of rice-flour paste, and copper coins are stuck on the head, hands, and abdomen thereof. It is waved in front of the sick person, taken to a place where three roads or paths meet, and left there. At other times, a hole is made in a gourd (Benincasa cerifera or Lagenaria vulgaris), which is filled with turmeric and chunam, and waved round the patient. It is then taken to a place where three roads meet, and broken.

Evil Eye Figures Set Up in Fields.

To face p. 114.

At a ceremony performed in Travancore when epidemic disease prevails, an image of Bhadrakāli is drawn on the ground with powders of five colours, white, yellow, black, green, and red. At night, songs are sung in praise of that deity by a Tīyattunni and his followers. A member of the troupe then plays the part of Bhadrakāli in the act of murdering the demon Darika, and, in conclusion, waves [115]a torch before the inmates of the house, to ward off the evil eye, which is the most important item in the whole ceremony. The torch is believed to be given by Siva, who is worshipped before the light is waved.

In cases of smallpox, a bunch of nīm (Melia Azadirachta) is sometimes moved from the head to the feet of the sick person, with certain incantations, and then twisted and thrown away.

The sudden illness of children is often attributed to the evil eye. In such cases, the following remedies are considered efficacious:—

(1) A few sticks from a new unused broom are set fire to, waved several times round the child, and placed in a corner. With some of the ashes the mother makes a mark on the child’s forehead. If the broom burns to ashes without making a noise, the women cry: “Look at it. It burns without the slightest noise. The creature’s eyes are really very bad.” Abuse is then heaped on the person whose eyes are supposed to have an evil influence.

(2) Some chillies, salt, human hair, nail-cuttings, and finely powered earth from the pit of the door-post are mixed together, waved three times in front of the child, and thrown onto the fire. Woe betide the possessor of the evil eye, if no pungent, suffocating smell arises when it is burning.

(3) A piece of burning camphor is waved in front of the child.

(4) Balls of cooked rice, painted red, black, and white (with curds), are waved before the child.

Loss of appetite in children is attributed by mothers to the visit of a supposed evil person to the house. On that person appearing again, the mother will take a little sand or dust from under the visitor’s foot, whirl it round the head of the child, and throw it on the hearth. If the suspected [116]person is not likely to turn up again, a handful of cotton-seed, chillies, and dust from the middle of the street, is whirled round the child’s head, and thrown on the hearth. If the chillies produce a strong smell, the evil eye has been averted. If they do not do so, the suspect is roundly abused by the mother, and never again admitted to the house.

Matrons make the faces of children ugly by painting two or three black dots on the chin and cheeks, and painting the eyelids black with lamp-black paste. It is a good thing to frighten any one who expresses admiration of one’s belongings. For example, if a friend praises your son’s eyes, you should say to him, “Look out! There is a snake at your feet.” If he is frightened, the evil eye has been averted. It is said8 that “you will cause mortal offence to a Hindu lady, should you remark of her child ‘What a nice baby you have,’ or ‘How baby has grown since I saw him last.’ She makes it a rule to speak deprecatingly of her child, and represents it as the victim of non-existent ailments, so that your evil eye shall not affect it. But, should she become aware that, in spite of her precautions, you have defiled it with your admiration, she will lose no time in counteracting the effect of drishtidosham. One of the simplest methods adopted for this purpose is to take a small quantity of chillies and salt in the closed palm, and throw it into the fire, after waving it thrice round the head of the child, to the accompaniment of incantations. If no pungent odour is apparent, it is an indication that the dosham has been averted.”

At the Sakalathi festival of the Badagas of the Nīlgiris, a cake is made, on which are placed a little rice and butter. Three wicks steeped in castor-oil are put in [117]it, and lighted. The cake is then waved round the heads of all the children of the house, taken to a field, and thrown thereon with the words “Sakalathi has come.” At the Sūppidi ceremony, which every Nāttukōttai Chetti (Tamil banker) youth has to perform before marriage, the young man goes to the temple. On his return home, and at the entrance of Nāttukōttai houses which he passes, rice-lamps are waved before him.

The custom of making a “wave offering”9 at puberty and marriage ceremonies is very widespread. Thus, when a Tangalān Paraiyan girl attains puberty, she is bathed on the ninth day, and ten small lamps of flour paste, called drishti māvu vilakku, are put on a sieve, and waved before her. Then coloured water (ārati or ālām,) and burning camphor, are waved in front of her. At the puberty ceremonies of the Tamil Maravans, the girl comes out of seclusion on the sixteenth day, bathes, and returns to her house. At the threshold, her future husband’s sister is standing, and averts the evil eye by waving betel leaves, plantains, cooked flour paste, a vessel filled with water, and an iron measure containing rice with a style stuck in it.

At a Palli (Tamil cultivator) wedding, water coloured with turmeric and chunam (ārati) is waved round the bride and bridegroom. Later on, when the bride is about to enter the home of the bridegroom, coloured water and a cocoanut are waved in front of the newly married couple. At a marriage among the Pallans (Tamil cultivators), when the contracting couple sit on the dais, coloured water, or balls of coloured rice with lighted wicks, are waved round them. Water is poured into their hands from a vessel, and sprinkled over their heads. The vessel is then waved before them. During a Kōliyan [118](Tamil weaver) wedding coloured water, into which leaves of Bauhinia variegata are thrown, are waved. At a marriage among the Khatris (weavers), when the bridegroom arrives at the house of the bride, her mother comes out, and waves coloured water, and washes his eyes with water. At a Tangalān Paraiyan wedding, during a ceremony for removing the evil eye, a pīpal (Ficus religiosa) leaf is held over the foreheads of the bridal couple, with its tail downwards, and all the close relations pour milk over it, so that it trickles over their faces. During a marriage among the Sembadavans (Tamil fishermen), the bride and bridegroom go through a ceremony called sige kazhippu, with the object of warding off the evil eye, which consists in pouring a few drops of milk on their foreheads from a fig or betel leaf. At a Kāpu (Telugu cultivator) wedding, the Ganga idol, which is kept in the custody of a Tsākala (washerman), is brought to the marriage house. At the entrance thereto, red-coloured food, coloured water, and incense, are waved before it. During a marriage among the Balijas (Telugu traders), the bridegroom is stopped at the entrance to the room in which the marriage pots are kept by a number of married women, and has to pay a small sum for the ārati (coloured water), which is waved by the women. At a Bilimagga (weaver) wedding in South Canara, the bridegroom’s father waves incense in front of a cot and brass vessel, and lights and ārati water are waved before the bridegroom.

At a royal marriage in Travancore, in 1906, a bevy of Nāyar maidens, quaintly dressed, walked in front of the Rāni’s palanquin. They were intended as Drishti Pariharam, to ward off the evil eye.

Impression of Hand on Wall of House.

To face p. 119.

Sometimes, in Malabar, when a person is believed to be under the influence of a devil or the evil eye, salt, [119]chillies, tamarinds, oil, mustard, cocoanut, and a few pice (copper coins), are placed in a vessel, waved round the head of the affected individual, and given to a Nāyādi,10 whose curse is asked for. There is this peculiarity about a Nāyādi’s curse, that it always has the opposite effect. Hence, when he is asked to curse one who has given him alms, he complies by invoking misery and evil upon him. The terms used by him for such invocations are attupo or mutinjupo (to perish), adimondupo (to be a slave), etc.11

During one of my tours, a gang of Yerukalas absolutely refused to sit on a chair, and I had perforce to measure their heads while they squatted on the ground. To get rid of my evil influence, they subsequently went through the ceremony of waving red-coloured water and sacrificing fowls.

During a marriage among the Mādigas (Telugu Pariahs), a sheep or goat is sacrificed to the marriage pots. The sacrificer dips his hand in the blood of the animal, and impresses the blood on his palms on the wall near the door leading to the room in which the pots are kept. This is said to avert the evil eye. Among the Telugu Mālas, a few days before a wedding, two marks are made, one on each side of the door, with oil and charcoal, for the same purpose. At Kadūr, in the Mysore Province, I once saw impressions of the hand on the walls of Brāhman houses. Impressions in red paint of a hand with outspread fingers may be seen on the walls of mosques and Muhammadan buildings.12

When cholera, or other epidemic disease, breaks out, [120]Muhammadans leave the imprint of the hand dipped in sandal paste on the door. When a Tamil Paraiyan dies, an impression of the dead man’s palm is sometimes taken in cow-dung, and stuck on the wall.13

The failure of a criminal expedition of the Koravas is said by Mr F. Fawcett,14 to be “generally attributed to the evil eye, or the evil tongue, whose bad effects are evinced in many ways. If the excursion has been for house-breaking, the house-breaking implement is often soldered at its sharp end with panchalokam (five metals), to counteract the effect of the evil eye. The evil tongue is a frequent cause of failure. It consists in talking evil of others, or harping on probable misfortunes. There are various ways of removing its unhappy effects. A mud figure of a man is made on the ground, and thorns are placed over the mouth. This is the man with the evil tongue. Those who have suffered walk round it, crying out and beating their mouths; the greater the noise, the better the effect. Cutting the neck of a fowl half through and allowing it to flutter about, or inserting a red hot splinter in its anus to madden it with pain, are considered to be effective, while, if a cock should crow after its neck has been cut, calamities are averted.” [121]

1 Nature, 18th October, 1906.

2 Grant Duff, “Notes from an Indian Diary, 1881–1886.”

3 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 166.

4 F. Fawcett, Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No 3, 309.

5 Malabar, 1887, i. 175.

6 D’Alviella, “The Migration of Symbols,” 1894, introduction; and Times (London), 3rd September, 1891.

7 Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 86–7.

8 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

9 Leviticus, viii. 29.

10 The Nāyādis are a polluting class, whose approach within 300 feet is said to contaminate a Brāhman.

11 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 55–6.

12 M. J. Walhouse, Journ. Anthrop. Inst., 1890, xix. 56.

13 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 89.

14 “Note on the Koravas,” 1908.

[Contents]

IV

Snake Worship

Very closely connected with the subject of vows and votive offerings is that of the worship of snakes, to which vows are made and offerings dedicated.

In a note on serpent worship in Malabar,1 it is stated that “even to-day some corner of the garden of every respectable tarawad2 is allotted for snakes. Here a few trees are allowed to grow wild, and under them, on a masonry platform, one or more sculptured granite stones representing hooded serpents (cobras) are consecrated and set up. The whole area is held sacred, and a mud lamp is lighted there every evening with religious regularity. I have seen eggs, milk, and plantains offered in the evening, after the lamp has been lit, at these shrines, to invoke the serpent’s aid on particular occasions. Such is the veneration in which these shrines are held that Cherumars (agrestic serfs) and other low caste aborigines, who are believed to pollute by their very approach, are absolutely interdicted from getting within the precincts. Should, however, any such pollute the shrine, the resident snake or its emissary is said to apprise the owner of the defilement by creeping to the very threshold of his house, and remaining there until the Karanavan,3 or other [122]managing member of the family promises to have it duly purified by a Brāhman.”

Concerning snake worship in Malabar, Mr C. Karunakara Menon writes4 as follows:—

“The existence of snake groves is said to owe its origin to Srī Parasurāma. [According to tradition, Parasurāma was an avatar of Vishnu, who destroyed the Kshatriya Rājas, and retired to Gokarnam in Canara. He called on Varuna, the god of water, to give him some land. Varuna caused the sea to recede, and thus the land called Kērala (including Malabar) came into existence. Brāhmans were brought from Northern India to colonise the new country, but they ran away from fear of the snakes, of which it was full. Parasurāma then brought in a further consignment of Brāhmans from the north, and divided the country into sixty-four Brāhmanical colonies.] Parasurāma advised that a part of every house should be set apart for snakes as household gods. The (snake) groves have the appearance of miniature reserved forests, as they are considered sacred, and there is a strong prejudice against cutting down trees therein. The groves contain a snake king and queen made of granite, and a tower-like structure, made of laterite,5 for the sacred snakes. Snakes were, in olden days, considered a part of the property. [Transfer deeds made special mention of the family serpent as one of the articles sold along with the freehold.]

“When a snake is seen inside, or in the neighbourhood of the house, great care is taken to catch it without giving it the least pain. Usually a stick is placed gently on its head, and the mouth of an earthenware pot is shown to it. When it is in, the pot is loosely covered with a cocoanut shell, to allow of free breathing. It is then taken to a secluded spot, the pot is destroyed, and the [123]snake set at liberty. It is considered to be polluted by being caught in this way, and holy water is sometimes poured over it. Killing a snake is considered a grievous sin, and even to see a snake with its head bruised is believed to be a precursor of calamities. Pious Malayālis (natives of Malabar), when they see a snake killed in this way, have it burnt with the full solemnities attendant on the cremation of a high-caste Hindu. The carcase is covered with a piece of silk, and burnt in sandalwood. A Brāhman is hired to observe pollution for some days, and elaborate funeral oblations are offered to the dead snake.”

In Travancore there was formerly a judicial ordeal by snake-bite. The accused thrust his hand into a mantle, in which a cobra was wrapped up. If it bit him, he was declared guilty, if not innocent.

In connection with snake worship in Malabar, Mr Upendra Pai gives the following details.6 Among snakes none is more dreaded than the cobra (Naia tripudians), which accordingly has gathered round it more fanciful superstitions than any other snake. This has led to cobra worship, which is often performed with a special object in view. In some parts of the country, every town or village has its images of cobras rudely carved on stone. These cobra stones, as they are termed, are placed either on little platforms of stone specially erected for them, or at the base of some tree, preferably a holy fig.7 On the fifth day of the lunar month Shravana, known as the Nāgarapanchami—that is, the fifth day of the nāgas or serpents—these stones are first washed; [124]then milk, curds, ghī (clarified butter), and cocoanut water, are poured over them. Afterwards they are decorated with flowers, and offerings are made to them. The cobra stone is also worshipped at other times by those who have no male children, in order to obtain such. But to establish new images of cobras in suitable places is regarded as a surer method of achieving this object. For this certain preliminary ceremonies have to be gone through, and, when once the image has been established, it is the duty of the establisher to see that it is properly worshipped at least once a year, on the Nāgarapanchami day. The merit obtained is proportionate to the number of images thus worshipped, so that pious people, to obtain a great deal of merit, and at the same time to save themselves the expense of erecting many stone images, have several images drawn, each on a tiny bit of a thin plate of gold or silver. These images are handed over to some priest, to be kept along with other images, to which daily worship is rendered. In this way, great merit is supposed to be obtained. It is also believed that such worship will destroy all danger proceeding from snakes. The cobra being thus an object of worship, it is a deadly sin to kill or maim it. For the cobra is in the popular imagination a Brāhman, and there is no greater sin than that of killing a Brāhman. Accordingly, if any one kills a cobra, he is sure to contract leprosy, which is the peculiar punishment of those who have either killed a cobra, or have led to the destruction of its eggs by digging in or ploughing up soil which it haunts, or setting on fire jungle or grass in the midst of which it is known to live and breed.

Praying for Offspring before Lingam, Snake-Stones, and Figure of Ganēsa.

To face p. 124.

In a note on snake worship, Mr R. Kulathu Iyer writes as follows:8— [125]

“In Travancore there is a place called Mannarsala, which is well known for its serpent worship. It is the abode of the snake king and queen, and their followers. The grove and its premises cover about 16 acres. In the middle of this grove are two small temples dedicated to the snake king and queen. There are also thousands of snakes of granite, representing the various followers of the king and queen. Just to the northern side of the temple there is a house, the abode of the Nampiathy,9 who performs pooja (worship) in the temple. In caste he is lower in grade than a Brāhmin. The temple has paddy (rice) fields and estates of its own, and also has a large income from various sources. There is an annual festival at this temple, known as Ayilyam festival, which is celebrated in the months of Kanny and Thulam (September and October). A large number of people assemble for worship with offerings of gold, silver, salt, melons, etc. The sale proceeds of these offerings after a festival would amount to a pretty large sum. On the day previous to the Ayilyam festival, the temple authorities spend something like three thousand rupees in feeding the Brāhmins. A grand feast is given to nearly three thousand Brāhmins at the house of the Nampiathy. On the Ayilyam day, all the serpent gods are taken in procession to the illam (house of the Nampiathy) by the eldest female member of the house, and offerings of neerumpalum (a mixture of rice-flour, turmeric, ghī, water of tender cocoanuts, etc.), boiled rice, and other things, are made to the serpent gods. It is said that the neerumpalum mixture would be poured into a big vessel, and kept inside a room for three days, when the vessel would be found empty. It is supposed that the serpents drink the contents. As regards the origin of this celebrated grove, Mr S. Krishna Iyer, in one of his contributions to the Calcutta Quarterly Review, says that ‘the land from Avoor on the south to Alleppy on the north was the site of the Khandava forest [126]celebrated in the Mahabaratha; that, when Arjuna set fire to it, the serpents fled in confusion and reached Mannarasalay, and there prayed to the gods for protection; that thereupon the earth around was miraculously cooled down, and hence the name mun-l-ari-l-sala, the place where the earth was cooled. After the serpents found shelter from the Khandava fire, an ancestress of the Nambiathy had a vision calling upon her to dedicate the groves and some land to the Nāga Rāja (snake king), and build a temple therein. These commands were obeyed forth-with, and thenceforward the Nāga Rāja became their family deity.’ In the ‘Travancore State Manual,’ Mr Nagam Iyer, referring to Mannarsala, says that ‘a member of this Mannarsala illam married a girl of the Vettikod illam, where the serpents were held in great veneration. The girl’s parents, being very poor, had nothing to give in the way of dowry, so they gave her one of the stone idols of the serpent, of which there were many in the house. The girl took care of this idol, and worshipped it regularly. Soon she became pregnant, and gave birth to a male child and a snake. The snake child grew up, and gave rise to a numerous progeny. They were all removed to a spot where the present kavu (grove) is. In this kavu there are now four thousand stone idols representing snake gods.’ Such is the origin of this celebrated grove of Central Travancore.”

On the bank of the river separating Cranganore from the rest of the Native State of Cochin is the residence of a certain Brāhman called the Pāmpanmekkat (snake guardian) Nambūdri, who has been called the high priest of serpent worship. It is recorded10 by Mr Karunakara Menon that, “a respectable family at Angadipuram (in Malabar) sold their ancestral house to a supervisor in the Local Fund P. W. D. (Public Works Department). He cut down the snake grove, and planted it up. Some members [127]of the vendor’s family began to suffer from some cutaneous complaint. As usual the local astrologer was called in, and he attributed the ailment to the ire of the aggrieved family serpents. These men then went to the Brāhmin house of Pampu Mekat. This Namboodri family is a special favourite of the snakes. When a new serpent grove has to be created, or if it is found necessary to remove a grove from one place to another, the ritual is entirely in the hands of these people. When a family suffers from the wrath of the serpents, they generally go to this Namboodri house. The eldest woman of the house would hear the grievances of the party, and then, taking a vessel full of gingelly (Sesamum) oil, and looking into it, would give out the directions to be observed in satisfying the serpents.”

Concerning the Pāmpanmekkat Nambūdri, Mr Gopal Panikkar writes11 that, “it is said that this Nambūdri household is full of cobras, which find their abode in every nook and corner of it. The inmates can scarcely move about without placing their feet upon one of these serpents. Owing to the magic influence of the family, the serpents cannot and will not injure them. The serpents are said to be always at the beck and call of the members of this Nambūdri family, and render unquestioned obedience to their commands. They watch and protect the interests of the family in the most zealous spirit.”

It is said12 that, “every year the Nambūdri receives many offerings in the shape of golden images of snakes, for propitiating the serpent god to ward off calamity, or to enlist its aid in the cure of a disease, or for the attainment of a particular object. It is well known that the Nambūdri has several hundreds of these images and other valuable [128]offerings, the collection of centuries, amounting in value to over a lakh of rupees. This aroused the cupidity of a gang of dacoits (robbers), who resolved some years ago to ease the Nambūdri of a great portion of this treasure. On a certain night, armed with lathies (sticks), slings, torches, and other paraphernalia, the dacoits went to the illam, and, forcibly effecting an entrance, bound the senior Nambūdri’s hands and feet, and threw him on his breast. This precaution taken, the keys of the treasure-room were demanded, the alternative being further personal injury. To save himself from further violence, the keys were surrendered. The dacoits secured all the gold images, leaving the silver ones severely alone, and departed. But, directly they went past the gate of the house, many snakes chased them, and, in the twinkling of an eye, each of the depredators had two snakes coiled round him, others investing the gang, and threatening, with uplifted hoods and hisses, to dart at them. The dacoits remained stunned and motionless. Meantime, the authorities were communicated with, and the whole gang was taken into custody. It is said that the serpents did not budge an inch until after the arrival of the officers.”

Other marvellous stories of the way in which the snakes carry out their trust are narrated.

A section of Ambalavāsis or temple servants in Malabar, called Tēyyambādis, the members of which dance and sing in Bhagavati temples, perform a song called Nāgapāttu (song in honour of snakes) in private houses, which is supposed to be effective in procuring offspring.13

Pulluvan and Pot-Drum.

To face p. 129.

In many houses of the Tiyans of Malabar, offerings are made annually to a bygone personage named Kunnath Nāyar, and to his friend and disciple, Kunhi Rāyan, a Māppilla (Muhammadan). According to the legend, the [129]Nāyar worshipped the kite until he obtained command and control over all the snakes in the land. There are Māppilla devotees of Kunnath Nāyar and Kunhi Rāyan, who exhibit snakes in a box, and collect alms for a snake mosque near Manarghāt at the foot of the Nīlgiri hills. A class of snake-charmers in Malabar, called Kuravan, go about the country exhibiting snakes. It is considered to be a great act of piety to purchase these animals, and set them at liberty. The vagrant Kakkalans of Travancore, who are said to be identical with the Kakka Kuravans, are unrivalled at a dance called pāmpātam (snake dance).

The Pulluvans of Malabar are astrologers, medicine-men, and priests and singers in snake groves. According to a legend14 they are descended from a male and female servant, who were exiled by a Brāhman in connection with the rescuing by the female of a snake which escaped when the Gāndava forest was set on fire by Agni, the god of fire. Another legend records how a five-hooded snake fled from the burning forest, and was taken home by a woman, and placed in a room. When her husband entered the room, he found an ant-hill, from which the snake issued forth, and bit him. As the result of the bite, the man died, and his widow was left without means of support. The snake consoled her, and devised a plan, by which she could maintain herself. She was to go from house to house, and cry out, “Give me alms, and be saved from snake-poisoning.” The inmates would give alms, and the snakes, which might be troubling them, would cease to annoy. For this reason, the Pulluvas, when they go with their pot-drum (pulluva kudam) to a house, are asked to play, and sing songs which are acceptable to the snake gods, in return for which they receive a present of money. A Pulluvan and his wife preside at [130]the ceremony called Pāmban Tullal, which is carried out with the object of propitiating the snake gods. Concerning this ceremony, Mr L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer writes as follows15:—

“A pandal (booth) supported by four poles driven into the ground is put up for the purpose, and the tops of the poles are connected with a network of strings, over which a silk or red cloth is spread to form a canopy. The pandal is well decorated, and the floor below it is slightly raised and smoothed. A hideous figure of the size of a big serpent is drawn in rice-flour, turmeric (Curcuma longa), kuvva(Curcuma angustifolia), powdered charcoal, and a green powder. These five powders are essential, for their colours are visible on the necks of serpents. Some rice is scattered on the floor and on the sides, and ripe and green cocoanuts are placed on a small quantity of rice and paddy (unhusked rice) on each side. A pūja for Ganapathi (the elephant god) is performed, to see that the whole ceremony terminates well. A good deal of frankincense is burned, and a lamp is placed on a plate, to add to the purity, sanctity, and solemnity of the occasion. The members of the house go round the pandal as a token of reverence, and take their seats close by. It often happens that the members of several neighbouring families take part in the ceremony. The women, from whom devils have to be cast out, bathe and take their seats on the western side, each with a flower-pod of the areca palm. The Pulluvan, with his wife or daughter, begins his shrill musical tunes (on serpents), vocal and instrumental alternately. As they sing, the young female members appear to be influenced by the modulation of the tunes and the smell of the perfumes. They gradually move their heads in a circle, which soon quickens, and the long locks of hair are soon let loose. These movements appear to keep time with the Pulluvan’s music. In their unconscious state, they beat upon the [131]floor, and wipe off the figure drawn. As soon as this is done, they go to a serpent grove close by, where there may be a few stone images of serpents, before which they prostrate themselves. They now recover their consciousness, and take milk, water of the green cocoanut, and plantain fruits, and the ceremony is over.”

In connection with the Pāmban Tullal, Mr Gopal Panikkar writes16 that “sometimes the gods appear in the bodies of all these females, and sometimes only in those of a select few, or none at all. The refusal of the gods to enter into such persons is symbolical of some want of cleanliness in them; which contingency is looked upon as a source of anxiety to the individual. It may also suggest the displeasure of these gods towards the family, in respect of which the ceremony is performed. In either case, such refusal on the part of the gods is an index of their ill-will or dissatisfaction. In cases where the gods refuse to appear in any one of those seated for the purpose, the ceremony is prolonged until the gods are so propitiated as to constrain them to manifest themselves. Then, after the lapse of the number of days fixed for the ceremony, and, after the will of the serpent gods is duly expressed, the ceremonies close.”

Sometimes, it is said, it may be considered necessary to rub away the figure as many as one hundred and one times, in which case the ceremony is prolonged over several weeks. Each time that the snake design is destroyed, one or two men, with torches in their hands, perform a dance, keeping step to the Pulluvan’s music. The family may eventually erect a small platform or shrine in a corner of their grounds, and worship at it annually. The snake deity will not, it is believed, manifest himself if any of the persons or articles required [132]for the ceremony are impure, e.g., if the pot-drum has been polluted by the touch of a menstruating female. The Pulluvan, from whom a drum was purchased for the Madras Museum, was very reluctant to part with it, lest it should be touched by an impure woman. In addition to the pot-drum, the Pulluvans play on a lute with snakes painted on the reptile skin, which is used in lieu of parchment. The skin, in a specimen which I acquired, is apparently that of the big lizard Varanus bengalensis. The lute is played with a bow, to which a metal bell is attached.

In the “Madras Census Report,” 1871,17 Surgeon-Major Cornish states that there is a place near Vaisarpadi, close to Madras, in which the worship of the living snakes draws crowds of votaries, who make holiday excursions to the temple, generally on Sundays, in the hope of seeing the snakes, which are preserved in the temple grounds; and, he adds, probably as long as the desire of offspring is a leading characteristic of the Indian people, so long will the worship of the serpent, or of snake-stones, be a popular cult. He describes further how, at Rajahmundry in the Telugu country, he came across an old ant-hill by the side of a public road, on which was placed a stone representing a cobra, and the ground all round was stuck over with pieces of wood carved very rudely in the shape of a snake. These were the offerings left by devotees at the abode taken up by an old snake, who would occasionally come out of his hole, and feast on the eggs and ghī (clarified butter) left for him by his adorers. Around this place he saw many women who had come to pray at the shrine. If they chanced to see the cobra, the omen was interpreted favourably, and their prayers for progeny would be granted. [133] >

Concerning snake worship in the Tamil country, Mr W. Francis writes as follows18:—

“A vow is taken by childless wives to install a serpent (nāgapratishtai), if they are blessed with offspring. The ceremony consists in having a figure of a serpent cut in a stone slab, placing it in a well for six months, giving it life (prānapratishtai) by reciting mantrams and performing other ceremonies over it, and then setting it up under a pīpal tree (Ficus religiosa), which has been married to a margosa (Melia Azadirachta). Worship, which consists mainly in going round the tree 108 times, is then performed to it for the next forty-five days. Similar circumambulations will also bring good luck in a general way, if carried out subsequently.”

It is further recorded by Mr F. R. Hemingway19 that, “Brāhmans and the higher Vellālans think that children can be obtained by worshipping the cobra. Vellālans and Kallans perform the worship on a Friday. Among the Vellālans, this is generally after the Pongal festival. The Vellālans make an old woman cry aloud in the backyard that a sacrifice will be made to the cobra next day, and that they pray it will accept the offering. At the time of sacrifice, cooked jaggery (crude sugar) and rice, burning ghī in the middle of rice-flour, and an egg, are offered to the cobra, and left in the backyard for its acceptance. The Pallis annually worship the cobra by pouring milk on an ant-hill, and sacrificing a fowl near it. Valaiyans, Pallans, and Paraiyans sacrifice a fowl in their own backyards.”

In the Tamil country, children whose birth is attributed to a vow taken by childless mothers to offer a snake cut on a stone slab, sometimes have a name bearing reference [134]to snakes given to them, i.e., Sēshāchalam,20 Sēshamma, Nāgappa, or Nāgamma. Nāga, Nāgasa, or Nāgēswara, occurs as the name of a totemistic exogamous sept or gōtra of various classes in Ganjam and Vizagapatam. In the Odiya caste of farmers in Ganjam, members of the Nāgabonso sept claim to be descendants of Nāgamuni, the serpent rishi. Nāgavadam (cobra’s hood) is the name of a subdivision of the Tamil Pallis, who wear an ornament called nāgavadam, representing a cobra, in the dilated lobes of the ears.

Ant (i.e., white-ant, Termes) hills, which have been repeatedly referred to in this chapter, are frequently inhabited by cobras, and offerings of milk, fruit, and flowers are consequently made to them on certain ceremonial occasions. Thus it is recorded,21 by the Rev. J. Cain that when he was living in Ellore Fort in the Godāvari district, in September, 1873, “a large crowd of people, chiefly women and children, came in, and visited every white-ant hill, poured upon each their offerings of milk, flowers, and fruit, to the intense delight of all the crows in the neighbourhood. The day was called the Nāgula Chaturdhi—Chaturdhi, the fourth day of the eighth lunar month—and was said to be the day when Vāsuki, Takshakā, and the rest of the thousand Nāgulu were born to Kasyapa Brahma by his wife Kadruva.22 The other chief occasions when these ant-hills are resorted to are when people are affected with earache or pains in the eye, and certain skin diseases. They visit the ant-hills, pour out milk, cold rice, fruit, etc., and carry away part of the earth, which they apply to the [135]troublesome member, and, if they afterwards call in a Brāhman to repeat a mantra or two, they feel sure the complaint will soon vanish. Many parents first cut their children’s hair near one of these hillocks, and offer the first fruits of the hair to the serpents residing there.”

The colossal Jain figure of Gomatēsvara, Gummatta, or Gomata Rāya, at Srāvana Belgola in Mysore,23 is represented as surrounded by white-ant hills, from which snakes are emerging, and with a climbing plant twining itself round the legs and arms.

On the occasion of the snake festival in the Telugu country, the Bōya women worship the Nāgala Swāmi (snake god) by fasting, and pouring milk into the holes of white-ant hills. By this a double object is fulfilled. The ant-hill is a favourite dwelling of the cobra, and was, moreover, the burial-place of Valmīki, from whom the Bōyas claim to be descended. Valmīki was the author of the Rāmāyana, and is believed to have done penance for so long in one spot that a white-ant hill grew up round him. On the Nāgarapanchami day, Lingāyats worship the image of a snake made of earth from a snake’s hole with offerings of milk, rice, cocoanuts, flowers, etc. During the month Aswija, Lingāyat girls collect earth from ant-hills, and place it in a heap at the village temple. Every evening they go there with wave-offerings, and worship the heap. At the Dipāvali festival,24 the Gamallas (Telugu toddy-drawers) bathe in the early morning, and go in wet clothes to an ant-hill, before which they prostrate themselves, and pour a little water into one of the holes. Round the hill they wind five turns of cotton thread, and return home. Subsequently [136]they come once more to the ant-hill with a lamp made of flour paste. Carrying the light, they go three or five times round the hill, and throw split pulse (Phaseolus Mungo) into one of the holes. On the following morning they again go to the hill, pour milk into it, and snap the threads wound round it.

The famous temple of Subramanya in South Canara is said to have been in charge of the Subramanya Stānikas (temple servants), till it was wrested from them by the Shivalli Brāhmans. In former times, the privilege of sticking a golden ladle into a heap of food piled up in the temple on the Shasti day is said to have belonged to the Stānikas. They also brought earth from an ant-hill on the previous day. Food from the heap, and some of the earth, are received as sacred articles by devotees who visit the sacred shrine.

At the Smasanākollai festival in honour of the goddess Ankalamma at Malayanūr, some thousands of people congregate at the temple. In front of the stone idol is a large ant-hill, on which two copper idols are placed, and a brass vessel is placed at the base of the hill, to receive the various offerings.

At a wedding among the nomad Lambādis, the bride and bridegroom pour milk into an ant-hill, and offer cocoanuts, milk, etc., to the snake which lives therein. During the marriage ceremonies of the Dandāsis (village watchmen in Ganjam), a fowl is sacrificed at an ant-hill. At a Bēdar (Canarese cultivator) wedding, the earth from an ant-hill is spread near five water-pots, and on it are scattered some paddy (unhusked rice) and dhāl (Cajanus indicus) seeds. The spot is visited later on, and the seeds should have sprouted. [137]

1 Madras Standard, 2nd June, 1903.

2 A tarawad means a family, consisting of all the descendants in the female line of one common female ancestor.

3 The senior male in a tarawad or tarwad.

4 See Calcutta Review, July, 1901, cxiii. 21–5.

5 Laterite is a reddish geological formation, found all over Southern India.

6 Madras Christian Coll. Mag., 1895, xiii., No. 1, 24–5.

7 The pīpal or aswatha (Ficus religiosa). Many villages have such a tree with a platform erected round it, on which are carved figures of the elephant god Ganēsa, and cobras. Village panchāyats (councils) are often held on this platform.

8 Indian Patriot, 13th January, 1908.

9 Elayads, Ilayatus, or Nambiyatiris, are priests at most of the snake groves on the west coast.

10 Calcutta Review, July, 1901, cxiii. 21.

11 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd ed., 150.

12 Madras Standard, 2nd June, 1903.

13 “Gazetteer of Malabar,” 1908, i. 112.

14 See “Men and Women of India,” February, 1906.

15 “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 153–4.

16 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd ed., 147–8.

17 Vol. i. 105.

18 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 102.

19 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 70.

20 Sēsha or Adisēsha is the serpent, on which Vishnu is often represented as reclining.

21 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 188.

22 See the Skanda Purāna.

23 Other colossal statues of Gummatta are at Karkal and Vēnūr or Yēnūr in South Canara.

24 The feast of lights (dipa, lights, avali, a row).

[Contents]

V

Vows, Votive and other Offerings

In addition to the observance of penances and fasting, Hindus of all castes, high and low, make vows and offerings to the gods, with the object of securing their good-will or appeasing their anger. By the lower castes, offerings of animals—fowls, sheep, goats, or buffaloes—are made, and the gods whom they seek to propitiate are minor deities, e.g., Ellamma or Muneswara, to whom animal sacrifices are acceptable.1 The higher castes usually perform vows to Venkatēswara of Tirupati, Subramanya of Palni, Vīrarāghava of Tiruvallur, Tirunārayana of Mēlkote, and other celebrated gods. But they may, if afflicted with serious illness, at times, as at the leaf festival at Periyapalayam (p. 148), seek the good offices of minor deities.

“A shrine,” Mr F. Fawcett writes,2 “to which the Malayālis (inhabitants of Malabar), Nāyars included, resort is that of Subramaniya at Palni in the north-west of the Madura district. Not only are vows paid to this shrine, but men, letting their hair grow for a year after their father’s death, proceed to have it cut there. The plate shows an ordinary Palni pilgrim. The arrangement which he is carrying is called a kāvadi (portable shrine). There [138]are two kinds of kāvadi, a milk kāvadi containing milk, and a fish kāvadi containing fish. The vow may be made in respect of either, each being appropriate to certain circumstances. [Miniature silver kāvadis, and miniature crowns, are sometimes offered by pilgrims to the god.] When the time comes near for the pilgrim to start for Palni, he dresses in reddish-orange clothes, shoulders his kāvadi, and starts out. Together with a man ringing a bell, and perhaps one with a tom-tom, with ashes on his face, he assumes the rôle of a beggar. The well-to-do are inclined to reduce the beggar period to the minimum, but a beggar every votary must be, and as a beggar he goes to Palni in all humbleness and humiliation, and there he fulfils his vow, leaves his kāvadi and his hair, and a small sum of money. Though the individuals about to be noticed were not Nāyars, their cases illustrate very well the religious idea of the Nāyar as expressed under certain circumstances. It was at Guruvayūr (in Malabar) in November 1895. On a high raised platform under a peepul tree were a number of people under vows, bound for Palni. A boy of fourteen had suffered as a child from epilepsy, and seven years ago his father vowed on his behalf that, if he was cured, he would make his pilgrimage to Palni. He wore a string of beads round his neck, and a like string on his right arm. These were in some way connected with the vow. His head was bent, and he sat motionless under his kāvadi, leaning on the bar, which, when he carried it, rested on his shoulder. He could not go to Palni until it was revealed to him in a dream when he was to start. He had waited for his dream seven years, subsisting on roots (yams, etc.), and milk—no rice. Now he had had the longed-for dream, and was about to start. Another pilgrim was a man wearing an oval band of silver over the lower portion of the forehead, almost covering his eyes; his tongue protruding beyond the mouth, and kept in position by a silver skewer through it. The skewer was put in the day before, and was to be left in for forty days. He had been fasting for two years. He was much [139]under the influence of the god, and whacking incessantly at a drum in delicious excitement. Several of the pilgrims had a handkerchief tied over the mouth, they being under a vow of silence. [At Kumbakonam in the Tanjore district, ‘there is a math in honour of a recently deceased saint named Paradēsi, who attained wide fame in the district some years ago. He never spoke, and was welcomed and feasted everywhere, and was the subject of many vows. People used to promise to break cocoanuts in his presence, or clothe him with fine garments, if they obtained their desire, and such vows were believed to be very efficacious.’3 At the Manjēshwar Temple in South Canara, there is a Darsana, (man who gets inspired) called the dumb Darsana, as he gives signs instead of speaking. Bishop Whitehead records4 the case of a Brāhman, who had taken a vow of silence for twenty-one years, because people make so much mischief by talking. He conversed by means of signs and writing in the dust]. One poor man wore the regular instrument of silence, the mouth-lock5—a wide silver band over the mouth, and a skewer piercing both cheeks. He sat patiently in a tent-like affair. People fed him with milk, etc. The use of the mouth-lock is common with the Nāyars, when they assume the pilgrim’s robes and set out for Palni. Pilgrims generally go in crowds under charge of a priestly guide, one who, having made a certain number of journeys to the shrine, wears a peculiar sash and other gear.”

In connection with kāvadis, it may be noted that, at the time of the annual migration of the sacred herd of cattle belonging to the Kāppiliyans (Canarese farmers in the Madura district) to the hills, the driver is said to carry a pot of fresh-drawn milk within a kāvadi. On the day on which the return journey to the Kambam [140]valley is commenced, the pot is opened, and the milk is said to be found in a hardened state. A slice thereof is cut off, and given to each person who accompanied the herd to the hills. It is believed that the milk would not remain in good condition, if the sacred herd had been in any way injuriously affected during its sojourn there. The usual vow performed at the shrine of Dandāyudhapāni or Subramanya near Settikulam in the Trichinopoly district is to carry milk, sugar, flour, etc., in a kāvadi, and offer it to the god.6 A case is recorded7 from Ceylon, in which a man who was about to proceed with a kāvadi to a shrine was held by several men, while a blow with the palm of the hand caught him in the middle of the back, to numb the pain created by the forcing of sharp iron hooks into the fleshy part of the back.

Reference has been made (p. 137) to the offering of hair by devotees at the Palni shrine. When people are prevented from going to a temple at the proper time, hair is sometimes removed from their children’s head, sealed up in a vessel, and put into the receptacle for offerings when the visit to the temple is paid. In cases of dangerous sickness, the hair is sometimes cut off, and offered to a deity.

“The sacrifice of locks,” Mr A. Srinivasan writes, “is meant to propitiate deceased relations, and the deity which presides over life’s little joys and sorrows. It is a similar intention that has dictated the ugly disfigurement of widows. We meet with the identical fact and purpose in the habit of Telugu Brāhmans and non-Brāhmans in general, sacrificing their whole locks of hair to the goddess Ganga of Prayaga, to the god Venkatēsa of Tirupati, and other local gods. The Brāhman ladies of the south have [141]more recently managed to please Ganga and other gods with just one or two locks of hair.”

Sometimes, in performance of a vow, Patnūlkāran (Madura weaver) boys are taken to the shrine at Tirupati for the tonsure ceremony.8 Married couples desirous of offspring make a vow that, if a child be granted to them, they will perform the ceremony of the first shaving of its head at the temple of the god who fulfils their desire.9 It is said10 that Alagarkōvil in the Madura district is such a favourite place for carrying out the first shaving of the heads of children, that the right to the locks presented to the shrine is annually sold by auction.

Writing in 1872, Mr Breeks remarked11 that “about Ootacamund, a few Todas have latterly begun to imitate the religious practices of their native neighbours, and my particular friend Kinniaven, after an absence of some days, returned with a shaven head from a visit to the temple of Siva at Nanjengudi” (in Mysore).

A Toda who came to see me had his hair hanging down in long tails reaching below the shoulders. He had, he said, let it grow long because his wife, though married five years, had borne no child. A child had, however, recently been born, and he was going to sacrifice his locks as a thank-offering at the Nanjengōd temple. By the Badagas of the Nīlgiris, the fire-walking ceremony is celebrated to propitiate the deity Jeddayaswāmi, to whom vows are made. In token thereof, they grow one twist or plait of hair, which is finally cut off as an offering to Jeddayaswāmi. [142]

By some Gavaras (a cultivating caste) of Vizagapatam, special reverence is paid to the deity Jagganāthaswāmi of Orissa, whose shrine at Puri is visited by some, while others take vows in the name of the god. On the day of the car festival at Puri, local car festivals are held in Gavara villages, and women carry out the performance of their vows. A woman, for example, who is under a vow, in order that she may be cured of illness or bear children, takes a big pot of water, and, placing it on her head, dances frantically before the god, through whose influence the water which rises out of the pot falls back into it, instead of being spilt. The class of Vaishnavite mendicants called Dāsari claims descent from a wealthy Sūdra,12 who, having no offspring, vowed that, if he was blessed with children, he would devote one to the service of the deity. He subsequently had many sons, one of whom he named Dāsan, and placed entirely at the service of the god. Dāsan forfeited all claim to his father’s estate, and his descendants are therefore all beggars.13 In a note on the Dāsaris of Mysore,14 it is stated that “they become Dāsas or servants dedicated to the god at Tirupati by virtue of a peculiar vow, made either by themselves or their relatives at some moment of anxiety or danger, and live by begging in his name. Among certain castes (e.g., Banajiga, Tigala, and Vakkaliga), the custom of taking a vow to become a Dāsari prevails. In fulfilment of that vow, the person becomes a Dāsari, and his eldest son is bound to follow suit.”

It may be noted that, in the Canarese country, a custom obtains among the Bēdars and some other castes, under which a family which has no male issue must dedicate [143]one of its daughters as a Basavi.15 The girl is taken to the temple, and married to the god, a tāli (marriage badge) and toe-rings being put on her. Thenceforward she becomes a public woman, except that she should not consort with any one of lower caste than herself. It may be added that a Basavi usually lives faithfully with one man, and she works for her family as hard as any other woman.

Married couples, to whom offspring is born after the performance of a vow, sometimes name it after the deity whose aid has been invoked, such as Srinivāsa at Tirupati, Lakshminarasimha at Sholingūr, or some other local god or goddess. At Negapatam, some Hindus make vows to the Mīrān (Muhammadan saint) of Nāgur, and name their child after him. The name thus given is not, however, used in every-day life, but abandoned like the ceremonial name given prior to the Hindu upanāyana ceremony. In the Telugu country, the poorer classes of Hindus sometimes promise that, if a son is born to them, they will call him after a Muhammadan Fakir, and, consequently, it is far from uncommon to find a Hindu named Fakirgadu or Fakirappa, with a Hindu termination to a Muhammadan commencement.16

It has been noted (p. 138) that some pilgrims to the shrine at Palni have a skewer piercing both cheeks. It is recorded by Bishop Whitehead17 that “devotees go to the shrine of Durgamma at Bellary with silver pins about six inches long thrust through their cheeks, and with a lighted lamp in a brass dish on their head. On arriving before the shrine, they place the lamp on the ground, and the pin is removed, and offered to the goddess.” [144]

The Bishop was told that the object of this ceremony is to enable the devotee to come to the shrine with a concentrated mind.

A common form of vow made to Māriamman at Pāppakkālpatti in the Trichinopoly district is a promise to stick little iron skewers into the body. In performance of vows, the Sēdans and Kaikōlans (weaver castes) pierce some part of the body with a spear. The latter thrust a spear through the muscles of the abdomen in honour of their god Sāhā-nayanar at Ratnagiri.

At the annual festival of the goddess Gangamma at Tirupati, a Kaikōlan devotee dances before the goddess, and, when he is worked up to the proper pitch of frenzy, a metal wire is passed through the middle of his tongue. It is believed that the operation causes no pain or bleeding, and the only remedy adopted is the chewing of margosa (Melia Azadirachta) leaves and some kunkumam (red powder) of the goddess. If, during a temple car procession, the car refuses to move, the Vīramushtis (Lingāyat mendicants), who are guardians of the idol, cut themselves with their swords until it is set in motion. There is a proverb that the Siva Brāhman (temple priest) eats well, whereas the Vīramushti hurts himself with the sword, and suffers much. The Vīramushtis are said, in former days, to have performed a ceremony called pāvadam. When an orthodox Lingāyat was insulted, he would swallow his lingam, and lie flat on the ground in front of the house of the offender, who had to collect some Lingāyats, and send for a Vīramushti. He had to arrive accompanied by a pregnant Vīramushti woman, priests of Draupadi, Pachaiamman, and Pothurāja temples, some individuals from the nearest Lingāyat mutt, and others. Arrived at the house, the pregnant woman would sit down in front of the person lying on the ground. [145]With his sword the Vīramushti man then made cuts in his scalp and chest, and sprinkled the recumbent man with the blood. He would then rise, and the lingam would come out of his mouth. Mondi mendicants, when engaged in begging, cut the skin of the thighs with a knife, lie down and beat their chest with a stone, vomit, roll in the dust or mud, and throw ordure into the houses of those who will not contribute alms. It was noted, in a recent report of the Banganapalle State, that an inām (grant of rent-free land) was held on condition of the holder “ripping open his stomach” at a certain festival.

A vow performed in honour of the village goddess at Settikulam in the Trichinopoly district is for the votaries, male and female, to fling themselves on heaps of thorns before her. This vow is generally fulfilled by those cured of disease. It is called mullu padagalam, or bed of thorns.18 At the annual fire-walking festival at Nuvagode in Ganjam, the officiating priest sits on a seat of sharp thorns. It is noticed19 by the missionary Gloyer that, on special occasions, some Dōmbs in Vizagapatam fall into a frenzied state, in which they cut their flesh with sharp instruments, or pass long, thin iron bars through the tongue and cheeks, during which operation no blood must flow. For this purpose, the instruments are rubbed over with some blood-congealing material. They also affect sitting on a sacred swing, armed with long iron nails. Mr G. F. Paddison informs me that he once saw a villager in the Vizagapatam district sitting outside the house, while groans proceeded from within. He explained that he was ill, and his wife was swinging on nails with their points upwards, to cure him. [146]

In the Tanjore district, persons afflicted with disease promise that, if they are cured, they will brand their bodies, go round a temple a certain number of times by rolling over and over in the dust, and offer a pregnant goat by stabbing it through the womb. Sometimes vows of self-mortification are taken in anticipation of relief. Such are undertaking to go without salt in one’s food, or to eat without using the hands, until a cure is effected.20 At Palni in the Madura district, there is an annual feast at the Māriamman temple, at which people, in performance of a vow, carry in their bare hands earthen pots with a bright fire blazing inside them. They are said to escape burns by the favour of the goddess, but it is whispered that immunity is sometimes rendered doubly sure by putting sand or rice-husk at the bottom of the pot.21 Some Dāsaris (religious mendicants) go through a performance called Panda Sērvai, which consists in beating themselves with a flaming torch all over the body. I am informed by Mr Paddison that some Dōmbs are reputed to be able to pour blazing oil all over their bodies, without suffering any hurt; and one man is said to have had a miraculous power of hardening his skin, so that any one could have a free shot at him without hurting him. In the Mēlūr tāluk of the Madura district, it is stated that women who are anxious for offspring vow that, if they attain their wish, they will go and have a cocoanut broken on their head by a priest at the temple of Sendurai.22 At an annual festival in honour of the god Sērvarāyan on the Shevaroy hills in the Salem district, those Malayālis who wish to take a vow to be faithful to their god have to receive [147]fifteen lashes on the bare back with a stout leather thong, administered by the chief priest.

The annual festival at the temple of Karamadai in the Coimbatore district is visited by about forty or fifty thousand pilgrims, belonging for the most part to the lower classes. In case of sickness or other calamity, they take a vow to perform one of the following:—

(1) To pour water at the feet of the idol inside the temple. Each devotee is provided with a goat-skin bag, or a new earthen pot. He goes to the tank, and, after bathing, fills the receptacle with water, carries it to the temple, and empties it before the idol. This is repeated a number of times according to the nature of the vow. If the vow is a life-long one, it has to be performed every year until death.

(2) To give kavalam to Dāsaris (religious mendicants). Kavalam consists of plantain fruits cut up into small slices, and mixed with sugar, jaggery (crude sugar), fried grain, or beaten rice. The Dāsaris are attached to the temple, and wear short drawers, with strings of small brass bells tied to their wrists and ankles. They appear to be possessed, and move wildly about to the beating of drums. As they go about, the devotees put some of the kavalam into their mouths. The Dāsaris eat a little, and spit out the remainder into the hands of the devotees, who eat it. This is believed to cure all disease, and to give children to those who partake of it. In addition to kavalam, some put betel leaves in the mouths of the Dāsaris, who, after chewing them, spit them into the mouths of the devotees. At night the Dāsaris carry torches made of rags, on which the devotees pour ghī (clarified butter). Some people say that, many years ago, barren women used to take a vow to visit the temple at the time of the festival, and, after offering kavalam, [148]have sexual intercourse with the Dāsaris. The temple authorities, however, profess ignorance of this practice.

On the last day of the Gangajatra festival at Tirupati, a figure is made of clay and straw, and placed in the tope (grove), where crowds of all classes, including Paraiyans, present food to it. Buffaloes, goats, sheep, and fowls are sacrificed, and it is said that Brāhmans, though they will not be present, send animals to be slaughtered. At the conclusion of the festivities, the image is burnt during the feast, which last over ten days, the lower orders of the people paint themselves, and indulge in much boisterous merriment. Those who have made a vow to Ganga fast for some days before the festival begins. They wear a structure made of bamboo in the form of a car, which is decorated with paper of different colours, and supported by iron nails pressed into the belly and back. They go about with this structure on their heads. Those who have been attacked by cholera, or other serious disease, make a vow to Ganga, and perform this ceremonial.

A festival, which is attended by huge crowds of Hindus of all classes, takes place annually in the month of Audi (July-August) at the village of Periyapālayam, about sixteen miles from Madras, where the goddess Māriamma is worshipped under the name of Periyapālayaththamman. According to the legend, as narrated by the Rev. A. C. Clayton,23

“there was once a Rishi (sage), who lived on the banks of the Periyapālayam river with his wife Bavāni. Every morning she used to bathe in the river, and bring back water for the use of the household. But she never took any vessel with her in which to bring the water home, for she was so chaste that she had acquired power to [149]form a water-pot out of the dry river sand, and carry the water home in it. One day, while bathing, she saw the reflection of the face of the sky-god, Indra, in the water, and could not help admiring it. When she returned to the bank of the river, and tried to form her water-pot out of sand as usual, she could not do so, for her admiration of Indra had ruined her power, and she went home sadly to fetch a brass water-vessel. Her husband saw her carrying this to the river, and at once suspected her of unchastity, and, calling his son, ordered him to strike off her head with a sword. It was in vain that the son tried to avoid matricide. He had to obey, but he was so agitated by his feelings that, when at last he struck at his mother, he cut off not only her head, but that of a leather-dresser’s wife who was standing near. The two bodies lay side by side. The rishi was so pleased with his son’s obedience that he promised him any favour that he should ask, but he was very angry when the son at once begged that his mother might be restored to life. Being compelled to keep his word, he told the son that, if he put his mother’s head on her trunk, she would again live. The son tried to do so, but in his haste took up the head of the leather-dresser’s wife by mistake, and put it on Bavāni’s body. Leather-dressers are flesh-eaters, and so it comes about that, on days when her festival is celebrated, Bavāni—now a goddess—longs for meat, and thousands of sheep, goats, and fowls, must be slain at her shrine. This legend bears marks of Brāhmanic influence. Curiously enough, the priest of this Paraiya shrine is himself a Brāhman.”

The vows, which are performed at the festival at Periyapālayam, are as follows:—

(1) Wearing a garment of margosa (Melia Azadirachta) leaves, or wearing an ordinary garment, and carrying a lighted lamp made of rice-flour on the head. [150]

(2) Carrying a pot decorated with flowers and margosa leaves round the temple.

(3) Going round the temple, rolling on the ground.

(4) Throwing a live fowl on to the top of the temple.

(5) Throwing a cocoanut in front, prostrating on the ground in salutation, going forward several paces and again throwing the cocoanut, and repeating the procedure till three circuits of the temple have been made.

(6) Giving offerings to the idol Parasurāma, cradle with baby made of clay or wood, etc., to bring offspring to the childless, success in a lawsuit or business transaction, and other good luck. In addition, pongal (boiled rice) has to be offered, and by some a sheep or goat is sacrificed. If a vow has been made on behalf of a sick cow, the animal is bathed in the river, clad in margosa leaves, and led round the temple. The leaf-wearing vow is resorted to by the large majority of the devotees, and performed by men, women and children. Those belonging to the more respectable classes go through it in the early morning, before the crowd has collected in its tens of thousands. The leafy garments are purchased from hawkers, who do a brisk trade in the sale thereof. The devotees have to pay a modest fee for admission to the temple precincts, and go round the shrine three or more times. Concerning the Periyapālayam festival, a recent writer observes that, “the distinctive feature is that the worshippers are clad in leaves. The devotees are bound to wear a garment made of fresh margosa twigs with their leaves. This garment is called vēpansilai. It consists of a string three or four yards long, from which depend, at intervals of two to three inches apart, twigs measuring about two feet in length, and forming a fringe of foliage. This string being wound several times round the waist, the fringe of leaves forms [151]a kilt or short petticoat. Men are content to wear the kilt, but women also wear round their neck a similar garment, which forms a short cloak reaching to the waist. To impress on devotees the imperative obligation imposed on them to wear the leaf garment in worshipping the goddess, it is said that a young married woman, being without children, made a vow to the goddess that, on obtaining a son, she would go on a pilgrimage to Periyapālayam, and worship her in accordance with the ancient rite. Her prayer having been answered, she gave birth to a son, and went to Periyapālayam to fulfil her vow. When, however, it was time to undress and put on the vēpansilai, her modesty revolted. Unobserved by her party, she secretly tied a cloth round her waist before putting on the vēpansilai. So attired, she went to the temple to worship. On seeing her coming, the goddess detected her deceit, and, waxing wroth, set the woman’s dress all ablaze, and burnt her so severely that she died.”

It is noted by Bishop Whitehead24 that it was formerly the custom for women to come to the shrine of Durgamma at Bellary clad in twigs of the margosa tree. But this is now only done by children, the grown-up women putting the margosa twigs over a cloth wrapped round the loins. At a festival of the village goddess at Kudligi in the Bellary district, the procession is said by Mr F. Fawcett to be headed by a Mādiga (Telugu Pariah) naked save for a few margosa leaves. The wearing of these leaves on the occasion of festivals in honour of Māriamma is a very general custom throughout Southern India. Garments made of leaves are still worn by the females of some tribes on the west coast, e.g., the Thanda Pulayans, Vettuvans, and Koragas. Concerning the Koragas, Mr Walhouse writes25 that they [152]“wear an apron of twigs and leaves over the buttocks. Once this was the only covering allowed them, and a mark of their deep degradation. But now, when no longer compulsory, and of no use, as it is worn over the clothes, the women still retain it, believing its disuse would be unlucky.”

“Kūvvākkam in the South Arcot district is known for its festival to Aravān (more correctly Irāvān) or Kūttāndar, which is one of the most popular feasts with Sūdras in the whole district. Aravān was the son of Arjuna, one of the five Pāndava brothers. Local traditions says that, when the great war which is described in the Mahābhārata was about to begin, the Kauravas, the opponents of the Pāndavas, to bring them success, sacrificed a white elephant. The Pāndavas were in despair of being able to find any such uncommon object with which to propitiate the gods, until Arjuna suggested that they should offer up his son Aravān. Aravān agreed to yield his life for the good of the cause, and, when eventually the Pāndavas were victorious, he was deified for the self-abnegation which had thus brought his side success. Since he died in his youth, before he had been married, it is held to please him if men, even though grown up and already wedded, come now and offer to espouse him, and men who are afflicted with serious diseases take a vow to marry him at his annual festival in the hope of thereby being cured. The festival occurs in May, and for eighteen nights the Mahābhārata is recited by a Palli (Tamil agriculturist),26 large numbers of people, especially of that caste, assembling to hear it read. On the eighteenth night, a wooden image of Kūttāndar is taken to a tope (grove) and seated there. This is the signal for the sacrifice of an enormous number of fowls. Every one who comes brings one or two, and the number killed runs literally into thousands. While this is going on, all the men who have taken vows to be [153]married to the deity appear before his image dressed like women, make obeisance, offer to the priest (who is a Palli by caste) a few annas, and give into his hands the tālis (marriage badge worn by women) which they have brought with them. These the priest, as representing the God, ties round their necks. The God is brought back to his shrine that night, and, when in front of the building, he is hidden by a cloth held before him. This symbolises the sacrifice of Aravān, and the men who have just been married to him set up loud lamentations at the death of their husband. Similar vows are taken and ceremonies performed, it is said, at the shrines of Kūttāndar, two miles north-west of Porto Novo, and Ādivarāhanattum (five miles north-west of Chidambaram), and, in recent years, at Tiruvarkkulam (one mile east of the latter place); other cases probably occur.”27

Vettuvans Wearing Leafy Garments.

To face p. 152.

I am informed by Mr R. F. Stoney that, in the Madura district, iron chains are hung on bābūl (Acacia arabica) trees, and dedicated to the rustic deity Karuppan. At Mēlūr Mr Stoney saw large masses of such chains, which are made by the village blacksmiths. They are very rough, and are furnished at one end with what is said to be a sickle, and also a spear-head. I gather further28 that, in the Mēlūr tāluk, the shrine of Karuppan may usually be known by the hundreds of chains hung outside it, which have been presented to the god in performance of vows. The deity is said to be fond of bedecking himself with chains, and these offerings are usually suspended from a kind of horizontal bar made of two stone uprights supporting a slab of stone placed horizontally upon the top of them. The god is also fond of presents of clubs and swords.

“Sometimes,” a recent writer states, “a big chain hangs suspended from a tree, and the village panchāyats [154](tribunals) are held in the Aiyanar (or Sangali Karuppan) temple. The accused is made to submit to an ordeal in proof of innocence. The ordeal consists in his swearing on the chain, which he is made to touch. He has such a dread of this procedure, that, as soon as he touches the chain, he comes out with the truth, failure to speak the truth being punished by some calamity, which he believes will overtake him within a week. These chains are also suspended to the trees near the temples of village goddesses, and used by village panchāyats to swear the accused in any trial before them.”

It is narrated29 by Moor that he “passed a tree, on which were hanging several hundred bells. This was a superstitious sacrifice by the Bandjanahs,30 who, passing this tree, are in the habit of hanging a bell or bells upon it, which they take from the necks of their sick cattle, expecting to leave behind them the complaint also. Our servants particularly cautioned us against touching these diabolical bells; but, as a few were taken for our own cattle, several accidents that happened were imputed to the anger of the deity to whom these offerings were made, who, they say, inflicts the same disorder on the unhappy bullock who carries a bell from this tree as he relieved the donor from.”

At Diguvemetta in the Kurnool district, I came across a number of bells, both large and small, tied to the branches of a tamarind tree, beneath which were an image of the deity Malalamma, and a stone bull (Nandi). Suspended from a branch of the same tree was a thick rope, to which were attached heads, skulls, mandibles, thigh-bones, and feet of fowls, and the foot of a goat. [155]

Mr Fawcett once saw, at a Savara village in Ganjam, a gaily ornamented hut near a burning-ground. Rude figures of birds and red rags were tied to five bamboos, which were sticking up in the air about eight feet above the hut, one at each corner, and one in the centre. A Savara said that he built the hut for his dead brother, and had buried the bones in it.31 It is noted by the Rev. J. Cain32 that, in some places, the Lambādis fasten rags torn from some old garment to a bush in honour of Kampalamma (kampa, a thicket). On the side of a road from Bastar are several large heaps of stones, which they have piled up in honour of the goddess Guttalamma. Every Lambādi who passes the heaps is bound to place one stone on the heap, and make a salaam to it. It is further recorded by Mr Walhouse33 that, when going from the Coimbatore plains to the Mysore frontier, he saw a thorn-bush rising out of a heap of stones piled round it, and bearing bits of rag tied to its branches by Lambādis. In the Telugu country, rags are offered to a god named Pathalayya (Mr Rags). On the trunk-roads in the Nellore district, rags may be seen hanging from the bābūl (Acacia arabica) trees. These are offerings made to Pathalayya by travellers, who tear off pieces of their clothing with a vague idea that the offering thereof will render their journey free from accidents, such as upsetting of their carts, or meeting with robbers. Outside the temple of the village goddess at Ojini in the Bellary district, Mr Fawcett tells us,34 “are hung numbers of miniature cradles and bangles presented by women who have borne children, or been cured of sickness through [156]the intervention of the goddess. Miniature cows are presented by persons whose cows have been cured of sickness, and doll-like figures for children. One swāmi (god) there is, known by a tree hung with iron chains, hooks—anything iron; another by rags, and so on. The ingenious dhōbi (washerman), whose function is to provide torches on occasions, sometimes practises on the credulity of his countrymen by tying a few rags to a tree, which by and by is covered with rags, for the passers-by are not so stiff-necked as to ask for a sign other than a rag; and under cover of the darkness, the dhōbi makes his torch of the offerings.”

On the road to the temple at Tirumala (Upper Tirupati) in the North Arcot district, the goddess Gauthala Gangamma has her abode in a margosa or āvaram (Cassia auriculata) tree, surrounded by a white-ant hill. Passers-by tear off a piece of their clothing, and tie it to the branches, and place a small stone at the base of the ant-hill. Occasionally cooked rice is offered, fowls are sacrificed, and their heads and legs tied to the tree. In the Madura district, bits of rag are hung on the trees in which a deity named Sāttān is believed to reside.35 It is noted by Mr W. Francis36 that, “in some places in the South Arcot district, for example, on the feeder road to the Olakkūr station in Tindivānam tāluk and near the eighth mile of the road from Kallakurchi to Vriddhachalam, are trees on which passers-by have hung bits of rag, until they are quite covered with them. The latter of the two cases had its origin only a few years back in the construction by some shepherd boys of a toy temple to Ganēsa formed of a few stones under the tree, to draw attention to which they hung up a rag [157]or two. The tree is now quite covered with bits of cloth, and beneath it is a large pile of stones, which have been added one by one by the superstitious passers-by.”

It is recorded by the Abbé Dubois37 that “at Palni, in Madura, there is a famous temple consecrated to the god Velayuda, whose devotees bring offerings of a peculiar kind, namely large sandals, beautifully ornamented, and similar in shape to those worn by the Hindus on their feet. The god is addicted to hunting, and these shoes are intended for his use when he traverses the jungles and deserts in pursuit of his favourite sport. Such shabby gifts, one might think, would go very little way towards filling the coffers of the priests of Velayuda. Nothing of the sort: Brahmins always know how to reap profit from anything. Accordingly the new sandals are rubbed on the ground and rolled a little in the dust, and are then exposed to the eyes of the pilgrims who visit the temple. It is clear enough that the sandals must have been worn on the divine feet of Velayuda; and they become the property of whosoever pays the highest price for such holy relics.”

Mr Walhouse informs us38 that the champak and other trees round the ancient shrine of the Trimurti at the foot of the Ānaimalai mountains are thickly hung with sandals and shoes, many of huge size, evidently made for the purpose, and suspended by pilgrims as votive offerings. The god of the temple at Tirumala is said to appear annually to four persons in different directions, east, west, south and north, and informs them that he requires a shoe from each of them. They whitewash their houses, worship the god, and spread rice-flour thickly on the [158]floor of a room, which is locked for the night. Next morning the mark of a huge foot is found on the floor, and the shoe has to be made to fit this. When ready, it is taken in procession through the streets of the village, conveyed to Tirumala, and presented to the temple. Though the makers of the shoes have worked in ignorance of each others’ work, the shoes brought from the north and south, and those from the east and west, are believed to match and make a pair. Though the worship of these shoes is chiefly meant for Paraiyans, who are prohibited from ascending the Tirupati hill, as a matter of fact all, without distinction of caste, worship them. The shoes are placed in front of the image of the god near the foot of the hill, and are said to gradually wear away by the end of the year.

“At Belūr in the Mysore Province,” Mr Lewis Rice writes,39 “the god of the temple is under the necessity of making an occasional trip to the Baba Budan hills to visit the goddess. On these occasions he is said to make use of a large pair of slippers kept for the purpose in the temple. When they are worn out, it devolves upon the chucklers (leather-workers) of Channagiri and Bisvapatna, to whom the fact is revealed in a dream, to provide new ones.”

In order to present the slippers, they are allowed to enter the courtyard of the temple.

On the way leading up to the temple at Tirumala, small stones heaped up in the form of a hearth, and knots tied in the leaves of young date-palms may be seen. These are the work of virgins who accompany the parties of pilgrims. The knots are tied to ensure the tying of the marriage tāli string on their necks, and the heaping up of the stones is done with a view to ensuring the [159]birth of children to them. If the girls revisit the hill after marriage and the birth of offspring, they untie the knot on a leaf, and disarrange one of the hearths. Men cause their name to be cut on rocks by the wayside, or on the stones with which the path leading to the temple is paved, in the belief that good luck will result if their name is trodden on by some pious man.

At Tirupati, a number of Balijas are engaged in the red sanders (Pterocarpus santalinus) wood-carving industry. Figures of deities, mythological figures, miniature temple cars, and domestic utensils, are among the articles turned out by them. Vessels made of red sanders wood carry no pollution, and can be used by women during the menstrual period, and taken back to the house without any purification ceremony. For the same reason, Sanyāsis (ascetics) use such vessels for performing worship. The carved figures are sold to pilgrims and others who visit Tirupati, and are also taken for sale to Conjeeveram, Madura, and other places, at times when important temple festivals are celebrated. Carved wooden figurines, male and female, represented in a state of nudity, are also manufactured at Tirupati, and sold to Hindus. Those who are childless perform on them the ear-boring ceremony, in the belief that, as the result thereof, issue will be born to them. Or, if there are grown-up boys or girls in a family, who remain unmarried, the parents celebrate the marriage ceremony between a pair of figurines, in the hope that the marriage of their children will speedily follow. They dress up the dolls in clothes and jewelry, and go through the ceremonial of a real marriage. Some there are who have spent as much money on a doll’s wedding as on a wedding in real life.

The simplest form of offerings consists of fruits, such [160]as plantains and cocoanuts. Without an offering of fruit no orthodox Hindu would think of entering a temple, or coming into the presence of a Native of position. The procession of servants and retainers, each bringing a gift of a lime fruit, on New Year’s Day is familiar to Anglo-Indians. By the rules of Government, framed with a view to preventing bribery, the prohibition of the receipt of presents from Native Chiefs and others does not extend to the receipt of a few flowers or fruits, and articles of inappreciable value, although even such trifling presents should be discouraged.

As a thanksgiving for recovery from illness, votive offerings frequently take the form of silver or gold representations of the part of the body affected, which are deposited in a vessel kept for the purpose at the temple. They are kept for sale in the vicinity of the temple, and must be offered by the person who has taken the vow, or on whose behalf it has been taken. When a person has been ill all over, a silver human figure, or a thin silver wire of the same length as himself, and representing him, is sometimes offered.

Of silver offerings from temples in the Tamil country, the Madras Museum possesses an extensive collection, in which are included the face, hands, feet, buttocks, tongue, larynx, navel, nose, ears, eyes, breasts, genitalia, etc.; snakes offered to propitiate the anger of serpents, snakes coiled in coitu, sandals, flags, umbrellas, and cocoanuts strung on a pole.

Silver Votive Offerings.

To face p. 160.

When litigation arises in Malabar in connection with the title to a house and compound (grounds) in which it stands, a vow is sometimes made to offer a silver model representing the property, if a favourable decree is obtained. Some time ago, a rich landlord offered at the temple a silver model representing the exact number of trees, house, [161]well, etc., and costing several hundreds of rupees, when a suit was decided in his favour.

In connection with the temple at Guruvayūr in Malabar, Mr Fawcett writes as follows40:—

“I visited the festival on one occasion, and purchase was made of a few offerings such as are made to the temple in satisfaction of vows—a very rude representation of an infant in silver, a hand, a leg, an ulcer, a pair of eyes, and, most curious of all, a silver string which represents a man, the giver. Goldsmiths working in silver and gold are to be seen just outside the gate of the temple, ready to provide at a moment’s notice the object that any person intends to offer, in case he is not already in possession of his votive offering.”

A Nāyar examined by Mr Fawcett was wearing a silver ring as a vow, which was to be given up at the next festival at Kottiūr in North Malabar. Another was wearing a silver bangle. He had a wound in his arm which was long in healing, so he made a vow to the god at Tirupati (Tirumala) that, if his arm was healed, he would give up the bangle at the temple.

A few years ago, a shrine was erected at Cochin for a picture of the Virgin and Child, which attained to great celebrity for its power of working miracles. “Many stories,” Mr Fawcett writes,41 “of the power of the picture are current. A fisherman, who had lost his nets, vowed to give a little net, if they were found. The votive offerings, which are sometimes of copper or brass, take strange forms. There are fishes, prawns, rice, cocoanut trees, cows, etc. A little silver model of a bridge was given by a contractor, who vowed, when he found his foundations were shaky, to give it if his work should [162]pass muster. The power of the picture is such that the votaries are not confined to the Christian community. There are among them many Hindus and Mahomedans.”

In South Canara, silver rats and pigs are offered to protect the crops from destruction by these animals. Silver rice-grains are offered when children do not take their food properly, and silver sheaves of grain if the crop is abundant. At Pyka, brass or clay figures of the tiger, leopard, elephant, wild boar, and bandicoot rat, are presented at the shrine of a female bhūtha42 named Poomanikunhoomani, to protect the crops and cattle from the ravages of these animals. The figures must be solid, as the bhūthas would be very angry if they were hollow. A brass figure of Sarabha, a mythological eight-legged animal, which is supposed to be the vehicle of the god Vīrabhadra, is presented as an offering to some Siva temples in South Canara in cases where a person is attacked with a form of ulcer known as Siva’s ulcer. Sometimes a silver lizard is offered at temples, to counteract the evils which would result from a lizard falling on some unlucky part of the body, such as the kudumi (hair knot) of a female. The lizard, associated with the name of Siva, is regarded as sacred. It is never intentionally killed, and, if accidentally hurt or killed, an image of it in gold or silver is presented by high caste Hindus to a Siva temple.43

Clay and Metal Offerings, South Canara.

To face p. 162.

In Malabar, a Brāhman magician transfers the spirits of those who have died an unnatural death to images made of gold, silver, or wood, which are placed in a temple or special building erected for them. It is said by Mr F. Fawcett, “to be a sacred duty to a deceased Tiyan in [163]Malabar, who was of importance, for example, the head of a family, to have a silver image of him made, and arrange for it being deposited in some temple, where it will receive its share of worship, and offerings of food and water. The temples at Tirunelli in Wynād and Tirunavayi, which are among the oldest in Malabar, were generally the resting-places of these images, but now some of the well-to-do deposit them much further afield, even at Benares and Rāmēsvaram. A silver image is presented to the local Siva temple, where, for a consideration, worship is done every new moon day. On each of these days, mantrams are supposed to be repeated a thousand times. When the image has been the object of these mantrams sixteen thousand times, it is supposed to have become eligible for final deposit at Tirunavayi or elsewhere.”

If a Muhammadan suffers from severe pain in the hand or foot, a vow is sometimes taken to the effect that a silver hand or foot will be taken to the grave of some saint, and put into the treasury which is kept there to meet the expenses of the annual ceremonies of the saint. At Vizagapatam44 there is a celebrated Muhammadan saint, who lies buried by the Durga on the top of the hill overlooking the harbour. He is considered to be all potent over the elements of the Bay of Bengal, and many a silver dhoni (native boat) is presented at his shrine by Hindu ship-owners after a successful voyage. A suit once arose between a Kōmati boat-owner and his Muhammadan captain during settlement of the accounts. The captain stated that, during a storm off the coast of Arakan, he had vowed a purse of rupees to the saint, and had duly presented it on his return. This sum he charged to the owner of the vessel, whose sole contention was that the vow had never been discharged; the propriety [164]of conciliating the saint in a hurricane he allowed. At Timmancherla in the Anantapur district there is a tomb of a holy Muhammadan named Masthan Ali, in whose honour a religious ceremony is held annually in April, which is attended by both Muhammadans and Hindus. The latter make vows at the tomb, which has a special reputation for granting offspring to the childless. The headman of the village, who is a Hindu, brings the first offerings in procession with much ceremony.45

At the annual festival at the temple at Nedamangad in Travancore, which is attended by large numbers of the lower classes, the worshippers are said by the Rev. S. Mateer46 to “bring with them wooden models of cows covered, in imitation of shaggy hair, with ears of rice. Many of these images are brought, each in a separate procession from its own place. The headmen are finely dressed with cloths stained purple at the edge. The image is borne on a bamboo frame, accompanied by a drum,” and carried round the temple. The Gudigars (wood-carvers) at Udipi in South Canara make life-size wooden buffaloes and large human figures as votive offerings for the Iswara Temple at Hiriadkāp, where they are set up in a row. By the Savaras of Vizagapatam, rudely carved and grotesque wooden representations of human beings, monkeys, lizards, parrots, peacocks, guns, pickaxes, daggers, etc., are dedicated to the tribal deity. They would not sell them to the district officer who acquired them on my behalf, but parted with them on the understanding that they would be worshipped by the Sirkar (Government). In like manner, the fishermen of the Ganjam coast objected to specimens of the gods which are placed in little shrines on the sea-shore being sent [165]to me, till they were told that it was because the Government had heard of their devotion to their gods that they wanted to have some of them in Madras. The gods, which are made in clay and wood, include Bengali Bābu riding on a black horse, who is believed to bless the fishermen, secure large hauls of fish for them, and protect them against danger when out fishing. It has been observed that this affinity between the Ganjam fishermen and the Bengali Bābu, resulting in the apotheosis of the latter, is certainly a striking example of the catholicity of hero-worship, and it would be interesting to know how long, and for what reasons the conception of protection has appealed to the followers of the piscatory industry. It was Sir George Campbell, the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, who compelled his Bengali officials, much against their inclination, to cultivate the art of equitation.

I am informed by Mr G. V. Ramamurthi Pantulu that the Savaras attend the markets or fairs held in the plains, or at the foot of the ghāts, to purchase salt and other articles. If a Savara is taken ill at the market or on his return thence, he attributes the illness to a spirit of the market called Biradi Sonum. The bulls which carry the goods of the Hindu merchants to the market are supposed to convey the spirit. In propitiating it, the Savara makes an image of a bull in straw, and, taking it out of his village, leaves it on the footpath, after a pig has been sacrificed. Owners of cattle take the animals when sick round the sacred hill at Tirukazhukunram in performance of a vow, in the belief that their health will be thus restored.

“A Brāhmini bull,” Mr A. Srinivasan writes, “is dedicated to the god Venkatēswara of Tirupati, for the benefit of the living in fulfilment of vows. The act of dedication and release is preceded by elaborate rituals [166]of marriage, as among men and women. The bride, which should be a heifer that has not calved, is furnished by the father-in-law of the donor. The heifer is united in holy wedlock to the bullock, after formal chanting of mantrams, by the tying of the tāli and toe-rings to the neck. In this sham marriage, the profuse ornamentation of the couple with saffron (turmeric) and red powder, the pouring of rice on their heads, and a procession through the streets with music, are conspicuous features.”

I am told that, if the devotee cannot afford a live animal, a mimic representative is made in rice.

Painted hollow images are made by special families of Kusavans (potters) known as pūjāri (priest), who, for the privilege of making them, have to pay an annual fee to the headman, who spends it on a festival at the caste temple. When a married couple are anxious to have female offspring, they take a vow to offer figures of the seven virgins (Saptha Kannimar), who are represented all seated in a row. If a male or female recovers from cholera, smallpox, or other severe illness, a figure of the corresponding sex is offered. A childless woman makes a vow to offer up the figure of a baby, if she brings forth offspring. Figures of animals—cattle, horses, sheep, etc.—are offered at the temple when they recover from sickness, or are recovered after they have been stolen. Horses made of clay, painted red and other colours, are set up in the fields to drive away demons, or as a thank-offering for recovery from sickness, or any piece of good luck. The villagers erect these horses in honour of the popular deity Ayanar, the guardian deity of the fields, who is a renowned huntsman, and is believed, when, with his wives Purna and Pushkala, he visits the village at night, to mount the horses, and ride down [167]the demons. Ayanar is said47 to be the special deity of the Kusavan caste. Kusavans are generally the pūjāris at his temples, and they make the earthenware, and brick and mortar horses and images, which are placed before these buildings. The pupils of the eyes of the various images are not painted in till they are taken to the temple, where offerings of fruit, etc., are first made. Even the pupils of a series of images which were specially made for me were not painted at the potter’s house, but in the verandah of the traveller’s bungalow where I was staying. A very interesting account of the nētra mangalya, or ceremony of painting the eyes of images, as performed by craftsmen in Ceylon, has been published by Mr A. K. Coomaraswamy.48 Therein he writes that “by far the most important ceremony connected with the building and decoration of a vihāra (temple), or with its renovation, was the actual netra mangalya or eye ceremonial. The ceremony had to be performed in the case of any image, whether set up in a vihāra or not. Even in the case of flat paintings it was necessary. D. S. Muhandiram, when making for me a book of drawings of gods according to the Rūpavaliya, left the eyes to be subsequently inserted on an auspicious occasion, with some simpler form of the ceremony described.”

On this subject, Knox writes as follows49:—

“Some, being devoutly disposed, will make the image of this god (Buddha) at their own charge. For the making whereof they must bountifully reward the Founder. Before the eyes are made, it is not accounted a god, but a lump of ordinary metal, and thrown about the shop with no more regard than anything else. But, when the eyes are to be made, the artificer is to have a good gratification, [168]besides the first agreed upon reward. The eyes being formed, it is thenceforward a god. And then, being brought with honour from the workman’s shop, it is dedicated by solemnities and sacrifices, and carried with great state into the shrine or little house, which is before built and prepared for it.”

Putting money into a receptacle (undi) as an offering to a particular deity is a very common custom. In the case of a popular god, such as the one at Tirumala, an earthen pot is sometimes replaced by a copper money-box or iron safe. In South Canara there was a well-to-do family, the members of which kept on depositing coins in the family undi, which were set apart for the Tirumala god during a number of generations. Not only in cases of sickness, but even when a member of the family went to a neighbouring village, and returned safely, a few coins were put into the undi. For some reason, the opening of the undi, and offering of its contents at Tirumala, was postponed, and, when it was finally opened, it was found to contain a miscellaneous collection of coins, current and uncurrent. When a temple is far away, and those who wish to make offerings thereat cannot, owing to the expense of the journey or other reason, go there themselves, the offerings are taken by a substitute. If the god to whom the offering is made is Srinivāsa of Tirumala, a small sum of money must be offered as compensation for not taking it in person. The god is sometimes called Vaddi Kāsulu Varu, in allusion to the money (kāsu) or interest. In some large towns, in the months of July and August, parties of devotees may be seen wandering about the streets, and collecting offerings to the god, which will be presented to him in due course. If a Kelasi (barber) in South Canara is seriously ill, he sometimes undertakes a vow to beg from door to door, [169]and convey the money thus collected to Tirumala. In his house he keeps a small closed box with a slit in the lid, through which he drops a coin at every stroke of misfortune, and the contents are eventually sent to the holy shrine.50 A few years ago, a Native complained to the police that about seven hundred rupees had been stolen from some brass pots, which he kept in a separate room of his house. The money, he stated, was dedicated to the Tirumula temple, and was kept in the pots buried in paddy (unhusked rice). He himself had put in about fifty rupees during the time that the pots had been in his charge, either as an annual contribution, or on occasions of sickness. His mother stated that it had been a custom in the family to put money into the vessel for several generations, and she had never seen the pots opened.

It is whispered that Kallan dacoits invoke the aid of their deity Alagarswāmi, when they are setting out on marauding expeditions, and, if they are successful therein, put part of their ill-gotten gains into the offertory box, which is kept at his shrine.51 In this connection, the Rev. J. Sharrock states that “there is an understanding that, if their own village gods help them in their thefts, they are to have a fair share of the spoil, and, on the principle of honour among thieves, the bargain is always kept. When strange deities are met with on their thieving expeditions, it is usual to make a vow that, if the adventure turns out well, part of the spoil shall next day be left at the shrine of the god, or be handed over to the pujāri of that particular deity. They are afraid that, if this precaution be not taken, the god may make them blind, or cause them to be discovered, or [170]may go so far as to knock them down, and leave them to bleed to death.”

The most popular of the Muhammadan saints who are buried at Porto Novo, where a considerable number of Marakkāyars (Muhammadans) are engaged as sailors,

“is one Mālumiyar, who was apparently in his lifetime a notable sea-captain. His fame as a sailor has been magnified into the miraculous, and it is declared that he owned ten or a dozen ships, and used to appear in command of all of them simultaneously. He has now the reputation of being able to deliver from danger those who go down to the sea in ships, and sailors setting out on a voyage, or returning from one in safety, usually put an offering in the little box kept at his darga, and these sums are expended in keeping that building lighted and whitewashed. Another curious darga in the town is that of Araikāsu Nāchiyar, or the one pie lady. Offerings to her must on no account be worth more than one pie (1/192 of a rupee); tributes in excess of that value are of no effect. If sugar for so small an amount cannot be procured, the devotee spends the money on chunam (lime) for her tomb, and this is consequently covered with a superabundance of whitewash. Stories are told of the way in which the valuable offerings of rich men have altogether failed to obtain her favour, and have had to be replaced by others of the regulation diminutive dimensions.”52

The chief god of the Dōmbs of Vizagapatam is said53 to be represented by a pie piece placed in or over a new earthen pot smeared with rice and turmeric powder. It is said54 that Muhammadans, belonging to the lower classes, consult panchāngam Brāhmans about the chances of success in their enterprises. Some of these Brāhmans [171]send half the fee so obtained to the Muhammadan mosque at Nagūr near Negapatam, and will even offer sugar and flowers at that shrine, though they endeavour to excuse the act by saying that the saint was originally a Brāhman.

I once saw a Muhammadan at Tumkur in Mysore, whither he had journeyed from Hyderabad, who had a rupee tied round his arm in token of a vow that, if he returned safe from plague and other ills to his own country, he would give money in charity. When a Muhammadan falls ill, a rupee and a quarter is sometimes done up in a red cloth, and tied round the arm, to be given to the poor on recovery. Members of the poorer classes tie an anna and a quarter in like manner, after performing a fateha ceremony. Should the sickness of a Hindu be attributed to a god or goddess, a vow is made, in token whereof a copper or silver coin is wrapped up in a piece of cloth dipped in turmeric paste, and kept in the house, or tied to the neck or arm of the sick person. A cock may be waved round the head of the patient, and afterwards reared in the house, to be eventually offered up at the shrine of the deity. A Bēdar, whom I saw at Hospet in the Bellary district, had a quarter anna rolled up in cotton cloth, which he wore on the upper arm in performance of a vow.

In an account of the cock festival at Cranganore in Malabar, whereat vast numbers of cocks are sacrificed, Mr Gopal Panikkar records55 that, “when a man is taken ill of any infectious disease, his relations generally pray to the goddess (at Cranganore) for his recovery, solemnly covenanting to perform what goes by the name of a thulabhāram (or thulupurushadānam)56 ceremony. [172]This consists in placing the patient in one of the scale-pans of a huge balance, and weighing him against gold, or, more generally, pepper (and sometimes other substances), deposited in the other scale-pan. Then this weight of the substance is offered to the goddess. This has to be performed right in front of the goddess in the temple yard.”

At Mulki in South Canara there is a temple of Venkatēswara, which is maintained by Konkani Brāhmans. A Konkani Brāhman, who is attached to the temple, becomes inspired almost daily between 10 and 11 A.M., immediately after worship, and people consult him. Some time ago, a rich merchant from Gujarat consulted the inspired man as to what steps should be taken to enable his wife to be safely delivered. He was told to take a vow that he would present to the god of the temple, silver, sugar-candy, and date fruits, equal in weight to that of his wife. This he did, and his wife was delivered of a male child. The cost of the ceremonial is said to have been five thousand rupees. In the thulabhāram ceremony as performed by the Mahārājas of Travancore,57 they are weighed against gold coins, called thulabhāra kāsu, specially struck for the occasion, which are divided among the priests who performed the ceremony, and Brāhmans.

The following quaint custom, which is observed at the village of Pullambadi in the Trichinopoly district, is described by Bishop Whitehead.58

“The goddess Kulanthal Amman has established for herself a useful reputation as a settler of debts. When a creditor cannot recover a debt, he writes down his claim on a scroll of palm-leaves, and offers the goddess a [173]part of the debt, if it is paid. The palmyra scroll is hung up on an iron spear in the compound of the temple before the shrine. If the claim is just, and the debtor does not pay, it is believed that he will be afflicted with sickness and bad dreams. In his dreams he will be told to pay the debt at once, if he wishes to be freed from his misfortunes. If, however, the debtor disputes the claim, he draws up a counter-statement, and hangs it on the same spear. Then the deity decides which claim is true, and afflicts with sickness and bad dreams the man whose claim is false. When a claim is acknowledged, the debtor brings the money, and gives it to the pūjāri, who places it before the image of Kulanthal Amman, and sends word to the creditor. The whole amount is then handed over to the creditor, who pays the sum vowed to the goddess into the temple coffers in April or May. So great is the reputation of the goddess, that Hindus come from about ten miles round to seek her aid in recovering their debts. The goddess may sometimes make mistakes, but, at any rate, it is cheaper than an appeal to an ordinary court of law, and probably almost as effective as a means of securing justice. In former times, no written statements were presented; people simply came and represented their claims by word of mouth to the deity, promising to give her a share. The custom of presenting written claims sprang up about thirty years ago, doubtless through the influence of the Civil Courts. Apparently more debts have been collected since this was done, and more money has been gathered into the treasury.”

It is noted by the Rev. A. Margöschis59 that “the Hindus observe a special day at the commencement of the palmyra season (in Tinnevelly), when the jaggery season begins. Bishop Caldwell adopted the custom, and a solemn service in church was held, when one set [174]of all the implements used in the occupation of palmyra-climbing was brought to the church, and presented at the altar. Only the day was changed from that observed by the Hindus. The perils of the palmyra-climber are great, and there are many fatal accidents by falling from trees forty to sixty feet high, so that a religious service of the kind was particularly acceptable and peculiarly appropriate to our people.”

The story is told by Bishop Caldwell of a Shānar (toddy-drawer) who was sitting upon a leaf-stalk at the top of a palmyra palm in a high wind, when the stalk gave way, and he came down to the ground safely and quietly sitting on the leaf, which served the purpose of a natural parachute.

The festival of Ayudha Pūja (worship of tools or implements) is observed by all Hindu castes during the last three days of the Dasara or Navarathri in the month of Purattasi (September-October). It is a universal holiday for all Hindu workmen. Even the Brāhman takes part in this pūja. His tools, however, being books, it is called Saraswati pūja, or worship to the goddess or god of learning, who is either Saraswati or Hayagriva. Reading books and repetition of Vēdas must be done, and, for the purpose of worship, all the books in a house are piled up in a heap. Non-Brāhmans clean the various implements used by them in their daily work, and worship them. The Kammālans (artisans) clean their hammers, pincers, anvil, blowpipe, etc.; the Chettis (merchants) clean their scales and weights, and the box into which they put their money. The racket-marker at the Madras Club decorates the entrance to the scoring-box in which his rackets are kept, with a festoon of mango leaves. The weaving and agricultural classes will be seen to be busy with their looms and agricultural [175]implements. Fishermen pile up their nets for worship. Even the bandywala (cart-driver) paints red and white stripes on the wheels and axles. I have myself been profusely garlanded when present as a guest at the elaborate tool-worshipping ceremony at the Madras School of Arts, where pūja was done to a bust of the late Bishop Gell set up on an improvised altar, with a cast of Saraswati above, and various members of the Hindu Pantheon around.

At the festival held by the Koyis of the Godāvari district in propitiation of a goddess called Pida, very frequently offerings promised long before are sacrificed, and eaten by the pujāri. It is not at all uncommon for a Koyi to promise to offer a seven-horned male (i.e. a cock) as a bribe to be let alone, a two-horned male (i.e. a goat) being set apart by more wealthy or more fervent suppliants.60 When smallpox or other epidemic disease breaks out in a Gadaba village in Vizagapatam, a little go-cart on wheels is constructed. In this a clay image, or anything else holy, is placed, and it is taken to a distant spot, and left there. It is also the custom, when cholera or smallpox is epidemic in the same district, to make a little car, “on which are placed a grain of saffron-stained61 rice for every soul in the village, and numerous offerings such as little swings, pots, knives, ploughs, and the like, and the blood of certain sacrificial victims, and this is then dragged with due ceremony to the boundary of the village. By this means the malignant essence of the deity who brings smallpox or cholera is transferred across the boundary. The neighbouring villagers naturally hasten to move the car on with similar ceremony, and [176]it is thus dragged through a whole series of villages, and eventually left by the roadside in some lonely spot.”62

Marching on one occasion, towards Hampi in the Bellary district, where an outbreak of cholera had recently occurred, I came across two wooden gods on wheels by the roadside, to whom had been offered baskets of fruit, vegetables, earthen pots, bead necklets, and bangles, which were piled up in front of them. It is recorded63 by Bishop Whitehead that, when an epidemic breaks out in a certain village in the Telugu country,

“the headman of the village gets a new earthenware pot, besmears it with turmeric and kunkuma (red powder), and puts inside it some clay bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, three pieces of charcoal, three pieces of turmeric, three pieces of incense, a piece of dried cocoanut, a woman’s cloth, and two annas worth of coppers—a strange collection of miscellaneous charms and offerings. The pot is then hung up on a tree near the image of the village deity, as a pledge that, if the epidemic disappears, the people will celebrate a festival.”

It is further recorded64 by Bishop Whitehead that, during the festival of Māriamma at Kannanur in the Trichinopoly district, “many people who have made vows bring sheep, goats, fowls, pigeons, parrots, cows, and calves, to the temple, and leave them in the compound alive. At the end of the festival, these animals are all sold to a contractor. Two years ago, they fetched Rs. 400—a good haul for the temple.”

Between the Madras museum and the Government [177]maternity hospital, a small municipal boundary stone has been set up by the side of the road. To this stone supernatural powers are attributed, and it is alleged that in a banyan tree in a private garden close by a Mūni lives, who presides over the welfare of the patients in the hospital, and must be propitiated if the pregnant woman is to get over her confinement without complications. Women vow that they will, if all goes well, give a cocoanut, betel, or flowers when they leave. Discharged patients can be seen daily, going to the stone and making offerings. On the day of their discharge, their friends bring camphor and other articles, and the whole family goes to the stone, where the camphor is burnt, a cocoanut broken, and perhaps some turmeric or flowers placed on it. The new-born child is placed on the bare ground in front of the stone, and the mother, kneeling down, bows before it. The foreheads of both mother and child are marked with the soots from the burning camphor. If her friends do not bring the requisite articles, the woman goes home, and returns with them to do pūja to the stone, or it is celebrated at a temple or her house. The offerings are removed by those who present them, or by passers-by on the road.

The Kudubi cutch (catechu) makers of South Canara, before the commencement of operations, select an Areca Catechu tree, and place a sword, an axe, and a cocoanut on the ground near it. They prostrate themselves before the tree, with hands uplifted, burn incense, and break cocoanuts. The success of the operations is believed to depend on the good-will of a deity named Siddēdēvaru. Before they commence work, the Kudubis make a vow that, if they are successful, they will offer a fowl.

“A palmyra tree in the jungle near Ramnād with seven distinct trunks, each bearing a goodly head of [178]fan-shaped leaves is,” General Burton writes,65 “attributed to the action of a deity, and stones smeared with oil and vermilion, broken cocoanuts, and fowl’s feathers lying about, testify that pūja and sacrifice were performed here.”

On the Rangasvāmi peak on the Nīlgiris are two rude walled enclosures sacred to the god Ranga and his consort, within which are deposited various offerings, chiefly iron lamps and the notched sticks used as weighing-machines. The hereditary priest is an Irula (jungle tribesman).66 Certain caves are regarded by the Muduvars of the Travancore hills as shrines, wherein spear-heads, tridents, and copper coins are placed, partly to mark them as holy places, and partly as offerings to bring good luck.

Prehistoric stone cells, found in the bed of a river, are believed to be the thunderbolts of Vishnu, and are stacked as offerings by the Malaiālis of the Shevaroy hills in their shrines dedicated to Vignēswara the elephant god, who averts evil, or in little niches cut in rocks.

Of a remarkable form of demon worship in Tinnevelly, Bishop Caldwell wrote that67 “an European was till recently worshipped as a demon. From the rude verses which were sung in connection with his worship, it would appear that he was an English officer, who was mortally wounded at the taking of the Travancore lines in 1809, and was buried about twenty-five miles from the scene of the battle in a sandy waste, where, a few years ago, his worship was established by the Shānāns of the neighbourhood. His worship consisted in the offering to his manes of spirituous liquors and cheroots.”

A similar form of worship, or propitiation of demons, [179]is recorded68 by Bishop Whitehead from Malabar. He was told that “the spirits of the old Portuguese soldiers and traders are still propitiated on the coast with offerings of toddy and cheroots. The spirits are called Kāppiri (probably Kaffirs or foreigners). This superstition is dying out, but is said to be common among the fishermen of the French settlement of Mai (Mahé).”

On one occasion, a man who had been presented with two annas as the fee for lending his body to me for measurement, offered it, with flowers and a cocoanut, at the shrine of the village goddess, and dedicated to her another coin of his own as a peace-offering, and to get rid of the pollution caused by my money. [180]

1 See Bishop Whitehead, “The Village Deities of Southern India,” Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v. No. 3.

2 Ibid., 1901, iii. No. 3, 270–1.

3 ”Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 219.

4 Madras Dioc. Mag., November, 1910.

5 See Fawcett, Note on the Mouth-lock Vow, Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, i. 97–102.

6 “Gazetteer of the Trichinopoly District,” 1907, i. 289.

7 Scottish Standard Bearer, November 1907.

8 The Patnulkārans claim to be Saurāshtra Brāhmans.

9 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 71.

10 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” i. 86.

11 “Primitive Tribes of the Nilagiris,” 1873, 17.

12 Sūdra is the fourth traditional caste of Manu.

13 “Manual of the North Arcot District,” 1895, i. 242.

14 Mysore Census Report, 1901, part i. 519.

15 Basavi, see article “Dēva-dāsi” in my “Castes and Tribes of Southern India,” 1909, ii. 125–53.

16 “Manual of the Cuddapah District”, 1875, 283.

17 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v. No. 3, 149.

18 “Gazetteer of the Trichinopoly District,” 1907, i. 289.

19 Jeypore, Breklum, 1901.

20 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, 1. 72.

21 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 86–7.

22 Ibid., 86.

23 Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 78–9.

24 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v., No. 3, 149.

25 “Ind. Ant.,” 1881, x. 364.

26 The Pallis claim to be descendants of the fire race (Agnikula) of the Kshatriyas, and that, as they and the Pāndava brothers were born of fire, they are related.

27 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 375–6.

28 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 85.

29 “Narrative of Little’s Detachment,” 1794, 212–3.

30 Lambādis or Brinjāris, who formerly acted as carriers of supplies and baggage in times of war in the Deccan.

31 Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, i. 253–4.

32 “Ind. Ant.,” 1879, viii. 219.

33 Ibid., 1880, ix. 150.

34 Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, ii. 272.

35 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 86.

36 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 102.

37 “Hindu Manners, Customs, and Ceremonies” translation by H. K. Beauchamp, 1897, ii. 610.

38 “Ind. Ant.,” 1880, ix. 152.

39 “Mysore,” 1897, ii. 350.

40 Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 266.

41 The making of a shrine, Calcutta Review, 1899, cviii. 173–5.

42 Bhūtha, or demon worship, prevails in South Canara, where the villages have their bhūtha sthānam or demon shrine.

43 “Cochin Census Report,” 1901, part i. 25.

44 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 329.

45 “Gazetteer of the Anantapur District,” 1905, i. 164.

46 “Native Life in Travancore,” 1883.

47 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 102.

48 “Mediæval Sinhalese Art,” 1908, 70–75.

49 Philalethes, “History of Ceylon,” 1817, 163.

50 M. Bapu Rao, Madras Christian Coll. Mag., April 1894, xi.

51 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 286.

52 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 278.

53 F. Fawcett, Man, 1901, i., No. 29, p. 37.

54 “Madras Census Report,” 1901, part i. 134.

55 “Malabar and its Folk,” Madras, 2nd ed., 133.

56 Thula (scales), purusha (man), dānam (gift).

57 See Shungoony Menon, “History of Travancore,” 1878, 58–72.

58 Madras Diocesan Record, October, 1905.

59 “Christianity and Caste,” 1893.

60 Rev. J. Cain, Madras Christian Coll. Mag., 1887–8, v. 358.

61 In Southern India, turmeric (Curcuma) is commonly called saffron (Crocus).

62 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 75.

63 Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v., No. 3, 134.

64 Ibid., 171.

65 “An Indian Olio,” 79–80.

66 “Gazetteer of the Nilgiris,” 1908, i. 340.

67 “The Tinnevelly Shānars,” 1849.

68 Madras Dioc. Mag., March, 1903.

[Contents]

VI

Charms

Mantrams, or consecrated formulæ, are supposed to be very powerful, and by their aid even gods can be brought under control. They are, inter alia, believed to be efficacious in curing disease, in protecting children against devils, and women against miscarriage, in promoting development of the breasts, in bringing offspring to barren women, in warding off misfortune consequent on marriage with a girl who has an unlucky mark, in keeping wild pigs from the fields, and warding off cattle disease. For the last purpose, the magical formula is carved on a stone pillar, which is set up in the village. They are divided into four classes, viz., mantrasara, or the real essence of magic; yantrasara, or the science of cabalistic figures; prayogasara, or the method of using these for the attainment of any object; tantrasara, or the science of symbolical acts with or without words.

Mantrasara includes all mantrams, with their efficacy for good and evil, and the methods of learning and reciting them with the aid of a guru (spiritual preceptor). They are said to be effective only when the individual who resorts to them is pure in mind and body. This can be attained by the recitation of ajapagayithri (216,000 inhalations and exhalations in twenty-four hours). These have to be divided among the deities Ganēsa, Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra, Jīvathma, Paramathma, and the guru, [181]in the proportion of 600, 6000, 6000, 6000, 1000, 1000, 1000. A man can only become learned in mantrams (mantravādi) by the regular performance of the recognised ceremonial, by proper recital of the mantrams, by burning the sacred fire, and by taking food. A Lambādi has been seen repeating mantrams over his patients, and touching their heads at the same time with a book, which was a small edition of the Telugu translation of St John’s gospel. Neither the physician nor the patient could read, and had no idea of the contents of the book.1 It is noted by the Abbé Dubois,2 that one of the principal reasons why so little confidence is placed in European doctors by Hindus is that, when administering their remedies, they recite neither mantrams nor prayers.

Yantrasara includes all cabalistic figures, the method of drawing and using them, and the objects to be attained by them. They are usually drawn on thin plates of gold, silver, copper, or lead. The efficacy of the figures, when drawn on gold, will, it is said, last for a century, while those drawn on the less precious metals will only be effective for six months or a year. Leaden plates are used when the yantrams are to be buried underground. The figures should possess the symbols of life, the eyes, tongue, eight cardinal points of the compass, and the five elements.

Prayogasara includes attraction or summoning by enchantment, driving out evil spirits, stupefaction, tempting or bringing a deity or evil spirits under control, and enticement for love, destruction, and the separation of friends.

The following are examples of cases in which a [182]European, who, having been trained by a guru, was well versed in the theory and practice of native magic, was called in to administer to Natives, who were under the spell of devils. In the first case, a Telugu girl, about seventeen years old, had been for some time possessed by her sister’s husband, under whose influence she used to eat abnormal quantities of food, tear off her clothes, and use indecent language in a voice other than her own. When the European arrived in her room, the devil, speaking through the girl, threatened to kill her, or the European, or the individual who put it into her. Under the spell of a suitable mantram, the devil departed, and its return was prevented by the wearing of a yantram. The other case was that of a boy, who was possessed by a devil. He was found, on the occasion of the visit of the European, lying down in the courtyard of his house, clad in an ample loin-cloth, and with a high temperature. Suddenly, through some invisible agency, a corner of his loin-cloth caught fire, which was stamped out. It then caught fire in another place, and eventually was riddled with burnt holes. This was the way in which the devil manifested its influence, and sometimes the boy got burnt. A mantram was recited, with the result that the burning ceased, and the fever abated. An impromptu yantram was made out of vibhūti (sacred ashes), and tied round the boy’s neck. A religious mendicant came along a short time afterwards, and treated the boy for some ordinary sickness not connected with the devil, but the medicine did him no good. Finding the yantram round his neck, the mendicant asserted that it was the cause of his failure, and ordered its removal. This the boy’s relations refused to permit. But the holy man ripped it off. Whereon the boy instantly fell down comatose. In recording these two cases, I have reproduced my [183]notes made on the occasion of an interview with the European.

Reference has been made (p. 180) to mantrams carved on stone pillars. The story of a stone slab at Rāyalcheruvu in the Anantapur district, known as the yantram rāyi or magic stone, is narrated by Mr Francis.3

“The charm consists of eighty-one squares, nine each way, within a border of tridents. Each square contains one or more Telugu letters, but these will not combine into any intelligible words. At the bottom of the stone are cut a lingam and two pairs of foot-prints. Some twelve years ago, it is said, the village suffered severely from cholera for three years in succession, and a Telugu mason, a foreigner who was in the village at the time, cut this charm on the stone to stop the disease. It was set up with much ceremony. The mason went round the village at night without a stitch of clothing on him, and with the entrails of a sheep hanging round his neck. Many cocoanuts were offered to the stone, and many sheep slain before it. The mason tossed a lamb in the air, caught it as it fell, tore its throat open with his teeth, and then bounded forward, and spat out the blood. More sheep and cocoanuts were offered, and then the slab was set up. The mason naturally demanded a substantial return for the benefit he had conferred on the inhabitants. When cholera now breaks out, the villagers subscribe together, and do pūja (worship) to the stone in accordance with directions left by him.”

Of similar stones in the South Arcot district, Mr Francis writes as follows4:—

“In several villages in the west of the district are magical slabs, which are supposed to cure cholera and cattle disease. On them, surrounded by a border of trisulas [184](the trident of Siva) are cut a series of little squares, in each of which is some Tamil letter. The villagers usually explain their existence by saying that, some forty years ago, an ascetic, whom they call the sangili (chain) sanyāsi from his predilection for wearing red-hot chains round his neck, came there when cholera and cattle disease were rife, and (for a consideration) put up these slabs to ward off his ills. He left directions that, when either disease reappeared, 108 pots of water were to be poured over the slab, 108 bilva (Ægle Marmelos) leaves tied to it and so on, and that men and animals were then to walk through the water which had been poured over it.”

Mr Francis writes further5 that “in many places, stone slabs may be seen set up in the outskirts of the villages, on what are said to be the old boundaries. These are thought to be able to ward off sickness, and other harm which threatens to enter the place, and are revered accordingly. Some are quite blank, others have letters cut on them, while others again bear the rude outline of a deity, and are accordingly given such names as Pidāri or Ellai Amman (the goddess of the boundary). To these last, periodical worship is often performed, but, in the case of the others, the attentions of the villagers are confined to an annual ceremony, whereat cocoanuts are broken, camphor is burnt, and a light is placed on the stone.”

Subramaniya Yantkam, Malabar.

To face p. 185.

It was noted by Lieutenant R. F. Burton6 that, in some hamlets, the Kotas of the Nīlgiris have set up curiously carved stones, which they consider sacred, and attribute to them the power of curing diseases, if the member affected is rubbed against them. At cross-roads in Bellary, odd geometric patterns may sometimes [185]be noticed. These are put there at night by people suffering from disease, in the hope that the affliction will pass to the person who first treads on the charm.7

As examples of yantrams, the following, selected from a very large repertoire, may be cited:—

Ganapathi yantram should be drawn on metal, and worship performed. It is then enclosed in a metal cylinder, and tied by a thread round the neck of females, or the waist or arm of men. It will cure disease, conquer an enemy, or entice any one. If the sacred fire is kept up while the formula is being repeated, and dry cocoanut, plantain fruits, money, ghī (clarified butter), and sweet bread put into it, the owner will be blessed with wealth and prosperity.

Bhadrakāli yantram. The figure is drawn on the floor with flour or rice, turmeric, charcoal powder, and leaves of the castor-oil plant. If the deity is worshipped at night, it will lead to the acquisition of knowledge, strength, freedom from disease and impending calamities, wealth, and prosperity. If pūja (worship) is celebrated by a mantravādi for twelve days with the face turned towards the south, it will produce the death of an enemy.

Sudarsana yantram, when drawn on a sheet of metal, and enclosed in a cylinder worn round the neck or on the arm, will relieve those who are ill or possessed by devils. If it is drawn on butter spread on a plantain leaf, pūja performed, and the butter given to a barren woman, there will be no danger to herself or her future issue.

Suthakadosham yantram. Children under one year of age are supposed to be affected, if they are seen by a woman on the fourth day of menstruation with wet clothes and empty stomach after bathing. She may not even [186]see her own baby or husband till she has changed her clothes, and taken food. To avert the evil, a waist-band, made of the bark of the arka plant (Calotropis gigantea), is worn.

Sarabha yantram will cure persons suffering from epilepsy or intermittent fever.

Subramaniya yantram, if regularly worshipped, will expel devils from those attacked by them, and from houses.

Hanumān yantram will protect those who are out on dark nights, and produce bodily strength and wisdom. If drawn on a sheet of gold, and pūja is performed to it every Saturday, it will bring prosperity, and help pregnant women during their confinement.

Pakshi yantram, if drawn on a sheet of lead, and kept in several places round a house, will keep snakes away.

Vatugabhairava yantram cures disease in those who are under eighteen years old, and drives out all kinds of evil spirits. If ashes are smeared on the face, and the mantram is uttered sixteen times, it will be very effective.

Varati yantram is very useful to any one who wishes to kill an enemy. He should sit in a retired spot at night, with his face turned towards the south, and repeat the mantram a thousand times for twenty days.

Prathingiri yantram is drawn on a sheet of lead, and buried at a spot over which a person, whose death is desired, will pass. It is then placed on the floor, on which the sacred fire is kindled. The mantram should be repeated eight hundred times for seven nights.

Chāmundi and Raktha Chāmundi yantrams are used for causing the death of enemies. The mantram should be written on a sheet of lead, and pūja, with the sacrifice of toddy and mutton, performed.

Hanumān Yantram, Malabar.

To face p. 186.

Asvārūda yantram enables a person wearing it to cover [187]long distances on horseback, and he can make the most refractory horse amenable by tying it round its neck.8

An inhabitant of Malabar presented Mr Fawcett with a yantram against the evil eye, which, if whispered over a piece of string, and tied round any part of the body affected, would work an instantaneous cure. A Cheruman at Calicut, who was wearing on his loin-string a copper cylinder containing a brass strip with mantrams, sold it to me for a rupee with the assurance that it would protect me from devils.

To produce an ulcer, which will cause the death of an enemy in ninety days, a mantram is written on a piece of cadjan (palm leaf), enclosed in an egg with a small quantity of earth on which he has urinated, and buried in an ant-hill. A fowl is killed, and its blood and some toddy are poured over the egg. To cure fever, the formula is written with the finger in water contained in a basin, and the appropriate words are repeated while the water is being drunk.

By some Muhammadans, on festival days, the names of holy persons, together with their sayings, are written on mango or palmyra leaves in ink made of charred rice. When the ink is dry, the leaves are washed in water, which is drunk. This is supposed to cure people of many obstinate diseases. A European official was informed by a Native magistrate in the Vizagapatam district that, when he wanted to tear up some old abkāri (liquor) licenses, a man implored him not to do so, as they had brought him life for a year, and were therefore worshipped. So the medicine was water, in which an old license had been dipped.

It is recorded9 by Mr Logan that “in 1877, a poor Māppilla (Muhammadan) woman residing in one of the Laccadive islands was put upon her trial for witchcraft [188]for importing into the island a betel leaf with a certain cabalistic and magical inscription on it; but it fortunately turned out for her that she had merely pounded it up, and rubbed it over her daughter’s body to cure her of fits. Ibn Batuta (the Arab traveller who visited South India in the fourteenth century) wrote of a Malayāli king who was converted to Islām by the leaf of ‘the tree of testimony,’ a tree of which it was related to him that it does not generally drop its leaves, but at the season of autumn in every year one of them changes its colour, first to yellow, then to red, and that upon this is written ‘There is no God but God: Muhammad is the Prophet of God,’ and that this leaf alone falls. The falling of the leaf was an annual event, and the leaf itself was efficacious in curing diseases. Nowadays the belief among the Muhammadans still subsists, that the leaves of a certain tree growing on Mount Deli (in Malabar) possess similar virtues.”

Metal bowls, engraved both on the outside and inside with texts from the Qurān, are taken or sent by Muhammadans to Mecca, where they are placed at the head of the tomb of the Prophet, and blessed. They are highly valued, and used in cases of sickness for the administration of medicine or nourishment.

It is on record that, at the battle of Seringapatam in 1799, an officer took from off the right arm of the dead body of Tīpu Sultān a talisman, which contained sewed up in pieces of fine flowered silk a charm made of a brittle metallic substance of the colour of silver, and some manuscripts in magic Arabic and Persian characters. A notorious Māppilla dacoit, who was shot by the police a few years ago, and whom his co-religionists tried to make a saint, was at the time of his death wearing five copper and silver charm cylinders round his waist. [189]

It is noted by Mr Logan10 that “when affliction comes, the animal affected is served with grass, fruit, etc., on which charms have been whispered, or is bathed in charmed water, or has a talisman in the shape of a palm leaf inscribed with charms rolled up and tied round its neck.”

The tooth or claw of a tiger, worn on the neck or round the loins, is considered effective against evil influences. A tiger’s whiskers are held to be a most potent poison when chopped up; so, when a tiger is killed, the whiskers are immediately singed off.11 They are represented in stuffed heads by the delicate bristles of the porcupine. When a Savara of Ganjam is killed by a tiger, the Kudang goes through a performance on the following Sunday to prevent a similar fate overtaking others. Two pigs are killed outside the village, and every man, woman, and child is made to walk over the ground whereon the pig’s blood is spilled, and the Kudang gives to each individual some kind of tiger medicine as a charm.12

In Malabar the tusks of a wild boar are, in cases of protracted labour, pressed over the abdomen of the woman from above downwards.

The hair of the bear is enclosed in a casket or cylinder, and tied to the girdle round the loins of male children, and in strings round the neck of female children, as a remedy against fever, and to prevent involuntary discharge of urine during sleep.13

One of the occupations of the Kuruvikkārans (bird-catchers and beggars) is the manufacture and sale of [190]spurious jackal horns, known as narikompu. To catch the jackals they make an enclosure of a net, inside which a man seats himself armed with a big stick. He then proceeds to execute a perfect imitation of the jackal’s cry, on hearing which the jackals come running to see what is the matter, and are beaten down. Sometimes the entire jackal’s head is sold, skin and all. The process of manufacture of the horn is as follows. After the brain has been removed, the skin is stripped off a limited area of the skull, and the bone at the place of junction of the sagittal and lambdoid sutures above the occipital foramen is filed away, so that only a point, like a bony outgrowth, is left. The skin is then brought back, and pressed over the little horn which pierces it. The horn is also said to be made out of the molar tooth of a dog or jackal, introduced through a small hole in a piece of jackal’s skin, round which a little blood or turmeric paste is smeared to make it look more natural. In most cases only the horn, with a small piece of skull and skin, is sold. Sometimes, instead of the skin from the part where the horn is made, a piece of skin is taken from the snout, where the long black hairs are. The horn then appears surrounded by long black bushy hairs. The Kuruvikkārans explain that, when they see a jackal with such long hairs on the top of its head, they know that it possesses a horn. A horn-vendor, whom I interviewed, assured me that the possessor of a horn is a small jackal, which comes out of its hiding-place on full-moon nights to drink the dew. According to another version, the horn is only possessed by the leader of a pack of jackals. A nomad Dommara, whom I saw at Coimbatore, carried a bag containing a miscellaneous assortment of rubbish used in his capacity as medicine-man and snake-charmer, which included a collection of spurious jackal horns. To prove the genuineness [191]thereof, he showed me not only the horn, but also the feet with nails complete, as evidence that the horns were not made from the nails. Being charged with manufacturing the horns, he swore, by placing his hand on the head of a child who accompanied him, that he was not deceiving me. The largest of the horns in his bag, he gravely assured me, was from a jackal which he dug out of its hole on the last new-moon night. The Sinhalese and Tamils regard the horn as a talisman, and believe that its fortunate possessor can command the realisation of every wish. Those who have jewels to conceal rest in perfect security if, along with them, they can deposit a narikompu.14 The ayah (nurse) of a friend who possessed such a talisman, remarked: “Master going into any law-court, sure to win the case.” Two horns, which I possessed, were stolen from my study table, to bring luck to some Tamil member of my establishment.

The nasal bone of a jackal or fox, enclosed in a receptacle, is believed to ward off many evils. The nose of a hyæna is also held in great estimation as a charm. When a hyæna is killed, the end of the nose is cut off and dried, and is supposed to be a sovereign charm in cases of difficult labour, indigestion, and boils, if applied to the nostrils of the patient.15

In Malabar, silver finger-rings with a piece of bristle from the tail of an elephant set in them, are worn as a charm.

In the Vizagapatam district, a most efficacious charm, supposed to render a man invulnerable to every ill, consists of a small piece of black wool, given to every one who takes a black sheep for the priest of a temple on the Bopelli ghāt. Another much valued charm in this [192]district is called chemru mausa, which is described as being a small musk-rat only an inch and a half long, very scarce, and only found on rocky hills. It is worn in a gold or silver receptacle on the arm, and is supposed to render a man invulnerable against sword cuts and musket shots. In like manner, a mixture of gingelly (Sesamum) oil, the red dye which women use, and other ingredients, put into a small piece of hollow bamboo, and worn on the arm, are believed to protect a man against being shot with a bow or musket.

Many of the Kādir infants on the Ānaimalai hills have tied round the neck a charm, which takes the form of a dried tortoise foot; the tooth of a crocodile mimicking a phallus, and supposed to ward off attacks from a mythical water elephant which lives in the mountain streams, or wooden imitations of tiger’s claws.

The joints taken from the tail of the black scorpion are believed to ward off illness, if children wear them on their waist-thread.16

Of charms worn by the Nambūtiri Brāhmans in Malabar, the following are recorded by Mr F. Fawcett17:—

Ring, in which an ānavarāhan coin is set. This is a very lucky ring. Spurious imitations are often set in rings, but it is the genuine one which brings good luck.

Gold case fastened to a string round the waist, and containing a figure written on a silver plate. The man had worn it for three years, having put it on because he used to feel hot during the cold season, and attributed his condition to the influence of an evil spirit.

Two cylinders, one of gold, the other of silver. In each were some chakrams (Travancore silver coins) and a gold leaf, on which a charm was inscribed. One of [193]the charms was prepared by a Māppilla, the other by a Nambūtiri.

In connection with the wearing of charms by the Nāyars of Malabar, Mr Fawcett writes18 as follows:—

“One individual wore two rings made of an amalgamation of gold and copper, called tambāk on the ring-finger of the right hand for good luck. Tambāk rings are lucky rings. It is a good thing to wash the face with the hand, on which is a tambāk ring. Another wore two rings of the pattern called trilōham on the ring-finger of each hand. Each of these was made during an eclipse. An Akattu Charna Nāyar wore an amulet, to keep off the spirit of a Brāhman who died by drowning.”

As examples of charms worn by Bēdar men in the Canarese country, the following may be cited:—

String tied round right arm with metal box attached to it, to drive away devils. String round ankle for the same purpose.

Necklet of coral and ivory beads worn as a vow to the goddess Huligamma.

Necklets of ivory beads, and a gold disc with the Vishnupād (feet of Vishnu) engraved on it, purchased from a religious mendicant to bring good luck.

In an account of the Mandulas (medicine-men) of the Telugu country, Bishop Whitehead records19 that a baby three days old had an anklet made of its mother’s hair tied round the right ankle, to keep off the evil eye. The mother, too, had round her ankle a similar anklet, which she put on before her confinement. One of the men was also wearing an anklet of hair, as he had recently been bitten by a snake.

A metal charm-cylinder is sometimes attached to the [194]sacred thread, which is worn by Dēvāngas (a weaving caste), who claim to be Dēvānga Brāhmans.

I have seen the child of a Kuruba (Canarese agriculturist) priest wearing a necklet with a copper ornament engraved with cabalistic devices, a silver plate bearing a figure of Hanumān (the monkey god), as all his other children had died, and a piece of pierced pottery from the burial-ground, to ward off whooping-cough. The Rev. S. Nicholson informs me that, if a Māla (Telugu Pariah) child grinds its teeth in its sleep, a piece of a broken pot is brought from a graveyard, and, after being smoked with incense, tied round the child’s neck with a piece of string rubbed with turmeric, or with a piece of gut. In the Tamil country, the bark of a tree on which any one has hanged himself, a cord with twenty-one knots, and the earth from a child’s grave, are hung round the neck, or tied to the waist-string as talismans.

A Kota woman at Kotagiri on the Nīlgiris, was wearing a glass necklet, with a charm pendant from it, consisting of the root of some tree rolled up in a ball of cloth. She put it on when her baby was quite young, to protect it against devils. The baby had a similar charm on its neck. By some jungle Chenchus pieces of stick strung on a thread, or seeds of Givotia rottleriformis are worn, to ward off various forms of pain.

Small flat plates of copper, called takudu, are frequently worn by Tamil Paraiyan children. One side is divided into sixteen squares in which what look like the Telugu numerals nine, ten, eleven and twelve, are engraved. On the other side a circle is drawn, which is divided into eight segments, in each of which a Telugu letter is inscribed. This charm is supposed to protect the wearer from harm coming from any of the eight cardinal points of the Indian compass. Charms, in the form of metal cylinders, are [195]worn for the same purpose by adults and children, and procured from some exorcist.20

By some Mēdaras of the Telugu country, a figure of Hanumān (the monkey god) is engraved on a thin plate of gold with cabalistic letters inscribed on it, and worn on the neck. On eclipse days, a piece of root of the arka plant (Calotropis gigantea) is worn on the neck of females, and on the waist or arm of males.

In a note regarding moon-shaped amulets against the evil eye described by Professor Tylor,21 Mr. Walhouse mentions that crescents, made of thin plates of metal, sometimes gold, are worn by children on the west coast, suspended upon the breast with the point upwards. Neck ornaments in the form of a crescent are commonly worn by Muhammadan children.

Concerning the use of coins as charms, Mr V. Devasahayam writes as follows22:—

“Seeing a woman with several old coins strung on the tāli (marriage badge) string round the neck, I offered to buy them of her for a good price, but got only a torrent of abuse, since she, in her ignorance and superstition, supposed that Lutchmi, the goddess of fortune, would forsake her if she parted with the coins. In Tranquebar there lives a head mason, who always carries in his betel-nut bag a copper coin bearing the inscription of Konēri Rāyan, one of the later Pāndyans or early Nāyakars. The man would on no account part with this coin, for he believes that his success in business has improved since he came into possession of it, and that it will continue as long as he carries it with him. He says that he shall bequeath it to his family at his death, to hold in veneration almost amounting to worship. For [196]dog bite, some Natives tie an old copper coin with a bandage over the wound, and wear it till it has healed. Others rub the coin against a copper vessel, using a few drops of the juice of the datura plant in order to form a paste, and apply the paste to the wound. Whooping-cough is believed to be caused by the displeasure of Bhairava, the dog-god, and the whooping is regarded as a sort of barking, under possession by the god. To appease his anger, an old coin is hammered into a flat round disc, a rude figure of a dog engraved on it, and suspended as a charm to the sick child’s waist. In the treatment of skin disease, dyspepsia, and leprosy, old copper coins are ground to dust, heated till the dust is like ashes, and administered medicinally. Soon after a Sonaga woman is delivered of a child, she is made to swallow a small old copper coin together with some water. Natives believe that, during delivery, the whole system is so irritated that strong counter-irritants must be administered to prevent tetanus.”

Mercury cups, said to be made of an amalgam of mercury and tin, are stated to possess the property of allowing mercury, when poured in, to ooze through them, and pass out. Milk preserved in such a cup for a few hours is said to turn into hard curd. Milk kept over night in one of these cups, or an amulet made from the cup materials, are believed to exercise a most potent influence over the male fertilising element. Such an amulet, applied to the neck of a chorister, is said to have increased his vocal powers three or four times. Piles, and other bodily ailments, are believed to be cured by wearing rings, in the composition of which mercury is one of the ingredients.

In a case which was tried before a magistrate in Travancore, the accused, in order to win his case, had concealed in his under-cloth some yantrams, which had [197]been prepared for him by a sorcerer. The plaintiff, having got scent of this, gave information, and the charms were handed over to the magistrate. It is recorded in the Vigada Thūthan that, when a woman who gets tired of her husband sues him for maintenance, she wears charm bundles (manthira kattu), so that his evidence may be confused and incoherent. Such charms are said to be concealed in the hair of the head or in the headdress, and generally to consist of a lime fruit, which has been charmed by magical spells in a graveyard, after the sorcerer has performed certain ceremonies to guard him against devils catching him during the incantations. It is said that, in former times, if the chastity of a Tamil Paraiyan bride was suspected, she had to establish her virtue by picking some cakes out of boiling oil, and then husking some rice with her bare hand. Her hair, nails, and clothes were examined, to see that she had no charm concealed about her.23

A friend once dismissed a servant for cheating and lying. A short time afterwards, he found nailed to a teapoy a paper scroll containing a jasmine flower tied up with coloured threads. On the scroll were inscribed in Tamil the mystic syllable, “Om,” and “Nāma Sīva R. U. Masthān Sāhibu avergal pādame thunai” (I seek for help at the feet of Masthān sāhib). Masthān is a Muhammad saint. The servant of a European police officer, who had been caught out in all sorts of malpractices, tried to win back the good-will of his master by means of a charm, for which he paid fifteen rupees, placed under his master’s pillow.

It is recorded by Marco Polo24 that South Indian [198]pearl divers25 call in the services of an Abraiman (Brāhman?) to charm the sharks. “And their charm holds good for that day only; for at night they dissolve the charm, so that the fishes can work mischief at their will.” The prospects of a pearl fishery, when success seems certain, may be abruptly ruined by accidents from sharks, of which the divers have a superstitious, but not altogether unreasonable, dread. Before the fishery of 1889, at which I was present, the divers of Kilakarai on the Madura coast, as a preliminary to starting for the scene thereof, performed a ceremony, at which prayers were offered for protection against the attacks of sharks.

“The only precaution,” Tennent writes,26 “to which the Ceylon diver devotedly resorts is the mystic ceremony of the shark-charmer, whose power is believed to be hereditary. Nor is it supposed that the value of his incantations is at all dependent upon the religious faith professed by the operator, for the present head of the family happens to be a Roman Catholic. At the time of our visit, this mysterious functionary was ill, and unable to attend; but he sent an accredited substitute, who assured me that, although he was himself ignorant of the grand and mystic secret, the fact of his presence, as a representative of the higher authority, would be recognised and respected by the sharks.”

At the Tuticorin fishery in 1890, a scare was produced by a diver being bitten by a shark, but subsided as soon as a “wise woman” was employed. Her powers do not, however, seem to have been great, for more cases of shark-bite occurred, and the fishery had to be abandoned at a time when favourable breezes, clear water, plenty of boats, and oysters selling at a good price, indicated a successful financial result. [199]

1 Rev. J. Cain, “Ind. Ant.,” 1879, viii. 219.

2 “Hindu Manners, Customs, and Ceremonies,’ translation by H. K. Beauchamp, 1897, i. 143.

3 “Gazetteer of the Anantapur District,” 1905, i. 198.

4 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 93.

5 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 92–3.

6 “Goa and the Blue Mountains,” 1851, 339.

7 “Gazetteer of the Bellary District,” 1904, i. 60.

8 F. Fawcett, Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 307.

9 “Malabar,” 1887, i. 175.

10 “Malabar,” 1887, i. 175.

11 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 23.

12 F. Fawcett, Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, i. 260.

13 “Manual of the Kurnool District,” 1886, 116.

14 Tennent, “Ceylon,” 1860, i. 145.

15 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 292.

16 Madras Mail, 26th January, 1906.

17 Madras Museum Bull., 1900, iii., No. 1, 41.

18 Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 195–6.

19 Madras Dioc. Mag., July, 1905.

20 Rev. A. C. Clayton, Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 86.

21 Journ. Anthrop. Inst., 1890, xix., 56.

22 Madras Christian Coll. Mag., January, 1907, vi. No. 7.

23 Rev. A. C. Clayton, Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 66.

24 “The Book of Ser Marco Polo, the Venetian,” translation, 3rd ed., 1903, ii. 332.

25 The pearl fisheries are conducted from Tuticorin in the Tinnevelly district.

26 “Ceylon,” 1860, ii. 564–5.

[Contents]

VII

Human Sacrifice

“The best known case,” Mr Frazer writes,1 “of human sacrifices systematically offered to ensure good crops, is supplied by the Khonds or Kandhs, a Dravidian race in Bengal and Madras. Our knowledge of them is derived from the accounts written by British officers, who, forty or fifty years ago, were engaged in putting them down. The sacrifices were offered to the earth goddess, Tari Pennu or Bera Pennu, and were believed to ensure good crops, and immunity from all diseases and accidents. In particular, they were considered necessary in the cultivation of turmeric, the Khonds arguing that the turmeric could not have a deep red colour without the shedding of blood. The victim, a Meriah, was acceptable to the goddess only if he had been purchased, or had been born a victim, that is, the son of a victim father, or had been devoted as a child by his father or guardian.”

In 1837, Mr Russell, in a report on the districts entrusted to his control, wrote as follows2:—

“The ceremonies attending the barbarous rite (Kondh human sacrifice) vary in different parts of the country. In the Māliahs of Goomsur, the sacrifice is offered annually to Thadha Pennoo, under the effigy of a bird intended to [200]represent a peacock, with the view of propitiating the deity to grant favourable seasons and crops. The ceremony is performed at the expense of, and in rotation, by certain mootahs (districts) composing a community, and connected together from local circumstances. Besides these periodical sacrifices, others are made by single mootahs, and even by individuals, to avert any threatening calamity from sickness, murrain, or other causes. Grown men are the most esteemed (as victims), because the most costly. Children are purchased, and reared for years with the family of the person who ultimately devotes them to a cruel death, when circumstances are supposed to demand a sacrifice at his hands. They seem to be treated with kindness, and, if young, are kept under no constraint; but, when old enough to be sensible of the fate that awaits them, they are placed in fetters, and guarded. Most of those who were rescued had been sold by their parents or nearest relations, a practice which, from all we could learn, is very common. Persons of riper age are kidnapped by wretches who trade in human flesh. The victim must always be purchased. Criminals, or prisoners captured in war, are not considered fitting subjects. The price is paid indifferently in brass utensils, cattle, or coin. The zanee (or priest), who may be of any caste, officiates at the sacrifice, but he performs the poojah (offering of flowers, incense, etc.) to the idol through the medium of the Toomba, who must be a Khond child under seven years of age. This child is fed and clothed at the public expense, eats with no other person, and is subjected to no act deemed impure. For a month prior to the sacrifice, there is much feasting and intoxication, and dancing round the Meriah, who is adorned with garlands, etc., and, on the day before the performance of the barbarous rite, is stupefied with toddy, and made to sit, or, if necessary, is bound at the bottom of a post bearing the effigy above described. The assembled multitude then dance around to music, and, addressing the earth, say ‘Oh! God, we offer the sacrifice to you. Give us good crops, seasons, [201]and health.’ After which they address the victim. ‘We bought you with a price, and did not seize you. Now we sacrifice you according to custom, and no sin rests with us.’ On the following day, the victim being again intoxicated, and anointed with oil, each individual present touches the anointed part, and wipes the oil on his own head. All then proceed in procession around the village and its boundaries, preceded by music, bearing the victim and a pole, to the top of which is attached a tuft of peacock’s feathers. On returning to the post, which is always placed near the village deity called Zakaree Pennoo, and represented by three stones, near which the brass effigy in the shape of the peacock is buried, they kill a pig in sacrifice, and, having allowed the blood to flow into a pit prepared for the purpose, the victim who, if it has been found possible, has been previously made senseless from intoxication, is seized and thrown in, and his face pressed down until he is suffocated in the bloody mire amid the noise of instruments. The Zanee then cuts a piece of the flesh from the body, and buries it with ceremony near the effigy and village idol, as an offering to the earth. All the rest afterwards go through the same form, and carry the bloody prize to their villages, where the same rites are performed, part being interred near the village idol, and little bits on the boundaries. The head and face remain untouched, and the bones, when bare, are buried with them in the pit. After this horrid ceremony has been completed, a buffalo calf is brought in front of the post, and, his forefeet having been cut off, is left there till the following day. Women, dressed in male attire, and armed as men, then drink, dance, and sing round the spot, the calf is killed and eaten, and the Zanee is dismissed with a present of rice, and a hog or calf.”

In the same year, Mr Arbuthnot, Collector of Vizagapatam, reported as follows:—

“Of the hill tribe Codooloo (Kondh), there are said to be two distinct classes, the Cotia Codooloo and Jathapoo [202]Codooloo. The former class is that which is in the habit of offering human sacrifices to the god called Jenkery, with a view to secure good crops. This ceremony is generally performed on the Sunday preceding or following the Pongal feast. The victim is seldom carried by force, but procured by purchase, and there is a fixed price for each person, which consists of forty articles such as a bullock, a male buffalo, a cow, a goat, a piece of cloth, a silk cloth, a brass pot, a large plate, a bunch of plantains, etc. The man who is destined for the sacrifice is immediately carried before the god, and a small quantity of rice coloured with saffron (turmeric) is put upon his head. The influence of this is said to prevent his attempting to escape, even though set at liberty. It would appear, however, that, from the moment of his seizure till he is sacrificed, he is kept in a continued state of stupefaction or intoxication. He is allowed to wander about the village, to eat and drink anything he may take a fancy to, and even to have connection with any of the women whom he may meet. On the morning set apart for the sacrifice, he is carried before the idol in a state of intoxication. One of the villagers officiates as priest, who cuts a small hole in the stomach of the victim, and with the blood that flows from the wound the idol is besmeared. Then the crowds from the neighbouring villages rush forward, and he is literally cut into pieces. Each person who is so fortunate as to procure it carries away a morsel of the flesh, and presents it to the idol of his own village.”

Meriah Sacrifice Post.

(Hatti mundo.)

To face p. 202.

Concerning a method of Kondh sacrifice, which is illustrated by the wooden post preserved in the Madras Museum, Colonel Campbell records3 that “one of the most common ways of offering the sacrifice in Chinna Kimedi is to the effigy of an elephant (hatti mundo or elephant’s head) rudely carved in wood, fixed on the top [203]of a stout post, on which it is made to revolve. After the performance of the usual ceremonies, the intended victim is fastened to the proboscis of the elephant, and, amidst the shouts and yells of the excited multitude of Khonds, is rapidly whirled round, when, at a given signal by the officiating Zanee or priest, the crowd rush in, seize the Meriah, and with their knives cut the flesh off the shrieking wretch so long as life remains. He is then cut down, the skeleton burnt, and the horrid orgies are over. In several villages I counted as many as fourteen effigies of elephants, which had been used in former sacrifices. These I caused to be overthrown by the baggage elephants attached to my camp in the presence of the assembled Khonds, to show them that these venerated objects had no power against the living animal, and to remove all vestiges of their bloody superstition.”

It is noted by Risley4 that, while the crowd hacked the body of the victim, they chanted a ghastly hymn, an extract from which illustrates very clearly the theory of sympathetic magic underlying the ritual:—

“As the tears stream from thine eyes,
So may the rain pour down in August;
As the mucus trickles from thy nostrils,
So may it drizzle at intervals;
As thy blood gushes forth,
So may the vegetation sprout;
As thy gore falls in drops,
So may the grains of rice form.”

In another report, Colonel Campbell describes how the miserable victim is dragged along the fields, surrounded by a crowd of half intoxicated Kondhs who, shouting and screaming, rush upon him, and with their knives cut the flesh piecemeal from the bones, avoiding the head and [204]bowels, till the living skeleton, dying from loss of blood, is relieved from torture, when its remains are burnt, and the ashes mixed with the new grain to preserve it from insects. Yet again, he describes a sacrifice which was peculiar to the Kondhs of Jeypore.

“It is,” he says, “always succeeded by the sacrifice of three human beings, two to the sun in the east and west of the village, and one in the centre, with the usual barbarities of the Meriah. A stout wooden post about six feet long is firmly fixed in the ground, at the foot of it a narrow grave is dug, and to the top of the post the victim is firmly fastened by the long hair of his head. Four assistants hold his outstretched arms and legs, the body being suspended horizontally over the grave, with the face toward the earth. The officiating Junna or priest, standing on the right side, repeats the following invocation, at intervals hacking with his sacrificing knife the back part of the shrieking victim’s neck. ‘Oh! mighty Manicksoro, this is your festal day. To the Khonds the offering is Meriah, to the kings Junna. On account of this sacrifice, you have given to kings kingdoms, guns, and swords. The sacrifice we now offer you must eat, and we pray that our battle-axes may be converted into swords, our bows and arrows into gunpowder and balls; and, if we have any quarrels with other tribes, give us the victory. Preserve us from the tyranny of kings and their officers.’ Then, addressing the victim, ‘That we may enjoy prosperity, we offer you as a sacrifice to our god Manicksoro, who will immediately eat you, so be not grieved at our slaying you. Your parents were aware, when we purchased you from them for sixty rupees, that we did so with intent to sacrifice you. There is, therefore, no sin on our heads, but on your parents. After you are dead, we shall perform your obsequies.’ The victim is then decapitated, the body thrown into the grave, and the head left suspended from the post till devoured by wild beasts. The knife [205]remains fastened to the post till the three sacrifices have been performed, when it is removed with much ceremony.”

The Kondhs of Bara Mootah promised to relinquish the Meriah rite on condition, inter alia, that they should be at liberty to sacrifice buffaloes, monkeys, goats, etc., to their deities, with all the solemnities observed on occasions of human sacrifice; and that they should further be at liberty, upon all occasions, to denounce to their gods the Government, and some of its servants in particular, as the cause of their having relinquished the great rite. The last recorded Meriah sacrifice in the Ganjam Māliahs occurred in 1852, and there are still Kondhs alive, who were present at it. The veteran members of a party of Kondhs, who were brought to Madras for the purpose of performing their dances before the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1906, became widely excited when they came across the relic of their barbarous custom at the museum. Twenty-five descendants of persons who were rescued by Government officers, returned themselves as Meriah at the census, 1901.

It is noted by Mr W. Francis that5 “goats and buffaloes nowadays take the place of human meriah victims, but the belief in the superior efficacy of the latter dies hard, and every now and again revives. When the Rampa rebellion of 1879–80 spread in this district, several cases of human sacrifice occurred in the disturbed tracts. In 1880, two persons were convicted of attempting a meriah sacrifice near Ambadāla in Bissamkatak. In 1883, a man (a beggar and a stranger) was found at daybreak murdered in one of the temples in Jeypore in circumstances which pointed to his having been slain as a meriah; and, as late as 1886, a formal enquiry [206]showed that there were ample grounds for the suspicion that the kidnapping of victims still went on in Bastar.”

Even so recently as 1902, a European magistrate in Ganjam received a petition, asking for permission to perform a human sacrifice, which was intended to give a rich colour to the turmeric crop.

The flowers with which the sheep and goats which take the place of human beings are decorated are still known as meriah pushpa in Jeypore.6

In an account7 of a substituted sacrifice, which was carried out by the Kondhs in the Ganjam Māliahs in 1894, it is stated that, “the Janni gave the buffalo a tap on the head with a small axe. An indescribable scene followed. The Khonds in a body fell on the animal, and, in an amazingly short time, literally tore the living victim to shreds with their knives, leaving nothing but the head, bones, and stomach. Death must mercifully have been almost instantaneous. Every particle of flesh and skin had been stripped off during the few minutes they fought and struggled over the buffalo, eagerly grasping for every atom of flesh. As soon as a man had secured a piece thereof, he rushed away with the gory mass, as fast as he could, to his fields, to bury it therein according to ancient custom, before the sun had set. As some of them had to do good distances to effect this, it was imperative that they should run very fast. A curious scene now took place. As the men ran, all the women flung after them clods of earth, some of them taking very good effect. The sacred grove was cleared of people, save a few that guarded the remnants left of the buffalo, which were taken, and burnt with ceremony at the foot of the stake.” [207]

The buffalo sacrifice is not unaccompanied by risk, as the animal, before dying, sometimes kills one or more of its tormentors. This was the case near Balliguda in 1899, when a buffalo killed the sacrificer. In the previous year, the desire of a village to intercept the bearer of the flesh from a neighbouring village led to a fight, in which two men were killed.

Like the Kondhs, the Koyis of the Godāvari district believe in the efficacy of a sacrifice, to ensure good crops. In this connection, the Rev. J. Cain writes8 that “the Koyi goddess Māmili or Lēle must be propitiated early in the year, or else the crops will undoubtedly fail; and she is said to be very partial to human victims. There is strong reason to think that two men were murdered this year (1876) near a village not far from Dummagudem as offerings to this dēvata, and there is no reason to doubt that every year strangers are quietly put out of the way in the Bastar country, to ensure the favour of the bloodthirsty goddess.”

Mr Cain writes further9 that a langur monkey is now substituted for the human victim under the name of erukomma potu or male with small breasts, in the hope of persuading the goddess that she is receiving a human sacrifice.

On the site of the old fort at Rāmagiri in the Vizagapatam district, a victim was formerly sacrificed every third year.

“The poor wretch was forced into a hole in the ground, three feet deep and eighteen inches square, at the bottom of which the goddess was supposed to dwell, his throat was cut, and the blood allowed to flow into the hole, and afterwards his head was struck off and placed on [208]his lap, and the mutilated body covered with earth and a mound of stones until the time for the next sacrifice came round, when the bones were taken out and thrown away. At Malkanagiri, periodical sacrifices occurred at the four gates of the fort, and the Rāni had a victim slain as a thank-offering for her recovery from an illness.”10

The nomad Koravas are said to have formerly performed human sacrifices, one effect of which was to increase the fertility of the soil. The following account of such a sacrifice was given to Mr C. Hayavadana Rao by an old inhabitant of the village of Asūr near Walajabad in the Chingleput district. A big gang of Koravas settled at the meeting point of three villages of Asūr, Mēlputtūr, and Avalūr, on an elevated spot commanding the surrounding country. They had with them their pack-bullocks, each headman of the gang owning about two hundred head. The cow-dung which accumulated daily attracted a good many of the villagers, on one of whom the headman fixed as their intended victim. They made themselves intimate with him, plied him with drink and tobacco, and gave him the monopoly of the cow-dung. Thus a week or ten days passed away, and the Koravas then fixed a day for the sacrifice. They invited the victim to visit them at dusk, and witness a great festival in honour of their caste goddess. At the appointed hour, the man went to the settlement, and was induced to drink freely. Meanwhile, a pit, large enough for a man to stand upright in, had been prepared. At about midnight, the victim was seized, and forced to stand in the pit, which was filled in up to his neck. This done, the women and children of the gang made off with their belongings. As soon as the last of them had quitted the settlement, the [209]headmen brought a large quantity of fresh cow-dung, and placed a ball of it on the head of the victim. The ball served as a support for an earthen lamp, which was lighted. The man was by this time nearly dead, and the cattle were made to pass over his head. The headmen then made off, and, by daybreak, the whole gang had disappeared. The sacrificed man was found by the villagers, who have, since that time, scrupulously avoided the Koravas. The victim is said to have turned into a Munisvara, and for a long time troubled those who happened to go near the spot at noon or midnight. The Koravas are said to have performed the sacrifice, so as to insure their cattle against death from disease. The ground, on which they encamped, and on which they offered the human sacrifice, is stated to have been barren prior thereto, and, as the result thereof, to have become very fertile.

A similar form of human sacrifice was practised in former days by the nomad Lambādis, concerning which the Abbé Dubois writes as follows11:—

“When they wish to perform this horrible act, it is said, they secretly carry off the first person they meet. Having conducted the victim to some lonely spot, they dig a hole, in which they bury him up to the neck. While he is still alive, they make a sort of lamp of dough made of flour, which they place on his head. This they fill with oil, and light four wicks in it. Having done this, the men and women join hands, and, forming a circle, dance round their victim, singing and making a great noise, till he expires.”

It is recorded by the Rev. J. Cain12 that the Lambādis [210]confessed that, in former days, it was the custom among them, before starting out on a journey, to procure a little child, and bury it in the ground up to the shoulders, and then drive their loaded bullocks over the unfortunate victim. In proportion to their thoroughly trampling the child to death, so their belief in a successful journey increased. I am informed by the Rev. G. N. Thomssen that, at the present day, the Lambādis sacrifice a goat or chicken, in case of removal from one part of the jungle to another, when sickness has come. They hope to escape death by leaving one camping ground for another. Half-way between the old and new grounds, the animal selected is buried alive, the head being allowed to be above ground. Then all the cattle are driven over the buried creature, and the whole camp walk over the buried victim.

In the course of an interview with Colonel Marshall on the subject of infanticide13 among the Todas of the Nīlgiri hills, an aged man of the tribe remarked that14 “those tell lies who say that we laid the child down before the opening of the buffalo-pen, so that it might be run over and killed by the animals. We never did such things, and it is all nonsense that we drowned it in buffaloes’ milk. Boys were never killed—only girls; not those who were sickly and deformed—that would be a sin; but, when we had one girl, or in some families two girls, those that followed were killed. An old woman used to take the child immediately after it was born, and close its nostrils, ears, and mouth with a cloth. It would shortly droop its head and go to sleep. We then buried it in the ground.”

The old man’s remark about the cattle-pen refers to the Malagasy custom of placing a new-born child at the [211]entrance to a cattle-pen, and then driving the cattle over it, to see whether they would trample on it or not.15

It is recorded by Bishop Whitehead,16 in a note on offerings and sacrifices in the Telugu country, that “sometimes, when there is a cattle disease, a pig is buried up to its neck at the boundary of the village, a heap of boiled rice is deposited near the spot, and then all the cattle of the village are driven over the head of the unhappy pig.... When I was on tour in the Kurnool district, an old man described to me the account he had received from his ‘forefathers’ of the ceremonies observed when founding a new village. An auspicious site is selected on an auspicious day, and then, in the centre of the site, is dug a large hole, in which are placed different kinds of grains, small pieces of the five metals, and a large stone called boddu-rayée (navel-stone), standing about three and a half feet above the ground, very like the ordinary boundary stones seen in the fields. Then, at the entrance of the village, in the centre of the main street, where most of the cattle pass in and out on their way to and from the fields, they dig another hole, and bury a pig alive.”

It is suggested by Bishop Whitehead that the custom of thus burying a pig may be connected with the worship of an agricultural goddess, or a survival of a former custom of infanticide or human sacrifice, such as prevailed among the Lambādis.

It has been suggested that certain rites performed by the Pānan and Malayan exorcists of Malabar are survivals, or imitations of human sacrifice. Thus, in the Ucchavēli ceremony of the Pānans for driving out devils, there is a mock burial of the principal performer, who is placed in [212]a pit. This is covered with planks, on the top of which a sacrifice (hōmam) is performed with a fire kindled with jak (Artocarpus integrifolia) branches.17

The disguise of Ucchavēli is also assumed by the Malayans for the propitiation of the demon, when a human sacrifice is considered necessary. The Malayan who is to take the part puts on a cap made of strips of cocoanut leaf, and strips of the same leaves tied to a bent bamboo stick round his waist. His face and chest are daubed with yellow paint, and designs are drawn thereon in red or black. Strings are tied tightly round the left arm near the elbow and wrist, and the swollen area is pierced with a knife. The blood spouts out, and the performer waves the arm, so that his face is covered with blood. In the ceremony for propitiating the demon Nenaveli (bloody sacrifice), the Malayan smears the upper part of the body and face with a paste made of rice-flour reddened with turmeric powder and chunam (lime), to indicate a sacrifice. Before the paste dries, parched paddy (unhusked rice) grains, representing smallpox pustules, are sprinkled over it. Strips of young cocoanut leaves, strung together so as to form a petticoat, are tied round the waist, a ball of sacred ashes (vibhūthi) is fixed on the tip of the nose, and two strips of palm leaf are placed in the mouth to represent fangs. If it is thought that a human sacrifice is necessary to propitiate the devil, the man representing Nenaveli puts round his neck a kind of framework made of plantain leaf sheaths; and, after he has danced with it on, it is removed, and placed on the ground in front of him. A number of lighted wicks are stuck in the middle of the framework, which is sprinkled with the blood of a fowl, and then beaten and crushed. Sometimes this is not regarded as sufficient, and the performer is made [213]to lie in a pit, which is covered over by a plank, and a fire kindled. A Malayan, who acted the part of Nenaveli before me, danced and gesticulated wildly, while a small boy, concealed behind him, sang songs in praises of the demon, to the accompaniment of a drum. At the end of the performance, he feigned extreme exhaustion, and laid on the ground in a state of apparent collapse, while he was drenched with water brought in pots from a neighbouring well.

A very similar rite has been recorded by Mr Lewis Rice as being carried out by the Coorgs, when a particular curse, which can only be removed by an extraordinary sacrifice, rests on a house, stable, or field. Concerning this sacrifice, Mr Rice writes as follows18:—

“The Kaniya (religious mendicant)19 sends for some of his fraternity, the Panikas or Bannus, and they set to work. A pit is dug in the middle room of the house or in the yard, or in the stable, or in the field, as the occasion may require. Into this one of the magicians descends. He sits down in Hindu fashion, muttering mantras. Pieces of wood are laid across the pit, and covered with earth a foot or two deep. Upon this platform a fire of jackwood is kindled, into which butter, sugar, different kinds of grain, etc., are thrown. This sacrifice continues all night, the Panika sacrificer above, and his immured colleague below, repeating their incantations all the while. In the morning the pit is opened, and the man returns to the light of day. These sacrifices are called maranada bali, or death atonements. Instead of a human being, a cock is sometimes shut up in the pit, and killed afterwards.”

Evidence is produced by Mr Rice20 that, in former days, human sacrifices were offered in Coorg, to secure [214]the favour of the Grāma Dēvatas (village goddesses) Mariamma, Durga, and Bhadra Kali.

“In Kirinadu and Koniucheri Grāmas,” he writes, “once every three years, in December and June, a human sacrifice used to be brought to Bhadra Kali, and, during the offering by the Panikas, the people exclaimed ‘Al Amma’ (a man, Oh mother), but once a devotee shouted ‘Al all Amma, Adu’ (not a man, oh mother, a goat), and since that time a he-goat without blemish has been sacrificed. Similarly, in Bellur, once a year, by turns from each house, a man was sacrificed by cutting off his head at the temple; but, when the turn came to a certain home, the devoted victim made his escape to the jungle. The villagers, after an unsuccessful search, returned to the temple, and said to the pūjāri (priest) ‘Kalak Adu,’ which has a double meaning, viz., Kalake next year, adu he will give, or adu a goat, and thenceforth only scapegoats were offered.”

Human sacrifice is considered efficacious in appeasing the earth spirit, and in warding off devils during the construction of a new railway or big bridge. To the influence of such evil spirits the death of several workmen by accident in a cutting on the railway, which was under construction at Cannanore in Malabar, was attributed. A legend is current at Anantapur that, on one occasion, the embankment of the big tank breached. Ganga, the goddess of water, entered the body of a woman, and explained through her that, if some one was thrown into the breach, she would cause no further damage. Accordingly, one Musalamma was thrown in, and buried within it. The spot is marked by several margosa (Melia Azadirachta) trees, and sheep, fowls, etc., are still occasionally offered to the girl who was thus sacrificed. When a tank bund (embankment) was under construction [215]in Mysore, there was a panic among the workmen, owing to a rumour that three virgins were going to be sacrificed. When a mantapam or shrine was consecrated, a human sacrifice was formerly considered necessary, but a cocoanut is now sometimes used as a substitute. At Kalasapād in the Cuddapah district, a missionary told Bishop Whitehead that, when a new ward was opened at the mission dispensary in 1906, none would enter it, because the people believed that the first to enter would be offered as a sacrifice. Their fears were allayed by a religious service. During the building of a tower at the Madras Museum, just before the big granite blocks were placed in position, the coolies contented themselves with the sacrifice of a goat. On the completion of a new building, some castes on the west coast sacrifice a fowl or sheep, to drive away the devils, which are supposed to haunt it.

In a field outside a village in South Canara, Mr Walhouse noticed a large square marked in lines with whitewash on the ground, with magic symbols in the corners, and the outline of a human figure rudely drawn in the middle. Flowers and boiled rice had been laid on leaves round the figure. He was informed that a house was to be built on the site marked out, and the figure was intended to represent the earth spirit supposed to be dwelling in the ground (or a human sacrifice?). Without this ceremony being performed before the earth was dug up, it was believed that there would be no luck about the house.21

Belief in the efficacy of human sacrifice as a means of discovering hidden treasure is widespread. It is recorded by Mr Walhouse22 that “one of the native notions respecting pāndu kuli, or kistvaens, is that men of old constructed them for the purpose of hiding treasure. [216]Hence it is that antiquarians find so many have been ransacked. It is also believed that spells were placed over them as a guard, the strongest being to bury a man alive in the cairn, and bid his ghost protect the deposit against any but the proprietor. The ghost would conceal the treasure from all strangers, or only be compelled to disclose it by a human sacrifice being offered.”

Many beliefs exist with regard to the purpose for which the large prehistoric burial jars, such as are found in various parts of Southern India, were manufactured. In Travancore, some believe that they were made to contain the remains of virgins sacrificed by the Rājas on the boundaries of their estates, to protect them.23 According to another idea, the jars were made for the purpose of burying alive in them old women who refused to die.

In a note on the Velamas of the Godāvari district, Mr F. R. Hemingway writes that they admit that they always arrange for a Māla (Telugu Pariah) couple to marry, before they have a marriage in their own houses, and that they provide the necessary funds for the Māla marriage. They explain the custom by a story to the effect that a Māla once allowed a Velama to sacrifice him in order to obtain a hidden treasure, and they say that this custom is observed out of gratitude for the discovery of the treasure which resulted. The Rev. J. Cain gives a similar custom among the Velamas of Bhadrāchalam in the Godāvari district, only in this case it is a Palli (fisherman) who has to be married. Some years ago, a Native of the west coast, believing that treasure was hidden on his property, took council with an astrologer, who recommended the performance of a human sacrifice, [217]which happily was averted. On one occasion, a little Brāhman girl is said to have been decoyed when on her way to school, and murdered in the god’s room at a temple in Vellore, in which treasure was supposed to be concealed.

In 1901, a Native of the Bellary district was tried for the murder of his child, in the belief that hidden treasure would thereby be revealed to him. The man, whose story I heard from himself in the lock-up, had apparently implicit faith that the god would bring the child to life again. The case, as recorded in the judgment of the Sessions Judge, was as follows:—

“The prisoner has made two long statements to the Magistrate, in each of which he explains why he killed the child. From these statements it appears that he had been worshipping at the temple of Kona Irappa for six or seven years, and that, on one or more occasions, the god appeared to him, and said: ‘I am much pleased with your worship. There is wealth under me. To whom else should it be given but you?’ The god asked the prisoner to sacrifice sheep and buffaloes, and also said: ‘Give your son’s head. You know that a head should be given to the god who confers a boon. I shall raise up your son, and give you the wealth which is under me.’ At that time, the prisoner had only one son—the deceased boy was not then born. The prisoner said to the god: ‘I have only one son. How can I give him?’ The god replied: ‘A son will be born. Do not fear me. I shall revive the son, and give you wealth.’ Within one year, the deceased boy was born. This increased the prisoner’s faith in the god, and it is apparent from his own statement that he has for some time past been contemplating human sacrifice. He was advised not to sacrifice the son, and for a time was satisfied with sacrificing a buffalo and goats, but, as a result, did not succeed in getting the wealth that he was [218]anxious to secure. The prisoner says he dug up some portion of the temple, but the temple people did not let him dig further. The boy was killed on a Sunday, because the prisoner says that the god informed him that the human sacrifice should be on the child’s birthday, which was a Sunday. The prisoner mentions in his statement how he took the child to the temple on the Sunday morning, and cut him with a sword. Having done so, he proceeded to worship, saying: ‘I offered a head to the bestower of boons. Give boons, resuscitate my son, and show me wealth.’ While the prisoner was worshipping the god, and waiting for the god to revive his son, the Reddi (headman) and the police came to the temple, and interrupted the worship. The prisoner believes that thereby the god was prevented from reviving the son.... The facts seem to be clear. The man’s mind is sound in every respect but as regards this religious delusion. On that point, it is unsound.”

A bad feature of the case, which was reckoned against the prisoner, was that he deferred the sacrifice until a second son was born, so that, in any case, he was not left without male issue. It was laid down by Manu that a man is perfect when he consists of three—himself, his wife, and his son. In the Rig Vēda it is laid down that, when a father sees the face of a living son, he pays a debt in him, and gains immortality. In Sanskrit works, Pūtra, or son, is defined as one who delivers a parent from a hell called put, into which those who have no son fall. Hence the anxiety of Hindus to marry, and beget male offspring.

A few years ago, in the Mysore Province, two men were charged with the kidnapping and murder of a female infant, and one was sentenced to transportation for life. The theory of the prosecution was that the child was killed, in order that it might be offered as a sacrifice with [219]the object of securing hidden treasure, which was believed to be buried near the scene of the murder. A witness gave evidence to the effect that the second accused was the pūjāri (priest) of a Gangamma temple. He used to tell people that there was hidden treasure, and that, if a human sacrifice were offered, the treasure might be acquired. He used to make pūja, and tie yantrams (charms). He also made special pūjas, and exorcised devils. Another witness testified that her mother had buried some treasure during her lifetime, and she asked the pūjāri to discover it. He came to her house, made an earthen image, and did pūja to it. He dug the ground in three places, but no treasure was found. In dealing with the evidence in the Court of Appeal, the Judges stated that “it is well known that ignorant persons have various superstitions about the discovery of hidden treasure, and the facts that the second accused either shared such superstitious beliefs, or traded on the credulity of his neighbours by his pretensions of special occult power, and that a Sanyāsi (religious mendicant) had some four years ago given out that treasure might be discovered by means of a human sacrifice, cannot justify any inference that the second accused would have acted on the last suggestion, especially when the witnesses cannot even say that the second accused heard the Sanyāsi’s suggestion.”

The temple was searched, and the following articles were found:—three roots of the banyan tree having suralay (coil), a suralay of the banyan tree, round which two roots were entwined, a piece of banyan root, and a wheel (alada chakra) made of banyan root. Besides, there were a copper armlet, copper thyati (charm cylinder), nine copper plates, on which letters were engraved, a copper mokka mattoo (copper plate bearing [220]figures of deities), a piece of thread coloured red, white and black, for tying yantrams, a tin case containing kappu (a black substance), a ball of human hair, and a pen-knife. There was also a dealwood box containing books and papers relating to bhūta vidya (black art).

A man was accused in 1907, in the Kurnool district, of stabbing a supposed wizard in the darkest hours of a new-moon night. In the course of his judgment, the Judge stated that “what may be taken as the facts of the case are very curious. The accused and his elder brother saw an ‘iguana’ (lizard) run from the foot of a hill. This is supposed to be one of the signs of buried treasure. They killed the animal (and ate it eventually), and dug, and found, where it had slept, treasure in the shape of a pot full of old-time pagodas (gold coins). Now a goddess (called here Shatti, i.e., Sakti) is supposed to guard such buried treasure, and the finder ought to sacrifice a cock to the goddess before receiving the treasure. The brother of the accused neglected to do so, and came to the deceased, who was supposed to be a warlock, though his wife represents him to be merely a worshipper of Vīra Brahma, and a distributor of holy water (thirtham) and holy ashes to people possessed with devils. The deceased gave holy water to Pedda Pichivadu to avert ill-luck, but the man suddenly died from running a thorn into his foot, and his leg swelling in consequence. About the same time, the accused’s younger brother got palsy in his head, and the deceased failed to cure him, though he made the attempt.”

At Girigehalli in the Anantapur district, there is a temple, concerning which the story goes that the stomach of the goddess was once opened by an avaricious individual, who expected to find treasure within it. The goddess appeared to him in a dream, and said that he should [221]suffer like pain to that which he had inflicted upon her, and he shortly afterwards died of some internal complaint.24

In the Cuddapah district, many of the inhabitants are said25 to believe that there is much treasure hidden from the troublous days of the eighteenth century, but they have a superstitious dread against looking for it, since the successful finder would be smitten by the guardian demon with a sudden and painful death.

The Pānos (hill weavers) of Ganjam are said, on more than one occasion, to have rifled the grave of a European, in the belief that buried treasure would be found.

Many years ago, a woman was supposed to be possessed with a devil, and an exorcist was consulted, who declared that a human sacrifice was necessary. A victim was selected, and made very drunk. His head was cut off, and the blood, mixed with rice, was offered to the idol. The body was then hacked so as to deceive the police, and thrown into a pond.26

At a village near Berhampur in Ganjam, Mr S. P. Rice tells us,27 a number of villagers went out together. By and bye, according to a preconcerted plan, one of the party suggested a drink. The intended victim was drugged, and taken along to the statue of the goddess, or shrine containing what did duty for the statue. He was then thrown down with his face on the ground in an attitude suggesting supplication, and, while he was still in a state of stupor, his head was chopped off with an axe.

It is narrated by Chevers28 that, in 1840, a religious mendicant, on his way back from Rāmēsvaram, located himself in a village near Ramnād, and gave himself out [222]to be gifted with the power of working miracles. One evening, the chucklers (leather-workers) of the village, observing crows and vultures hovering near a group of trees, and suspecting that there was carrion for them to feast upon, were tempted to visit the spot, where they found a corpse, mangled most fearfully, and with the left hand and right leg cut off. Many nails were driven into the head, a garland was placed round the neck, and the forehead smeared with sandal paste. It was rumoured that a certain person was ailing, and that the holy man decreed that nothing short of a human sacrifice could save him, and that the victim should bear his name. The holy man disappeared, but was captured shortly afterwards.

A copper-plate grant, acquired a few years ago at Tirupati, and believed to be a forgery, records that a temple car was made for the goddess Kālikadēvi of Conjeeveram by certain Panchālans (members of the artisan classes). While it was being taken to the temple, a magician stopped it by means of incantations. The help of another magician was sought, and he cut off the head of his pregnant daughter, suspended it to the car, and performed certain rites. The car then moved, and the woman, whose head was cut off, was brought back to life. A somewhat similar legend is recorded in another copper-plate grant discovered in 1910 in the North Arcot district, which is also believed to be a forgery. It is there stated that the five castes of artisans made a bell-metal car for the Kāmākshiamman temple at Conjeeveram. Members of these five castes, belonging to the left-hand faction, commenced to drag it, but Seniyasingapuli, belonging to the right-hand faction, by means of magical powers, raised a thousand evil spirits against each wheel, and arrested its progress. A woman, named Mangammal, offered to sacrifice her son, and the artisans accordingly [223]purchased the boy, saying that they would give her a head equal to that of a new-born child. Eventually, Mangammal herself laid down before the car. Her head was cut off, and hung at the top of the car. Her abdomen was torn open, and the fœtus removed therefrom, and dedicated to the evil spirit. The headless trunk was buried in the path of the wheels. [224]

1 “The Golden Bough,” 1900, ii. 241 et seq. Bibliography of human sacrifice among the Kondhs, see Thurston, “Castes and Tribes of Southern India,” 1909, iii. 412–5.

2 “Selections from the Records of the Government of India,” No. v., Suppression of human sacrifice and infanticide, 1854. The subject of Meriah sacrifice is also dealt with by F. E. Penny, in her novel entitled “Sacrifice,” 1910.

3 “Personal Narrative of Service among the Wild Tribes of Khondistan,” 1864.

4 “The People of India,” 1908, 62.

5 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 202.

6 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 262–3.

7 Madras Weekly Mail, 6th June, 1894.

8 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 359.

9 Madras Christian Coll. Mag., 1887–88, v. 357.

10 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 202.

11 “Hindu Manners, Customs, and Ceremonies,” translation by H. K. Beauchamp, 1897, i. 70–1.

12 “Ind. Ant.,” 1879, viii. 219.

13 Infanticide, see Thurston, “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India,” 1907, 502–9.

14 Marshall, “A Phrenologist amongst the Todas,” 1873, 195.

15 Ellis, “History of Madagascar.”

16 “The Village Deities of Southern India,” Madras Museum Bull., 1907, v. 3, 137, 186.

17 “Gazetteer of Malabar,” 1908, i. 132.

18 “Mysore and Coorg Manual,” 1878, iii. 265.

19 The Kaniyans of the west coast are exorcisers.

20 “Mysore and Coorg Manual,” 1878, iii. 264–5.

21 “Ind. Ant.,” 1881, x. 366.

22 Ibid., 1876, v. 22.

23 “Ind. Ant.,” 1878, vii. 177.

24 “Gazetteer of the Anantapur District,” 1905, i. 179.

25 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 284.

26 Lieutenant-General F. F. Burton, “An Indian Olio,” 307.

27 “Occasional Essays on Native South Indian Life,” 1901, 72–3.

28 “Manual of Medical Jurisprudence in India,” 1870.

[Contents]

VIII

Magic and Human Life

Some of the cases here brought together serve as an illustration of the difficulty which frequently arises in arriving at a decision as to how far the taking of human life is justified as being carried out in accordance with a genuine superstitious belief, and when the act renders the perpetrator thereof liable to punishment under the Indian Penal Code.

Five persons were charged a few years ago at the Coimbatore sessions with the murder of a young woman. The theory put forward by the prosecution was that two of the accused practised sorcery, and were under the delusion that, if they could obtain the fœtus from the uterus of a woman who was carrying her first child, they would be able to work some wonderful spells with it. With this object, they entered into a conspiracy with the three other accused to murder a young married woman, aged about seventeen, who was seven months advanced in pregnancy, and brutally murdered her, cutting open the uterus, removing the fœtus contained therein, and stealing her jewels. The five accused persons (three men and two women) were all of different castes. Two of the men had been jointly practising sorcery for some years. It was proved that, about two years before, they had performed an incantation near a river with some raw beef, doing pūja (worship) near the water’s edge in a [225]state of nature. Evidence was produced to prove that two of the accused decamped after the murder with a suspicious bundle, a few days before an eclipse of the moon, to Tiruchengōdu where there is a celebrated temple. It was suggested that the bundle contained the uterus, and was taken to Tiruchengōdu for the purpose of performing magical rites. When the quarters in which two of the accused lived were searched, three palm-leaf books were found containing mantrams regarding the pilli suniyam, a process of incantation by means of which sorcerers are supposed to be able to kill people. The record of the case states that “there can be little doubt that the first and fourth accused were taken into the conspiracy in order to decoy the deceased. The inducement offered to them was most probably immense wealth by the working of charms by the second and third accused with the aid of the fœtus. The medical evidence showed that the dead woman was pregnant, and that, after her throat had been cut, the uterus was taken out.”

In 1829, several Natives of Malabar were charged with having proceeded, in company with a Paraiyan magician, to the house of a pregnant woman, who was beaten and otherwise ill-treated, and with having taken the fœtus out of her uterus, and introduced in lieu thereof the skin of a calf and an earthen pot. The prisoners confessed before the police, but were acquitted mainly on the ground that the earthen pot was of a size which rendered it impossible to credit its introduction during life. The Paraiyas of Malabar and Cochin are celebrated for their magical powers, and the practice of odi.

“There are,” Mr Govinda Nambiar writes,1 “certain specialists among mantravādis (dealers in magical spells), [226]who are known as Odiyans. Conviction is deep-rooted that they have the power of destroying whomever they please, and that, by means of a powerful bewitching matter called pilla thilum (oil extracted from the body of an infant), they are enabled to transform themselves into any shape or form, or even to vanish into air, as their fancy may suggest. When an Odiyan is hired to cause the death of a man, he waits during the night at the gate of his intended victim’s house, usually in the form of a bullock. If, however, the person is inside the house, the Odiyan assumes the shape of a cat, enters the house, and induces him to come out. He is subsequently knocked down and strangled. The Odiyan is also credited with the power, by means of certain medicines, of inducing sleeping persons to open the doors, and come out of their houses as somnambulists do. Pregnant women are sometimes induced to come out of their houses in this way, and they are murdered, and the fœtus extracted from them. Murder of both sexes by Odiyans was a crime of frequent occurrence before the British occupation of the country.”

In a case which was tried at the Malabar Sessions a few years ago, several witnesses for the prosecution deposed that a certain individual was killed by odi. One man gave the following account of the process. Shoot the victim in the nape of the neck with a blunt arrow, and bring him down. Proceed to beat him systematically all over the body with two sticks (resembling a policeman’s truncheon, and called odivaddi), laying him on his back and applying the sticks to his chest, and up and down the sides, breaking all the ribs and other bones. Then raise the person, and kick his sides. After this, force him to take an oath that he will never divulge the names of his torturer. All the witnesses agreed about the blunt arrow, and some bore testimony to the sticks.

A detailed account of the odi cult, from which the [227]following information was obtained, is given by Mr Anantha Krishna Iyer.2 The disciple is taught how to procure pilla thilum (fœtus oil) from the six or seven months fœtus of a young woman in her first pregnancy. He (the Paraiyan magician) sets out at midnight from his hut to the house of the woman he has selected, round which he walks several times, shaking a cocoanut containing gurasi (a compound of water, lime, and turmeric), and muttering some mantrams to invoke the aid of his deity. He also draws a yantram (cabalistic figure) on the earth, taking special care to observe the omens as he starts. Should they be unfavourable, he puts it off for a more favourable opportunity. By the potency of his cult, the woman is made to come out. Even if the door of the room in which she might sleep be under lock and key, she would knock her head against it until she found her way out. She thus comes out, and yields herself to the influence of the magician, who leads her to a retired spot either in the compound (grounds), or elsewhere in the neighbourhood, strips her naked, and tells her to lie flat. She does so, and a chora kindi (gourd, Lagenaria) is placed close to the uterus. The fœtus comes out in a moment. A few leaves of some plant are applied, and the uterus contracts. Sometimes the womb is filled with rubbish, and the woman instantly dies. Care is taken that the fœtus does not touch the ground, lest the purpose be defeated, and the efficacy of the medicine completely lost. It is cut into pieces, dried, and afterwards exposed to the smoke above a fireplace. It is then placed in a vessel provided with a hole or two, below which there is another vessel. The two together are placed in a larger vessel filled with water, and heated over a bright fire. The heat must be so intense as to affect the fœtus, from which a [228]kind of liquid drops, and collects in the second vessel in an hour and a half. The magician then takes a human skull, and reduces it to a fine powder. This is mixed with a portion of the liquid. A mark is made on the forehead with this mixture, and the oil is rubbed on certain parts of the body, and he drinks some cow-dung water. He then thinks that he can assume the figure of any animal he likes, and successfully achieves the object in view, which is generally to murder or maim a person. A magic oil, called angola thilum, is extracted from the angola tree (Alangium Lamarckii), which bears a very large number of fruits. One of these is believed to be capable of descending and returning to its position on dark nights. Its possession can be secured by demons, or by an expert watching at the foot of the tree. When it has been secured, the extraction of the oil involves the same operations as those for extracting the pilla thilum, and they must be carried out within seven hours. The odi cult is said to have been practised by the Paraiyas some twenty years ago to a very large extent in the rural parts of the northern division of the Cochin State, and in the tāluks of Palghāt and Valuvanād, and even now it has not quite died out. Cases of extracting the fœtus, and of putting persons to death by odi, are not now heard of owing to the fear of government officials, landlords, and others.

Of the odi cult as practised by the Pānan magicians of the Cochin State, the following account is given by Mr Anantha Krishna Iyer.3

“A Pānan, who is an adept in the black art, dresses in an unwashed cloth, and performs pūja to his deity, after which he goes in search of a kotuveli plant (Plumbago zeylanica). When he has found it, he goes round it three times every day, and continues to do so for ninety days, [229]prostrating himself every day before it, and on the last night, which must be a new moon night, at midnight, he performs pūja to the plant, burning camphor and frankincense, and, after going round it three times, prostrates himself before it. He then thrusts three small candles on it, and advances twenty paces in front of it. With his mouth closed, he plucks the root, and buries it in the ashes on the cremation ground, after which he pours the water of seven green cocoanuts on it. He then goes round it twenty-one times, uttering all the while certain mantrams. This being over, he plunges himself in water, and stands erect until it extends to his mouth. He takes a mouthful of water which he empties on the spot, and takes the plant with the root which he believes to possess peculiar virtues. When it is taken to the closed door of a house, it has the power to entice a pregnant woman, and cause her to come out, when the fœtus is removed. It is all secretly done at midnight. The head, hands, and legs are cut off, and the trunk is taken to a dark-coloured rock, on which it is cut into nine pieces, which are burned until they are blackened. At this stage one piece boils, and it is placed in a new earthen pot, to which is added the water of nine green cocoanuts. The pot is removed to the burial ground, where the Pānan performs a pūja in honour of his favourite deity. He fixes two poles deep in the earth, at a distance of thirty feet from each other. The two poles are connected by a strong wire, from which is suspended the pot to be heated and boiled. Seven fireplaces are made beneath the wire, over the middle of which is the pot. The branches of bamboo, katalati (Achyranthes aspera), conga (Bauhinia variegata), cocoanut palm, jack tree (Artocarpus integrifolia), and pavatta (Pavetta indica), are used in forming a bright fire. The mixture in the pot soon boils and becomes oily, at which stage it is passed through a fine cloth. The oil is preserved, and a mark made with it on the forehead enables the possessor to realise anything which is thought of. The sorcerer must be in a state of vow for twenty-one days, and live on a diet [230]of chama kanji (gruel). The deity whose aid is necessary is also propitiated by offerings.”

In 1908, the following case, relating to the birth of a monster, was tried before the Sessions Judge of South Canara. A young Gauda girl became pregnant by her brother-in-law. After three days’ labour, the child was born. The accused, who was the mother of the girl, was the midwife. Finding the delivery very difficult, she sent for a person to come and help her. The child was, as they thought, still-born. On its head was a red protuberance like a ball; round each of its forearms were two or three red bands; the eyes and ears were fixed very high in the head; and the eyes, nose, and mouth were abnormally large. The mother was carried out of the outhouse, lest the devil child should do her harm, or kill her. The accused summoned a Muhammadan, who was in the yard. He came in, and she showed him the child, and asked him to call the neighbours, to decide what to do. The child, she said, was a devil child, and must be cut and killed, lest it should devour the mother. While they were looking at the child, it began to move and roll its eyes about, and turn on the ground. It is a belief of the villagers that such a devil child, when brought in contact with the air, rapidly grows, and causes great trouble, usually killing the mother, and sometimes killing all the inmates of the house. The accused told the Muhammadan to cover the child with a vessel, which he did. Then there was a sound from inside the vessel, either of the child moving, or making a sound with its mouth. The accused then put her hand under the vessel, dragged the child half-way out, and, while the Muhammadan pressed the edge of the vessel on the abdomen of the child, took a knife, and cut the body in [231]half. When the body was cut in two, there was no blood, but a mossy-green or black liquid oozed out. The accused got two areca leaves, and put one piece of the child on one, and one on the other, and told the Muhammadan to get a spade, and bury them. So they went to the jungle close to the house, and the Muhammadan dug two holes, one on one hillock, and one on another. In these holes, the two pieces of the child were buried. The object of this was to prevent the two pieces joining together again, in which case the united devil child would have come out of the grave, and gone to kill the mother.

Years ago, it was not unusual for people to come long distances for the purpose of engaging Paniyans of the Wynād (in Malabar) to help them in carrying out some more than usually desperate robbery or murder. Their mode of procedure, when engaged in an enterprise of this sort, is evidenced by two cases, which had in them a strong element of savagery. On both these occasions, the thatched homesteads were surrounded at dead of night by gangs of Paniyans carrying large bundles of rice straw. After carefully piling up the straw on all sides of the building marked for destruction, torches were at a given signal applied, and those of the inmates who attempted to escape were knocked on the head with clubs, and thrust into the fiery furnace. In 1904, some Paniyans were employed by a Māppilla (Muhammadan) to murder his mistress, who was pregnant, and threatened that she would noise abroad his responsibility for her condition. He brooded over the matter, and one day, meeting a Paniyan, promised him ten rupees if he would kill the woman. The Paniyan agreed to commit the crime, and went with his brothers to a place on a hill, where the Māppilla and the woman were in the habit of gratifying their passions. Thither the man and woman followed [232]the Paniyans, of whom one ran out, and struck the victim on the head with a chopper. She was then gagged with a cloth, carried some distance, and killed.

In 1834, the inhabitants of several villages in Malabar attacked a village of Paraiyans on the alleged ground that deaths of people and cattle, and the protracted labour of a woman in childbed, had been caused by the practice of sorcery by the Paraiyans. They were beaten inhumanely with their hands tied behind their backs, so that several died. The villagers were driven, bound, into a river, immersed under water so as nearly to produce suffocation, and their own children were forced to rub sand into their wounds. Their settlement was then razed to the ground, and they were driven into banishment.

The Kādirs of the Ānaimalais are believers in witchcraft, and attribute diseases to the working thereof. They are expert exorcists, and trade in mantravādam or magic. It is recorded by Mr Logan4 that “the family of famous trackers, whose services in the jungles were retained for H.R.H. the Prince of Wales’s (afterwards King Edward VII.) projected sporting tour in the Ānamalai mountains, dropped off most mysteriously one by one, stricken down by an unseen hand, and all of them expressing beforehand their conviction that they were under a certain individual’s spell, and were doomed to certain death at an early date. They were probably poisoned, but how it was managed remains a mystery, although the family was under the protection of a European gentleman, who would at once have brought to light any ostensible foul play.”

The Badagas of the Nīlgiris live in dread of the jungle Kurumbas, who constantly come under reference in their folk-stories. The Kurumba is the necromancer of the hills, [233]and believed to be possessed of the power of outraging women, removing their livers, and so causing their death, while the wound heals by magic, so that no trace of the operation is left. The Badaga’s dread of the Kurumba is said to be so great, that a simple threat of vengeance has proved fatal. The Badaga or Toda requires the services of the Kurumba, when he fancies that any member of his family is possessed by a devil. The Kurumba does his best to remove the malady by means of mantrams (magical formulæ). If he fails, and if any suspicion is aroused in the mind of the Badaga or Toda that he is allowing the devil to play his pranks instead of loosing his hold on the supposed victim, woe betide him. Writing in 1832, Harkness states5 that “a very few years before, a Burgher (Badaga) had been hanged by the sentence of the provincial court for the murder of a Kurumba. The act of the former was not without what was considered great provocation. Disease had attacked the inhabitants of the hamlet, a murrain their cattle. The former had carried off a great part of the family of the murderer, and he himself had but narrowly escaped its effects. No one in the neighbourhood doubted that the Kurumba in question had, by his necromancy, caused all this misfortune, and, after several fruitless attempts, a party of them succeeded in surrounding him in open day, and effecting their purpose.”

In 1835, no less than fifty-eight Kurumbas were murdered, and a smaller number in 1875 and 1882. In 1891, the inmates of a single Kurumba hut were said to have been murdered, and the hut burnt to ashes, because one of the family had been treating a sick Badaga child, and failed to cure it. The district judge, however, disbelieved [234]the evidence, and all who were charged were acquitted. Again, in 1900, a whole family of Kurumbas was murdered, of which the head, who had a reputation as a medicine man, was believed to have brought disease and death into a Badaga village. The sympathies of the whole countryside were so strongly with the murderers that detection was made very difficult, and the persons charged were acquitted.6

“It is,” Mr Grigg writes,7 “a curious fact that neither Kota, Irula, or Badaga, will slay a Kurumba, until a Toda has struck the first blow, but, as soon as his sanctity has been violated by a blow, they hasten to complete the murderous work, which the sacred hand of the Toda has begun.”

Some years ago, a Toda was found dead in a sitting posture on the top of a hill near a Badaga village, in which a party of Todas had gone to collect the tribute due to them. The body was cremated, and a report made to the police that the man had been murdered. On enquiry, it was ascertained that the dead man was supposed to have bewitched a little Badaga girl, who died in consequence, and the presumption was that he had been murdered by the Badagas out of spite.

In 1906, two men were found guilty of killing a man by shooting him with a gun in South Canara. It is recorded in the judgment that “the accused have a brother, who has been ill for a long time. They thought deceased, who was an astrologer and mantravādi, had bewitched him. They had spent fifty or sixty rupees on deceased for his treatment, but it did no good, and accused came to believe that deceased not only would not cure their brother himself, but would not allow [235]other doctors to do so. Also, a certain theft having occurred some months ago, deceased professed by his magic arts to have discovered that accused and others were the thieves. In consequence of these things, accused had expressed various threats against deceased. One witness, who is a mantravādi in a small way, was consulted by one of the accused to find some counter-treatment for deceased’s bewitchment. Accused said that deceased refused to cure their brother, and would not let others do so, unless they gave him certain gold coins called Rāma Tanka, said to be in their possession. They desired this possession, so would not satisfy deceased. So their brother was dying by inches under deceased’s malign influence. This witness professed to have discovered that accused’s brother was being worried by one black devil and two malignant spirits of the dead. It is clear from the evidence that accused, who are ignorant men of a low type, really believed that deceased was by his magic wilfully and slowly killing their brother. They believed that the only way to save their brother’s life was to kill the magician.”

During an epidemic of smallpox in the Jeypore hill tracts, a man lost his wife and child. A local subscription had been organised for a sorcerer, on the understanding that he was to stay the course of the epidemic. The bereaved man charged him with being a fraud, and, in the course of a quarrel, split his skull open with a tangi (axe).

In 1906, a Kōmati woman died of cholera in a village in Ganjam. Her son sought the assistance of certain men of the “Reddika” caste in obtaining wood for the pyre, carrying the corpse to the burning-ground, and cremating it. The son set fire to the pyre, and withdrew, leaving the Reddikas on the spot. Among them was one, who is said to have learnt sorcery from a Bairāgi (religious mendicant), and to have been generally feared and hated in the village. [236]To him the spread of cholera by letting loose the goddess of the cremation-ground, called Mashani Chendi, was attributed. Arrack (liquor) was passed round among those who were attending to the burning corpse, and they got more or less drunk. Two of them killed the sorcerer by severe blows on the neck with wood-choppers. His corpse was then placed on the burning pyre of the Kōmati woman, and cremated. The men who delivered the death blows were sentenced to transportation for life, as their intoxicated state and superstitious feeling were held to plead in mitigation of the punishment.

In 1904 a case illustrating the prevailing belief in witchcraft occurred in the Vizagapatam hill tracts. The youngest of three brothers died of fever, and, when the body was cremated, the fire failed to consume the upper portion. The brothers concluded that death must have been caused by the witchcraft of a certain Kondh. They accordingly attacked him, and killed him. After death, the brothers cut the body in half and dragged the upper half of it to their own village, where they attempted to nail it up on the spot where their deceased brother’s body failed to burn. They were arrested on the spot, with the fragment of the Kondh’s corpse. They were sentenced to death.8

In the North Arcot district, a few years ago, a reputed magician, while collecting the pieces of a burning corpse, to be used for the purposes of sorcery, was seized and murdered, and his body cast on the burning pyre. From the recovery of duplicate bones, it was proved that two bodies were burnt, and the murder was detected. Two persons were sentenced to transportation for life.9

Jumadi Bhūtha, South Canara.

To face p. 237.

[237]

1 Indian Review, May, 1900.

2 “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” Madras, 1909, i. 77–81.

3 “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” Madras, i. 176–7.

4 “Malabar,” 1887, i. 174.

5 “Description of a Singular Aboriginal Race inhabiting the summit of the Neilgherry Hills,” 1832, 83–4.

6 “Madras Police Administration Report,” 1900.

7 “Manual of the Niligiri District,” 1880, 212.

8 “Madras Police Administration Report,” 1904.

9 Ibid., 1905–6.

[Contents]

IX

Magic and Magicians

It has been stated1 that sorcerers usually unite together to form a society, which may attain great influence among backward races. In Southern India there are certain castes which are summed up in the “Madras Census Report,” 1901, as “exorcists and devil-dancers,” whose most important avocation is the practice of magic. Such, for example, are the Nalkes, Paravas, and Pompadas of South Canara, who are called in whenever a bhūtha (demon) is to be propitiated, and the Pānans and Malayans of Malabar, whose magical rites are described by me in detail elsewhere.2

Concerning sorcery on the west coast, the Travancore Census Commissioner, 1901, writes as follows:—

“The forms of sorcery familiar to the people of Malabar are of three kinds:—(1) kaivisham, or poisoning food by incantations; (2) the employment of Kuttichāttan, a mysteriously-working mischievous imp; (3) setting up spirits to haunt men and their houses, and cause illness of all kinds. The most mischievous imp in Malabar demonology is an annoying quip-loving little spirit, as black as night, and about the size of a well-nourished twelve-year-old boy. Some people say that they have seen [238]him vis-à-vis, having a forelock. There are Nambūtiris (Brāhmans) in Malabar to whom these are so many missiles, which they may throw at anybody they choose. They are, like Shakespeare’s Ariel, little active bodies, and most willing slaves of the master under whom they happen to be placed. Their victims suffer from unbearable agony. Their clothes take fire; their food turns to ordure; their beverages become urine; stones fall in showers on all sides of them, but curiously not on them; and their bed becomes a bed of thorns. With all this annoying mischief, Kuttichāttan or Boy Satan does no serious harm. He oppresses and harasses, but never injures. A celebrated Brāhman of Changanacheri is said to own more than a hundred of these Chāttans. Household articles and jewelry of value may be left in the premises of homes guarded by Chāttan, and no thief dares to lay his hand on them. The invisible sentry keeps diligent watch over his master’s property, and has unchecked powers of movement in any medium. As remuneration for all these services, the Chāttan demands nothing but food, but that in a large measure. If starved, the Chāttans would not hesitate to remind the master of their power, but, if ordinarily cared for, they would be his most willing drudges. As a safeguard against the infinite power secured for the master by Kuttichāttan, it is laid down that malign acts committed through his instrumentality recoil on the prompter, who dies either childless or after frightful physical and mental agony. Another method of oppressing humanity, believed to be in the power of sorcerers, is to make men and women possessed with spirits. Here, too, women are more subject to their evil influence than men. Delayed puberty, permanent sterility, and still-births, are not uncommon ills of a devil-possessed woman. Sometimes the spirits sought to be exorcised refuse to leave the victim, unless the sorcerer promises them a habitation in his own compound (grounds), and arranges for daily offerings being given. This is agreed to as a matter of unavoidable necessity, and money and [239]lands are conferred upon the mantravādi Nambūtiri to enable him to fulfil his promise.”

Reference has been made (p. 238) to the falling of stones round those attacked by Chāttans. Hysteria, epilepsy, and other disorders, are, in Malabar, ascribed to possession by devils, who can also cause cattle disease, accidents, and misfortunes of any kind. Throwing stones on houses, and setting fire to the thatch, are supposed to be their ordinary recreations. The mere mention of the name of a certain Nambūtiri family is said to be enough to drive them away.3 A few years ago, an old Brāhman woman, in the Bellary district, complained to the police that a Sūdra woman living in her neighbourhood, and formerly employed by her as sweeper, had been throwing stones into her house for some nights. The woman admitted that she had done so, because she was advised by a Lingāyat priest that the remedy for intermittent fever, from which she was suffering, was to throw stones at an old woman, and extract some blood from her body on a new or full-moon day.

Some demons are believed to have human mistresses and concubines, and it is narrated4 that a Chetti (merchant) in the Tamil country purchased a Malabar demon from a magician for ninety rupees. But hardly a day had passed before the undutiful spirit fell in love with its new owner’s wife, and succeeded in its nefarious purpose.

Quite recently a woman, in order to win the affection of her husband, gave him a love-charm composed of datura in chutney. The dose proved fatal, and she was sentenced to two years’ rigorous imprisonment.5 A [240]love-philtre, said to be composed of the charred remains of a mouse and spider, was once sent to the chemical examiner to Government for analysis in a suspected case of poisoning. In connection with the dugong (Halicore dugong), which is caught in the Gulf of Manaar, Dr Annandale writes as follows6:—

“The presence of large glands in connection with the eye afford some justification for the Malay’s belief that the dugong weeps when captured. They regard the tears of the īkan dugong (dugong fish) as a powerful love-charm. Muhammadan fishermen of the Gulf of Manaar appeared to be ignorant of this usage, but told me that a ‘doctor’ once went out with them to collect the tears of a dugong, should they capture one.”

Native physicians in the Tamil country are said to prepare an unguent, into the composition of which the eye of the slender Loris (Loris gracilis), the brain of the dead offspring of a primipara, and the catamenial blood of a young virgin, enter, as an effective preparation in necromancy. The eye of the Loris is also used for making a preparation, which is believed to enable the possessor to kidnap and seduce women. The tail of a chamæleon, secured on a Sunday, is also believed to be an excellent love-charm.

A young married student at a college in Madras attributed his illness to the administration by his wife of a love-philtre containing the brains of a baby which had been exhumed after burial. Among the Tamil Paraiyans and some other classes, a first-born child, if it is a male, is buried near or even within the house, so that its corpse may not be carried away by a sorcerer, to be used in magical rites.7 If a first-born child dies, [241]a finger is sometimes cut off, lest a sorcerer should dig up the body, and extract an essence (karuvu) from the brain, wherewith to harm his enemies.8 The Rev. J. Castets informs me that he once saw a man being initiated into the mysteries of the magician’s art. The apparatus included the top of the skull of a first-born male child inscribed with Tamil characters.

A station-house police officer informed Mr S. G. Roberts that first-born children, dying in infancy, are buried near the house, lest their heads should be used in sorcery, a sort of ink or decoction (mai) being distilled from them. This ink is used for killing people at a distance, or for winning a woman’s love, or the confidence of those from whom some favour is required. In the last two cases, the ink is smeared over the eyebrows. It is believed that, if an infant’s head is used for this purpose, the mother will never have a living child. When Mr Roberts was at Salem, he had to try a case of this practice, and the Public Prosecutor informed him that it is believed that, if a hole is made in the top of the head of the infant when it is buried, it cannot be effectively used in sorcery. In the Trichinopoly district, the police brought to Mr Roberts’ notice a sorcerer’s outfit, which had been seized. There were the most frightful Tamil curses invoking devils, written backwards in “looking-glass characters” on an olai (strip of palm leaf), and a looking-glass to read them by. Spells written backwards are said to be very potent. There was also a small round tin, containing a black treacly paste with a sort of shine on it, which was said to have been obtained from the head of a dead child. There is a Tamil proverb “Kuzhi pillai, madi pillai,” meaning grave child, lap child, in reference to a belief that, the [242]quicker a first-born child is buried, the quicker is the next child conceived.

The following form of sorcery in Malabar is described by Mr Walhouse.9

“Let a sorcerer obtain the corpse of a maiden, and on a Saturday night place it at the foot of a bhuta-haunted tree on an altar, and repeat a hundred times: Om! Hrim! Hrom! O goddess of Malayāla who possessest us in a moment! Come! Come! The corpse will then be inspired by a demon, and rise up; and, if the demon be appeased with flesh and arrack (liquor), it will answer all questions put to it.”

A human bone from a burial-ground, over which powerful mantrams have been recited, if thrown into an enemy’s house, will cause his ruin. Ashes from the burial-ground on which an ass has been rolling on a Saturday or Sunday, if thrown into the house of an enemy, are said to produce severe illness, if the house is not vacated.

From Malabar, a correspondent writes as follows:—

“I came across a funny thing in an embankment in a rice-field. The tender part of a young cocoanut branch had been cut into three strips, and the strips fastened one into the other in the form of a triangle. At the apex a reed was stuck, and along the base and sides small flowers, so that the thing looked like a ship in full sail. My inspector informed me, with many blushes, that it contained a devil, which the sorcerer of a neighbouring village had cut out of a young girl. Mrs Bishop, in her book on Korea, mentions that the Koreans do exactly the same thing, but, in Korea, the devil’s prison is laid by the wayside, and is carefully stepped over by every passer-by, whereas the one I saw was carefully avoided by my peons (orderlies) and others.”

In the Godāvari district, Mr H. Tyler came across the [243]burning funeral pyre of a Koyi girl, who had died of syphilis. Across a neighbouring path leading to the Koyi village was a basket fish-trap containing grass, and on each side thorny twigs, which were intended to catch the malign spirit of the dead girl, and prevent it from entering the village. The twigs and trap containing the spirit were to be burnt on the following day. By the Dōmbs of Vizagapatam, the souls of the dead are believed to roam about, so as to cause all possible harm to mankind, and also to protect them against the attacks of witches. A place is prepared for the Dūma in the door-hinge, or a fishing-net, wherein he lives, is placed over the door. The witches must count all the knots of the net, before they can enter the house.10

At cross-roads in the Bellary district, geometric patterns are sometimes made at night by people suffering from disease, in the belief that the affliction will pass to the person who first treads on the charm.11

“At cross-roads in the South Arcot district may be sometimes seen pieces of broken pot, saffron (turmeric), etc. These are traces of the following method of getting rid of an obstinate disease. A new pot is washed clean, and filled with a number of objects (the prescription differs in different localities), such as turmeric, coloured grains of rice, chillies, cotton-seed, and so forth, and sometimes a light made of a few threads dipped in a little dish of oil, and taken at dead of night to the cross-roads, and broken there. The disease will then disappear. In some places it is believed that it passes to the first person who sees the débris of the ceremony the next morning, and the performer has to be careful to carry it out unknown to his neighbours, or the consequences are unpleasant for him.”12

[244]

Some Valaiyans, Paraiyans, and Kallans, on the occasion of a death in the family, place a pot filled with dung or water, a broomstick, and a firebrand, at some place where three roads meet, or in front of the house, to prevent the ghost from returning.13 When a Paraiyan man dies, camphor is burnt, not at the house, but at the junction of three lanes.

In the Godāvari district, a sorcerer known as the Ejjugadu (male physician) is believed, out of spite or in return for payment, to kill another by invoking the gods. He goes to a green tree, and there spreads muggu or chunam (lime) powder, and places an effigy of the intended victim thereon. He also places a bow and arrow there, recites certain spells, and calls on the gods. The victim is said to die in a couple of days. But, if he understands that the Ejjugadu has thus invoked the gods, he may inform another Ejjugadu, who will carry out similar operations under another tree. His bow and arrow will go to those of the first Ejjugadu, and the two bows and arrows will fight as long as the spell remains. The man will then be safe.

Writing concerning the nomad Yerukalas, Mr F. Fawcett says14 that “the warlock takes the possessed one by night to the outskirts of the village, and makes a figure on the ground with powdered rice, powders of various colours, and powdered charcoal. Balls of the powders, half cocoanut shells, betel, four-anna pieces, and oil lamps, are placed on the hands, legs, and abdomen. A little heap of boiled rice is placed near the feet, and curds and vegetables are set on the top of it, with limes placed here and there. The subject of the incantation sits near the head, while the magician mutters mantrams. A he-goat is then [245]sacrificed. Its head is placed near the foot of the figure, and benzoin and camphor are waved. A little grain is scattered about the figure to appease the evil spirits. Some arrack is poured into a cup, which is placed on the body of the figure, and the bottle which contained it is left on the head. The limes are cut in two, and two cocoanuts are broken. The patient then walks by the left side of the figure to its legs, takes one step to the right towards the head, and one step to the left towards the feet, and walks straight home without looking back.”

In Malabar, Mr Govinda Nambiar writes,15 “when a village doctor attending a sick person finds that the malady is unknown to him, or will not yield to his remedies, he calls in the astrologer, and subsequently the exorcist, to expel the demon or demons which have possessed the sick man. If the devils will not yield to ordinary remedies administered by his disciples, the mantravādi himself comes, and a devil dance is appointed to be held on a certain day. Thereat various figures of mystic device are traced on the ground, and in their midst a huge and frightful form representing the demon. Sometimes an effigy is constructed out of cooked and coloured rice. The patient is seated near the head of the figure, and opposite sits the magician adorned with bundles of sticks tied over the joints of his body, tails, and skins of animals, etc. Verses are chanted, and sometimes cocks are sacrificed, and the blood is sprinkled on the demon’s effigy. Amidst the beating of drums and blowing of pipes, the magician enters upon his diabolical dance, and, in the midst of his paroxysm, may even bite live cocks, and suck with ferocity the hot blood.”

When a Malayan exorcist is engaged in propitiating a demon, a fowl is sometimes waved before him, and [246]decapitated. He puts the neck in his mouth, and sucks the blood. By the Tiyans of Malabar a number of evil spirits are supposed to devote their attention to a pregnant woman, and to suck the blood of the child in utero, and of the mother. In the process of expelling them, the woman lies on the ground and kicks. A cock is thrust into her hand, and she bites it, and drinks its blood.

It is noted by Mr L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer that by the Thanda Pulayans of the west coast “a ceremony called urasikotukkuka is performed with the object of getting rid of a devil, with which a person is possessed. At a place far distant from the hut, a leaf, on which the blood of a fowl has been made to fall, is spread on the ground. On a smaller leaf, chunam and turmeric are placed. The person who first sets eyes on these becomes possessed by the devil, and sets free the individual who was previously under its influence. The Thanda Pulayans also practise maranakriyas, or sacrifices to demons, to bring about the death of an enemy. Sometimes affliction is supposed to be brought about by the enmity of those who have got incantations written on a palm leaf, and buried in the ground near a house by the side of a well. A sorcerer is called in to counteract the evil charm, which he digs up and destroys.”

In a note on the Paraiyas of Travancore,16 the Rev. S. Mateer writes that Sūdras and Shānars17 frequently employ the Paraiya devil-dancers and sorcerers to search for and dig out magical charms buried in the earth by enemies, and counteract their enchantments.

A form of sorcery in Malabar called marana (destruction) [247]is said by Mr Fawcett18 to be carried out in the following manner:—

“A figure representing the enemy to be destroyed is drawn on a small plate of metal (gold by preference), and to it some mystic diagrams are added. It is then addressed with a statement that bodily injury, or the death of the person, shall take place at a certain time. This little sheet is wrapped up in another metal sheet or leaf (of gold if possible), and buried in some place which the person to be injured or destroyed is in the habit of passing. Should he pass over the place, it is supposed that the charm will take effect at the time named.”

One favourite tantra of the South Indian sorcerer is said19 to consist of “what is popularly known in Tamil as pavai, that is to say, a doll made of some plastic substance, such as clay or wheat-flour. A crude representation of the intended victim is obtained by moulding a quantity of the material, and a nail or pin is driven into it at a spot corresponding to the limb or organ that is intended to be affected.20 For instance, if there is to be paralysis of the right arm, the pin is stuck into the right arm of the image; if madness is to result, it is driven into the head, and so on, appropriate mantras being chanted over the image, which is buried at midnight in a neighbouring cremation ground. So long as the pavai is underground, the victim will grow from bad to worse, and may finally succumb, if steps are not taken in time. Sometimes, instead of a doll being used, the corpse of a child recently buried is dug out of the ground, and re-interred after being similarly treated. The only remedy consists in another sorcerer being called in for the purpose of digging out the pavai. Various are the [248]methods he adopts for discovering the place where the doll is buried, one of them being very similar to what is known as crystal-gazing. A small quantity of a specially prepared thick black fluid is placed on the palm of a third person, and the magician professes to find out every circumstance connected with the case of his client’s mental or physical condition by attentively looking at it. The place of the doll’s burial is spotted with remarkable precision, the nail or pin extracted, and the patient is restored to his normal condition as by a miracle.”

The following form of sorcery resorted to in Malabar in compassing the discomfiture of an enemy is recorded by Mr Walhouse.21

“Make an image of wax in the form of your enemy; take it in your right hand at night, and hold your chain of beads in your left hand. Then burn the image with due rites, and it shall slay your enemy in a fortnight. Or a figure representing an enemy, with his name and date of his birth inscribed on it, is carved out of Strychnos Nux-vomica wood. A mantram is recited, a fowl offered up, and the figure buried in glowing rice-husk embers. Or, again, some earth from a spot where an enemy has urinated, saliva expectorated by him, and a small tuft of hair, are placed inside a tender cocoanut, and enclosed in a piece of Strychnos Nux-vomica. The cocoanut is pierced with twenty-one nails and buried, and a fowl sacrificed.”

A police inspector, when visiting a village a few years ago, was told by one of the villagers that a man was going to bury two wax dolls, in order to cause his death. The inspector accordingly went to the house of the suspected enemy, where he found the two dolls, and some books on witchcraft.

Figure Washed Ashore at Calicut.

To face p. 249.

The Native servant of a friend in Madras found buried [249]in a corner of his master’s garden the image of a human figure, which had been deposited there by an enemy who wished to injure him. The figure was made of flour, mixed with “walking foot earth,” i.e., earth from the ground, which the servant had walked over. Nails, fourteen in number, had been driven into the head, neck, and each shoulder, elbow, wrist, hip, knee, and ankle. Buried with the figure were fourteen eggs, limes, and balls of camphor, and a scrap of paper bearing the age of the servant, and the names of his father and mother. A Muhammadan fortune-teller advised the servant to burn the image, so at midnight he made an offering of a sheep, camphor, betel nuts, and cocoanuts, and performed the cremation ceremony.

In 1903, a life-size nude female human figure with feet everted and directed backwards, carved out of the soft wood of Alstonia scholaris, was washed ashore at Calicut in Malabar. Long nails had been driven in all over the head, body, and limbs, and a large square hole cut out above the navel. Inscriptions in Arabic characters were scrawled over it. By a coincidence, the corpse of a man was washed ashore close to the figure. Possibly it represented the figure of a woman who was possessed by an evil spirit, which was attached to it by a nail between the legs before it was cast into the sea, and was made on the Laccadive islands,22 some of the residents on which are notorious necromancers. It has been suggested23 that the figure may represent some notorious witch; that the nails were driven into it, and the mutilation made in order to injure her, and the spells added to destroy her magical powers; finally, that the image was cast into the sea as a means of getting rid of the [250]sorceress. There is a tradition that the goddess Bhagavati, who is worshipped at Kodungallur in Malabar, was rescued by a fisherman when she was shut up in a jar, and thrown into the sea by a great magician. The Lingadars of the Kistna district are said24 to have made a specialty of bottling evil spirits, and casting the bottles away in some place where no one is likely to come across them, and liberate them.

A few years ago, another wooden representation of a human being was washed ashore at Calicut. The figure is 11 inches in height. The arms are bent on the chest, and the palms of the hands are placed together as in the act of saluting. A square cavity, closed by a wooden lid, has been cut out of the abdomen, and contains apparently tobacco, ganja (Indian hemp), and hair. An iron bar has been driven from the back of the head through the body, and terminates in the abdominal cavity. A sharp cutting instrument has been driven into the chest and back in twelve places.

A life-size female figure, rudely scratched on a plank of wood, with Arabic inscriptions scrawled on it, and riddled with nails, was washed ashore on the beach at Tellicherry in Malabar. In the same district, a friend once picked up on the shore at Cannanore a wooden figure about 6 inches high, riddled with nails. His wife’s ayah implored him to get rid of it, as it would bring nothing but misfortune. He accordingly made a present of it to a recently married friend, whose subsequent career was characterised by a long series of strokes of bad luck, which his wife attributed entirely to the possession of the dreadful image.

Sometimes, in Malabar, “a mantram is written on the stem of the kaitha plant, on which is also drawn a figure [251]representing the person to be injured. A hole is bored to represent the navel. The mantram is repeated, and at each repetition a certain thorn (kāramullu) is stuck into the limbs of the figure. The name of the person, and of the star under which he was born, are written on a piece of cadjan, which is stuck into the navel. The thorns are removed, and replaced twenty-one times. Two magic circles are drawn below the nipples of the figure. The stem is then hung up in the smoke of the kitchen. A pot of toddy, and some other accessories, are procured, and with them the warlock performs certain rites. He then moves three steps backwards, and shouts aloud thrice, fixing in the thorns again, and thinking all the while of the particular mischief with which he will afflict the person to be injured. When all this has been done, the person whose figure has been drawn on the stem, and pricked with thorns, feels pain.”25

The following variant of the above rite has been described26:—

“A block of lead is moulded into the effigy of a man about a span in length. The stomach is opened, and the name and star of the intended victim are inscribed along with a charm on a lead plate, and placed therein. The effigy is laid recumbent on a plantain leaf, on which a little water mixed with sandal has first been sprinkled, and the smoke of an extinguished wick is passed thrice over it. Then nine little square pieces of plantain leaf (or leaves of Strychnos Nux-vomica) are placed round the effigy, and in each square some rice-flour, and chouflower petals. Beside the effigy are shells holding toddy and arrack (liquor), a burning lamp, and several little wicks. One of the wicks is lighted, and the flame passed thrice over the collection. Nine wicks are lighted, [252]and put on the nine squares. The charm inscribed on the lead plate is at this stage repeated fervently in an undertone no less than twenty-one times. This preamble, or one closely resembling it, is generally the beginning of the mantravādi’s programme. The rest of it is guided by the special circumstances of each case. Let us suppose that the wizard, having a victim in view, wishes the latter to be afflicted with burning pains and insufferable heat all over his body. The following is the ceremony he would perform. Thinking of the victim, he drives a thorn of Canthium parviflorum into the effigy, and then, folding up the collection detailed above in the plantain leaf, he proceeds to a tank or pool, and immerses himself up to the neck. He places the bundle on the surface of the water—he tells you it will float despite the lead—and, calling for a cock, cuts off its head, permitting the blood and the head to fall on the bundle. He presses the bundle down into the water, and submerges himself at the same time. Coming to the surface, he goes ashore, whistling thrice, and being very careful not to look behind him. Within twenty-one days, the charm will take effect. In order to induce a boil or tumour to appear in a victim’s foot, the mantravādi inscribes a certain charm on a sheet of lead, and stuffs the plate into a frog’s mouth, repeats another charm, and blows into the batrachian’s mouth, which is then stitched up, after which the creature is bound with twenty-one coils of string. The frog is next set down on a plantain leaf, the ritual already described with the squares, toddy, etc., is performed, the frog is wrapped up together with the various substances in the leaf, and buried at some spot where two or more roads meet, and which the victim is likely to pass. Should he cross the fateful spot, he will suddenly become conscious of a feeling in his foot, as though a thorn had pricked him. From that moment dates the beginning of a week of intense agony. His foot swells, fever sets in, he has pains all over his body, and for seven days existence is intolerable. The cherukaladi is another form of odi [253]mantram, and the manner in which it is performed is extremely interesting. The wizard takes three balls of rice, blackens one, reddens another, and passes through the third a young yetah fish (Bagarius yarrellii), after having put down its throat seven green chillies, seven grains of raw rice, and as many of pepper. In the carapace of a crab some toddy, and in the valve of a particular kind of mussel, some arrack is placed. The sorcerer conveys all these things to a hill built by termites (white-ants). The crown of the hill is knocked off, and the substances are thrown in. Walking round the mound thrice, the magician recites a charm, and comes away without looking over his shoulder.27 Within a very short time, similar effects are produced as those resulting from the previously described form of sorcery.”

A grāndha (palm-leaf book), describing how an enemy may be struck down, gives the following details. The head of a fowl with dark-coloured flesh is cut off. The head is then split open, and a piece of cadjan (palm-leaf), on which are written the name of the person to be injured, and the name of the star under which he was born, is stuck in the split head, which is then sewn up and the tongue stitched to the beak. The head is then inserted into a certain fruit, which is tied up with a withe of a creeper, and deposited under the enemy’s gateway.

In Malabar, a wooden figure is sometimes made, and a tuft of a woman’s hair tied on its head. It is fixed to a tree, and nails are driven into the neck and breast, to inflict hurt on an enemy. Sometimes a live frog or lizard is buried within a cocoanut shell, after nails have been stuck into its eyes and stomach. The deaths of [254]the animal and the person are supposed to take place simultaneously.28 When a Tamil woman of the Parivāram caste who commits adultery outside the caste is punished with excommunication, a mud image representing her is made, two thorns are poked into its eyes, and it is thrown away outside the village.29 At Bangalore in the Mysore province, a monthly festival is held in honour of Gurumurthi Swāmi, at which women disturbed by the spirits of drowned persons become possessed. The sufferer is dragged by the hair of the head to a tree, to which a lock of the hair is nailed. She flings herself about in a frenzy, and throws herself on the ground, leaving the lock of hair torn out by the roots fastened to the tree by the nail. Eventually the spirit goes up the tree, and the woman recovers.30 In the Madura district, women possessed by devils may be seen at the great temple at Madura every Navarātri, waiting for release.

“There are many professional exorcists, who are often the pūjāris (priests) at the shrine of the local goddess. At dead of night they question the evil spirit, and ask him who he is, why he has come there, and what he wants to induce him to go away. He answers through the mouth of the woman, who works herself up into a frenzy, and throws herself about wildly. If he will not answer, the woman is whipped with the rattan which the exorcist carries, or with a bunch of margosa (Melia Azadirachta) twigs. When he replies, his requests for offerings of certain kinds are complied with. When he is satisfied, and agrees to leave, a stone is placed on the woman’s head, and she is let go, and dashes off into darkness. The place at which the stone drops to the ground is [255]supposed to be the place where the evil spirit is content to remain, and, to keep him there, a lock of the woman’s hair is nailed with an iron nail to the nearest tree.”31

Sometimes a sorcerer makes an evil spirit take a vow that it will not trouble any one in the future, and, in return, offers to it the blood of fowls, a goat, etc. He then orders the spirit to climb a tree, and drives three large iron nails into the trunk thereof. As iron is disliked by evil spirits, the result is to confine the spirit in the tree, for it cannot descend beyond the nails. In the Telugu country, when a person is supposed to be possessed by a devil, it is often the practice to take him to some special tree, which is believed to be a favourite residence of demons, and drive a nail into the trunk. If the devil has any proper feeling, he thereupon leaves the man or woman, and takes up his abode in the tree. This ceremony is performed with certain religious rites, and involves considerable expenditure. Sometimes, devil drivers are called in, who “seat the woman in a fog of resin smoke, and work upon or beat her until she declares the supposed desires of the devil in the way of sacrifice; and, when these have been complied with, one of her hairs is put in a bottle, formally shown to the village goddess, and buried in the jungle, while iron nails are driven into the threshold of the woman’s house to prevent the devil’s return.”32

At the first menstrual ceremonies of a Pulaya girl in the Cochin State, she stands on the morning of the seventh day before some Parayas, who play on their flute and drum, to cast out the demons, if any, from her body. If she is possessed by them, she leaps with frantic [256]movements. In this case, the demon is transferred to a tree by driving a nail into the trunk, after offerings have been made.33 When an Oddē (Telugu navvy) girl reaches puberty, she is confined in a special hut, in which a piece of iron, and other things, are placed, to keep off evil spirits. In some castes, when a woman is in labour, an iron sickle is kept on the cot for a similar purpose. After delivery, she keeps iron in some form, e.g., a small crowbar, knife, or nails, in the room, and takes it about with her when she goes out. At a Nāyar funeral in Malabar, the chief mourner holds in his hand, or tucks into his waist-cloth, a piece of iron, generally a long key.34 At a marriage among the Mūsu Kammas in the Telugu country, an iron ring is tied to the milk-post. For curing sprains, it is said to be a common practice to keep near the patient a sickle, an iron measure, or any article of iron which is at hand. A ceremony, called Dwāra Pratishta, is performed by Lingāyats when the door-frame of a new house is set up, and an iron nail is driven into the frame, to prevent devils or evil spirits from entering the house. A former Rāja of Vizianagram would not allow the employment of iron in the construction of buildings in his territory, because it would inevitably be followed by smallpox or other epidemic.35

A few years ago, a Native servant was charged with beating with a cane a woman who was suffering from malarial fever after her confinement, in order to drive out a devil, which was said to be the spirit of a woman who was drowned some time previously. The woman died three days after the beating, and various abrasions were found on the head and body. The sub-magistrate held [257]that the hurt was part of the ceremony, to which the husband and mother of the woman, and the woman herself, gave their consent. But, as the hurt was needlessly severe, the servant was fined twenty-five rupees, or in default five weeks’ rigorous imprisonment.

The practice of extracting or knocking out some of the teeth of a magician is widespread throughout Southern India. In connection therewith Mr R. Morris writes to me as follows:—

“A sorcerer’s spells depend for their efficacy upon the distinctness with which they are pronounced. The words uttered by a man, some or all of whose front teeth are damaged, are not so clear and distinct as those of a man whose teeth are intact. Consequently, if a sorcerer’s front teeth are smashed, he is ruined as a sorcerer. And, if the front teeth of his corpse are broken or extracted, his ghost is prevented from bewitching people. It is necessary to mutilate a corpse, in order to prevent the ghost doing what the live man unmutilated could have done. For example, when a man is murdered, he is hamstrung, to prevent the ghost from following in pursuit.”

In connection with sorcery among the Oriyas, Mr S. P. Rice tells us36 that a girl was suffering from mental disease, and believed to be possessed by a devil. She declared that she was bewitched by a certain man, who had to be cured of his power over her. Accordingly, the friends and relatives of the girl went to this man’s house, dragged him out into the road, laid him on his back, and sat on his chest. They then proceeded to extract two of his front teeth with a hammer and pincers. Mr Rice adds that it does not appear how the cure was to work—whether the operators thought that words of cursing or magic, coming through the orifice of the teeth, [258]would be mumbled, and thus lose some of their incisive force, and therefore of their power for evil, or whether it was thought that the devil wanted room to fly out. Attacks upon supposed sorcerers are said to be not uncommon in the Jeypore Agency. In one instance, a wizard’s front teeth were pulled out by the local blacksmith, to render him unable to pronounce his spells with the distinctness requisite to real efficiency.37 In the Vizagapatam district, where a village was supposed to contain a witch, a Dāsari (religious mendicant) was called upon to examine his books, and name the person. He fixed on some wretched woman, whose front teeth were knocked out, and her mouth filled with filth. She was then beaten with a switch made from the castor-oil plant. A few years ago, a woman in the North Arcot district was suffering from severe pain in the abdomen, and she and her husband were made to believe that she was possessed by a devil, which a Bairāgi (religious mendicant) offered to expel. His treatment went on for some days, and the final operations were conducted by the side of a pond. The Bairāgi repeated mantrams, while the woman was seated opposite him. Suddenly she grew violently excited, and possessed by the deity Muniswara. She pulled the Bairāgi backwards by his hair, and cried out, “Break his teeth.” She then opened his mouth by pulling up the upper lip, and her husband took a small stone, and broke some of the incisor teeth. The woman continued to cry out, “He is chanting mantrams; pour water into his mouth, and stop his breathing.” A third party brought water, and the woman’s husband poured it into the Bairāgi’s mouth. A struggle ensued, and the woman called out, “I am losing my life; he is chanting; the mantram is in his throat; he is binding me by his [259]spell; put a stick into his throat.” The third party then brought the Bairāgi’s curved stick (yōgathandam), which the husband thrust into the Bairāgi’s mouth, with the result that he died. The woman was sent to a lunatic asylum, and her husband, as there was no previous intention to cause death, and he was evidently under the influence of blind superstition, received only four and a half months’ imprisonment. In a further case which occurred in the North Arcot district, a man was believed to have great power over animals, of which he openly boasted, threatening to destroy all the cattle of one of his neighbours. This man and his friends believed that they could deprive the sorcerer of his power for evil by drawing all his teeth, which they proceeded to do with fatal results. In the Kistna district, a Māla weaver was suspected of practising sorcery by destroying men with devils, and bringing cholera and other diseases. He was met by certain villagers, and asked for tobacco. While he stopped to get the tobacco out, he was seized and thrown on the ground. His hands were tied behind his back, and his legs bound fast with his waist-cloth. One man sat on his legs, another on his waist, and a third held his head down by the kudumi (hair-knot). His mouth was forced open with a pair of large pincers, and a piece of stick was thrust between the teeth to prevent the mouth closing. One of the assistants got a stone as big as a man’s fist, and with it struck the sorcerer’s upper and lower teeth several times until they were loosened. Then nine teeth were pulled out with the pincers. A quantity of milk-hedge (Euphorbia) juice was poured on the bleeding gums, and the unfortunate man was left lying on his back, to free himself from his bonds as best he could.38 In the Tamil country, the [260]Vekkil Tottiyans are supposed to be able to control certain evil spirits, and cause them to possess a man. It is believed, however, that they are deprived of their power as soon as they lose one of their teeth.

The Kondhs of Ganjam believe that they can transform themselves into tigers or snakes, half the soul leaving the body and becoming changed into one of these animals, either to kill an enemy, or to satisfy hunger by having a good feed on cattle. During this period they are said to feel dull and listless, and, if a tiger is killed in the forest, they will die at the same time. Mr Fawcett informs me that the Kondhs believe that the soul wanders during sleep. On one occasion, a dispute arose owing to a man discovering that another Kondh, whose spirit used to wander about in the guise of a tiger, ate up his soul, and he fell ill. Like the Kondhs, some Paniyans of Malabar are believed to be gifted with the power of changing themselves into animals. There is a belief that, if they wish to secure a woman whom they lust after, one of the men gifted with the special power goes to the house at night with a hollow bamboo, and goes round it three times. The woman then comes out, and the man, changing himself into a bull or dog, works his wicked will. The woman is said to die in the course of a few days. For assuming the disguise of an animal, the following formulæ are said39 to be effective:—

1. Take the head of a dog and burn it, and plant on it a vellakuthi plant. Burn camphor and frankincense, and adore it. Then pluck the root, mix it with the milk of a dog, and the bones of a cat. A mark made with the mixture on the forehead will enable a person to assume the form of any animal he thinks of. [261]

2. Worship with a lighted wick and incense before a stick of the malankara plant. Then chant the Sakti mantram one hundred and one times. Watch carefully which way the stick inclines. Proceed to the south of the stick, and pluck the whiskers of a live tiger. Make with them a ball of the veerali silk, string it with silk, and enclose it within the ear. Stand on the palms of the hand to attain the disguise of a tiger, and, with the stick in hand, think of a cat, white bull, or any other animal. Then you will appear as such in the eyes of others.

The name Chedipe (prostitute) is applied to sorceresses in the Godāvari district. The Chedipe is believed to ride on a tiger at night over the boundaries of seven villages, and return home at early morn. When she does not like a man, she goes to him bare-bodied at dead of night, the closed doors of the house in which he is sleeping opening before her. She sucks his blood by putting his toe in her mouth. He will then lie like a corpse. Next morning he feels uneasy and intoxicated, as if he had taken ganja, and remains in this condition all day. If he does not take medicine from some one skilled in the treatment of such cases, it is said that he will die. If he is properly treated, he will recover in about ten days. If he makes no effort to get cured, the Chedipe will molest him again, and, becoming gradually emaciated, he will die. When a Chedipe enters a house, all those who are awake will become insensible, those who are seated falling down as if they had taken a soporific drug. Sometimes she drags out the tongue of the intended victim, who will die at once. At other times, slight abrasions will be found on the skin of the victim, and, when the Chedipe puts pieces of stick thereon, they burn as if burnt by fire. Sometimes she will find him behind a bush, and, undressing there, will [262]fall on any passer-by in the jungle, assuming the form of a tiger with one of the legs in human form. When thus disguised, she is called Marulupuli (enchanting tiger). If the man is a brave fellow, and tries to kill the Chedipe with any instrument he may have with him, she will run away; and, if any man belonging to her village detects her mischief, she will assume her real form, and say blandly that she is only digging roots. The above story was obtained by a Native official when he visited a Koyi village, where he was told that a man had been sentenced to several years’ imprisonment for being one of a gang who had murdered a Chedipe for being a sorceress.

In the Vizagapatam district, the people believe that a witch, when she wishes to revenge herself on any man, climbs at night to the top of his house, and, making a hole through the roof, drops a thread down till the end of it touches the body of the sleeping man. Then she sucks at the other end, and draws up all the blood out of his body. Witches are said to be able to remove all the bones out of a man’s body, or to deposit a fish, ball of hair, or rags in his stomach. The town of Jeypore was once said to be haunted by a ghost. It was described as a woman, who paraded the town at midnight in a state of nudity, and from her mouth proceeded flames of fire. She sucked the blood of any loose cattle she found about, and, in the same way, revenged herself on any man who had insulted her.40

I am informed by Mr G. F. Paddison that, in cases of sickness among the Savaras of Vizagapatam, a buffalo is tied up near the door of the house. Herbs and rice in small platters, and a little brass vessel containing toddy, balls of rice, flowers, and medicine, are brought [263]with a bow and arrow. The arrow is thicker at the basal end than towards the tip. The narrow part goes, when shot, through a hole in front of the bow, which is too small to allow of the passage of the rest of the arrow. A Bēju (wise woman) pours some toddy over the herbs and rice, and daubs the patient over the forehead, breasts, stomach, and back. She croons out a long incantation to the goddess, stopping at intervals to call out “Daru,” to attract the attention of the goddess. She then takes the bow and arrow, and shoots twice into the air, and, standing behind the kneeling patient, shoots balls of medicine stuck on the tip of the arrow at her. The construction of the arrow is such that the balls are dislodged from its tip. The patient is thus shot at all over the body, which is bruised by the impact of the medicine balls. Afterwards the Bēju shoots one or two balls at the buffalo, which is taken to a path forming the village boundary, and killed with a tangi (axe). The patient is then daubed with the blood of the buffalo, rice, and toddy, and a feast concludes the ceremonial. Mr Paddison once gave some medicine to the Porojas of Vizagapatam during an epidemic of cholera in a village. They took it eagerly, but, as he was going away, asked whether it would not be a quicker cure to put the witch in the next village, who had brought on the cholera, into jail. In the Koraput tāluk of Vizagapatam, a wizard once had a reputation for possessing the power of transplanting trees, and it was believed that, if a man displeased him, his trees were moved in the night, and planted in some one else’s grounds.

It is recorded41 by the Rev. J. Cain that the Koyis of the Godāvari district “assert that the death of every one is caused by the machinations of a sorcerer, instigated thereto [264]by an enemy of the deceased, or of the deceased’s friends. So, in former years, inquiry was always made as to the person likely to have been at such enmity with the deceased as to wish for his death; and, having settled upon a suspicious individual, the friends of the deceased used to carry the corpse to the accused, and call upon him to clear himself by undergoing the ordeal of dipping his hands in boiling oil or water.42 Within the last two years, I have known of people running away from their village because of their having been accused of having procured by means of a wizard the death of some one with whom they were at enmity about a plot of land.”

According to another account,43 “some male member of the family of the deceased throws coloured rice over the corpse as it lies on the bed, pronouncing as he does so the names of all the known sorcerers who live in the neighbourhood. It is even now solemnly asserted that, when the name of the wizard responsible for the death is pronounced, the bed gets up, and moves towards the house or village where he resides.”

The Rev. J. Cain44 once saw a magician at work in the Godāvari district, “discovering the cause of the sickness which had laid prostrate a strong Koyi man. He had in his hand a leaf from an old palmyra leaf book, and, as he walked round and round the patient, he pretended to be reading. Then he took up a small stick, and drew a number of lines on the ground, after which he danced and sang round and round the sick man, who sat looking at him, evidently much impressed with his performance. Suddenly he made a dart at the man, and, stooping down, [265]bit him severely in two or three places in the back. Then, rushing to the front, he produced a few grains, which he said he had found in the man’s back, and which were evidently the cause of the sickness.”

In another case, a young Koyi was employed to teach a few children in his village, but ere long he was attacked by a strange disease, which no medicine could cure. As a last resource, a magician was called in, who declared the illness to have been brought on by a demoness at the instigation of some enemy, who was envious of the money which the lad had received for teaching. The magician produced a little silver, which he declared to be a sure sign that the sickness was connected with the silver money he was receiving for teaching.

A riot took place, in 1900, at the village of Korravanivasala in the Vizagapatam district, under the following strange circumstances. A Konda Dora (hill cultivator caste) named Korra Mallayya pretended that he was inspired, and gradually gathered round him a camp of four or five thousand people from various places. At first his proceedings were harmless enough, but at last he gave out that he was a reincarnation of one of the five Pāndava brothers, the heroes of the Mahābhārata, who are worshipped by the Konda Doras.45 He further announced that his infant son was the god Krishna; that he would drive out the English, and rule the country himself; and that, to effect this, he would arm his followers with bamboos, which would be turned by magic into guns, and would change the weapons of the authorities into water. Bamboos were cut, and rudely fashioned to resemble guns, and, armed with these, the camp was drilled by the Swāmi (god), as Mallayya had come to [266]be called. The assembly next sent word that they were going to loot Pāchipenta, and, when two constables came to see how matters stood, the fanatics fell upon them, and beat them to death. The local police endeavoured to recover the bodies, but, owing to the threatening attitude of the Swāmi’s followers, had to abandon the attempt. The district magistrate then went to the place in person, collected reserve police from various places, and rushed the camp to arrest the Swāmi and the other leaders of the movement. The police were resisted by the mob, and obliged to fire. Eleven of the rioters were killed, others wounded or arrested, and the rest dispersed. Sixty of them were tried for rioting, and three, including the Swāmi, for murdering the constables. Of the latter, the Swāmi died in jail, and the other two were hanged. The Swāmi’s son, the god Krishna, also died, and all trouble ended.

A Kāpu (Telugu cultivator) in the Cuddapah district once pretended to have received certain maxims direct from the Supreme Being, and forewarned his neighbours that he would fall into a trance, which actually occurred, and lasted for three days. On his recovery, he stated that his spirit had been during this time in heaven, learning the principles of the Advaita religion from a company of angels. One of his peculiarities was that he went about naked, because, when once engaged in separating two bullocks which were fighting, his cloth tumbled down, after which he never put it on again. This eccentric person is said to have pulled a handful of maggots from the body of a dead dog, to have put them into his mouth, and to have spat them out again as grains of rice. A shrine was built over his grave.46

A few years ago, a Muhammadan fakir undertook to drive away the plague in Bellary. Incantations were [267]performed over a black goat, which was sacrificed at a spot where several roads met. A considerable sum of money was collected, and the poor were fed. But the plague was not stayed.

On one occasion, an old woman hearing that her only son was dangerously ill, sought the aid of a magician, who proceeded to utter mantrams, to counteract the evil influences which were at work. While this was being done, an accomplice of the magician turned up, and, declaring that he was a policeman, threatened to charge the two with sorcery if they did not pay him a certain sum of money. The woman paid up, but discovered later on that she had been hoaxed.

Two men were, some years ago, sentenced to rigorous imprisonment under the following circumstances. A lady, who was suffering from illness, asked a man who claimed to be a magician to cure her. He came with his confederate, and told the patient to place nine sovereigns on a clay image. This sum not being forthcoming, a few rupees and a piece of a gold necklace were accepted. These were deposited on the image, and it was placed in a tin box, which was locked up, one of the men retaining the key. On the following day the two men returned, and the rupees and piece of gold were placed on a fresh image. Becoming inspired by the god, one of the men announced that the patient must give a gold bangle off her wrist, if she wished to be cured quickly. The bangle was given up, and placed on the image, which was then converted into a ball containing the various articles within it. The patient was then directed to look at various corners of the room, and repeat a formula. The image was placed in a box, and locked up as before, and the men retired, promising to return next day. This they failed to do, and the lady, becoming suspicious, broke [268]open the box, in which the image was found, but the money and ornaments were missing.

A case relating to the supposed guarding of treasure by an evil spirit came before the Court in the Coimbatore district in 1908. Two Valluvans (Tamil astrologers) were staying in a village, where they were foretelling events. They went to the house of an old woman, and, while telling her fortune, announced that there was a devil in the house guarding treasure, and promised to drive it out, if twenty rupees were given to them. The woman borrowed the money, and presented it to them. In the evening the Valluvans went into the kitchen, and shut the door. Certain ceremonies are said to have been performed, at the conclusion of which the woman and her son entered the room, and, in the light of a flickering torch, were shown a pit, in which there was a copper pot, apparently full of gold sovereigns. One of the astrologers feigned a sudden attack from the devil, and fell down as if unconscious. The other pushed the people of the house outside the door, and again shut it. Eventually the men came out, and announced that the devil was a ferocious one, and would not depart till a wick from an Erode paradēsi was lighted before it, for obtaining which a hundred rupees were required. If the devil was not thus propitiated, it would, they said, kill the people of the house sooner or later. The old woman borrowed the sum required, and her son and the two astrologers went to Karur to take the train to Erode, to meet the paradēsi. At Karur the two men took tickets for different places, and the son, becoming suspicious, informed the police, who arrested them. On them were found some circular pieces of card covered with gold tinsel.

A few years ago, a Zamindar (landowner) in the [269]Godāvari district engaged a Muhammadan to exorcise a devil which haunted his house. The latter, explaining that the devil was a female and fond of jewelry, induced the Zamindar to leave a large quantity of jewels in a locked receptacle in a certain room, to which only the exorcist, and of course the devil, had access. The latter, it was supposed, would be gratified by the loan of the jewels, and would cease from troubling. The exorcist managed to open the receptacle and steal the jewels, and, such was the faith of his employer, that the offence was not suspected until a police inspector seized Rs. 27,000 worth of jewels in Vizagapatam on suspicion, and they were with difficulty traced to their source.

In a note on wonder-working in India, the Rev. J. Sharrock narrates the following incident.

“A Sanyāsi (ascetic) was ordered with contempt from the house of a rich Zemindar. Thereupon, the former threatened to curse his house by despatching a devil to take possession of it that very night. On one of the doors of the inner courtyard he made a number of magical passes, and then left the house in high dudgeon. As soon as it grew dark, the devil appeared on the door in flickering flames of phosphorus, and almost frightened the Zemindar and the other inmates out of their five senses. Wild with terror, they fled to the Sanyāsi, and begged and entreated him to come and exorcise the devil. Of course he refused, and of course they pressed him with greater and greater presents till he was satisfied. Then he came with kungkuma (a mixture of turmeric, alum, and lime-juice), and rubbed the fiery demon off with the usual recitation of mantras. During the rest of his stay, the Sanyāsi was treated with the most profound respect, while his sishyas (disciples) received the choicest food and fruits that could be obtained.”

[270]

The following cases are called from the annual reports of the Chemical Examiner to the Government of Madras, in further illustration of the practices of pseudo-magicians.

(a) A wizard came to a village, in order to exorcise a devil which possessed a certain woman. He was treated like a prince, and was given the only room in the house, while the family turned out into the hall. He lived there for several days, and then commenced his ceremonies. He drew the figure of a lotus on the floor, made the woman sit down, and commenced to twist her hair with his wand. When she cried out, he sent her out of the room, saying she was unworthy to sit on the lotus figure, but promising nevertheless to exorcise the devil without her being present. He found a half-witted man in the village, drugged him with ganja, brought him to the house, and performed his ceremonies on this man, who, on becoming intoxicated with the drug, began to get boisterous. The wizard tied him up with a rope, because he had become possessed of the devil that had possessed the woman. The man was subsequently traced by his relatives, found in an unconscious state, and taken to hospital. The wizard got rigorous imprisonment.

(b) Some jewels were lost, and a mantrakāra (dealer in magical spells) was called in to detect the thief. The magician erected a screen, behind which he lit a lamp, and did other things to impress the crowd with the importance of his mantrams. To the assembly he distributed betel-leaf patties containing a white powder, said to be holy ashes, and the effect of it on the suspected individuals, who formed part of the crowd, is said to have been instantaneous. So magical was the effect of this powder in detecting the thief, that the unfortunate man ultimately vomited blood. When the people remonstrated with the magician for the severity of his magic, he [271]administered to the sufferer an antidote of solution of cow-dung and the juice of some leaf. The holy ashes were found to contain corrosive sublimate, and the magician got eighteen months’ rigorous imprisonment.

I may conclude with a reference to an interesting note on the Jesuits of the Madura Mission in the middle of the seventeenth century by the Rev. J. S. Chandler, who writes as follows:—

“Dr Nobili lodged in an incommodious hut, and celebrated mass in another hut. The older he got, the more he added to the austerity of his life. The Pandārams47 (non-Brāhman priests) made a new attempt against his life. One fine day they held a council as to the death he should die, and decided on magic. They summoned the most famous magician of the kingdom. Every one knew of it. When the day came, the magician presented himself, followed by a crowd, all alert to witness the vengeance of their gods. He insolently arranged his machines, and then described circles in the air. Dr Nobili regarded him with a composed air. Soon the ceremonies became more noisy. The features of the magician became decomposed, his eyes inflamed, his face contracted like that of one possessed; he ground his teeth, howled, and struck the ground with his feet, hands, and forehead. Dr Nobili asked what comedy he was pretending to play. Then he recited magical sentences. Dr Nobili begged him to spare his throat. The magician said ‘You have laughed, now die,’ and threw a black powder into the air, at the same time looking at his victim, to see him fall at his feet, and then ... skedaddled from the jeers of the crowd. Dr Nobili addressed the crowd, and from that time they regarded him as more than human.”

Mr Chandler narrates further that48 “a Jōgi (sorcerer [272]and exorcist) lost in public opinion by pretending to perform a miracle in imitation of a previous Jōgi, by making a stone bull eat. A quantity of rice and other grains was served to the figure, but the vahānam (vehicle) of Rudra was not hungry. The Jōgi made many grimaces, threatened, and even employed a rattan cane, but the bull remained motionless. Not so the spectators, who overwhelmed the Jōgi with blows, and he was only saved by his friends, conducted to the frontier by soldiers, and forbidden ever again to enter the kingdom.” [273]

1 A. C. Haddon, “Magic and Fetishism” (Religions, ancient and modern), 1906, 51.

2 See the articles devoted to these castes in my “Castes and Tribes of Southern India,” 1909.

3 B. Govinda Nambiar, Indian Review, May, 1900.

4 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 22.

5 “Report of the Chemical Examiner, Madras,” 1908, 5.

6 Journ. and Proc. Asiat. Soc., Bengal, 1905, i. No. 9.

7 Rev. A. C. Clayton, Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 82.

8 Cf. odi cult, 228–9.

9 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 22.

10 Gloyer, Jeypore, Breklum, 1901.

11 “Gazetteer of the Bellary District,” 1904, i. 60.

12 “Gazetteer of the South Arcot District,” 1906, i. 93.

13 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 76.

14 Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, ii. 1890, 282–5.

15 Indian Review, May, 1900.

16 Journ. Royal Asiat. Soc., 1884, xvi. 185–6.

17 For a detailed account of demonolatry among the Shānans, I would refer the reader to the Rev. R. (afterwards Bishop) Caldwell’s now scarce “Tinnevelly Shānans,” 1849.

18 Madras Museum Bull., 1900, iii., No. 1, 51.

19 Madras Mail, 18th November, 1905.

20 An example of so-called homœopathic magic. See Haddon, “Magic and Fetishism” (Religions ancient and modern), 1906, 19–22.

21 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 22.

22 Laccadiveans come to the Malabar coast in sailing-boats.

23 Nature, 18th October, 1906.

24 Madras Mail, 18th November, 1905.

25 F. Fawcett, Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 317.

26 Madras Mail, 19th November, 1897.

27 In like manner, the chief mourner at the funeral among many castes, after breaking a water-pot at the graveside, retires without looking back.

28 F. Fawcett, Madras Museum Bull., 1900, iii., No. 1, 51.

29 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 103.

30 F. Fawcett, Journ. Anthrop. Soc., Bombay, i. 533–5.

31 “Gazetteer of the Madura District,” 1906, i. 87.

32 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 73.

33 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 99.

34 F. Fawcett, Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 247.

35 M. J. Walhouse, “Ind. Ant.” 1881, x. 364.

36 “Occasional Essays on Native South Indian Life,” 1901, 70–1.

37 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 205.

38 H. J. Stokes, “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 355–6.

39 L. K. Anantha Krishna Iyer, “The Cochin Tribes and Castes,” 1909, i. 167.

40 “Gazetteer of the Vizagapatam District,” 1907, i. 73.

41 “Ind. Ant.,” 1876, v. 358.

42 Trial by Ordeal, see my “Ethnographic Notes in Southern India,” 1907, 407–32.

43 “Gazetteer of the Godāvari District,” 1907, i. 64.

44 Madras Christ. Coll. Mag., 1887–8, v. 355.

45 At times of census, the Konda Doras have returned themselves as Pāndava kulam, or Pāndava caste.

46 “Manual of the Cuddapah District,” 1875, 290–1.

47 Some Pandārams are managers of Siva temples.

48 “A Madura Missionary, John Eddy Chandler: a Sketch of his Life,” Boston.

[Contents]

X

Divination and Fortune-Telling

It has been said1 that “men not only attempt to act directly upon nature, but they usually exhibit a keen desire to be guided as to the best course to take when in doubt, difficulty, or danger, and to be forewarned of the future. The practice of divination is by no means confined to professional magicians, or even to soothsayers, but any one may employ the accessory means.”

Of professional diviners in Southern India, perhaps the best example is afforded by the Kaniyans2 or Kanisans of Malabar, whose caste name is said to be a Malayālam corruption of the Sanskrit Ganika, meaning astrologer. Duarte Barbosa,3 at the beginning of the sixteenth century, has a detailed reference to the Kaniyans, of whom he writes that “they learn letters and astronomy, and some of them are great astrologers, and foretell many future things, and form judgements upon the births of men. Kings and great persons send to call them, and come out of their palaces to gardens and pleasure-houses to see [274]them, and ask them what they desire to know; and these people form judgement upon these things in a few days, and return to those that asked them, but they may not enter the palaces; nor may they approach the king’s person on account of being low people. And the king is then alone with him. They are great diviners, and pay great attention to times and places of good and bad luck, which they cause to be observed by those kings and great men, and by the merchants also; and they take care to do their business at the time which these astrologers advise them, and they do the same in their voyages and marriages. And by these means these men gain a great deal.”

Buchanan,4 three centuries later, notes that the Kaniyans “possess almanacks, by which they inform people as to the proper time for performing ceremonies or sowing their seeds, and the hours which are fortunate or unfortunate for any undertaking. When persons are sick or in trouble, the Cunishun, by performing certain ceremonies in a magical square of 12 places, discovers what spirit is the cause of the evil, and also how it may be appeased.”

The Kaniyans are practically the guiding spirits in all the social and domestic concerns in Malabar, and even Christians and Muhammadans resort to them for advice. From the moment of the birth of an infant, which is noted by the Kaniyan for the purpose of casting its horoscope, to the moment of death, the services of the village astrologer are constantly in requisition. He is consulted as to the cause of all calamities, and the cautious answers that he gives satisfy the people. “Putro na putri,” which may either mean no son but a daughter, or no daughter but a son, is referred to as the type of [275]a Kaniyan’s answer, when questioned about the sex of an unborn child.

“It would be difficult,” Mr Logan writes,5 “to describe a single important occasion in everyday life when the Kanisan is not at hand, foretelling lucky days and hours, casting horoscopes, explaining the cause of calamities, prescribing remedies for untoward events, and physicians (not physic) for sick persons. Seed cannot be sown, or trees planted, unless the Kanisan has been consulted beforehand. He is even asked to consult his shastras to find lucky days and moments for setting out on a journey, commencing an enterprise, giving a loan, executing a deed, or shaving the head. For such important occasions as births, marriages, tonsure, investiture with the sacred thread, and beginning the A, B, C, the Kanisan is, of course, indispensable. His work, in short, mixes him up with the gravest as well as the most trivial of the domestic events of the people, and his influence and position are correspondingly great. The astrologer’s finding, as one will assert with all due reverence, is the oracle of God himself, with the justice of which every one ought to be satisfied, and the poorer classes follow his dictates unhesitatingly. The astrologer’s most busy time is from January to July, the period of harvest and marriages, but in the other six months of the year he is far from leading an idle life. His most lucrative business lies in casting horoscopes, recording the events of a man’s life from birth to death, pointing out dangerous periods of life, and prescribing rules and ceremonies to be observed by individuals for the purpose of propitiating the gods and planets, and so averting the calamities of dangerous times. He also shows favourable junctures for the commencement of undertakings, and the grantham or book, written on palm leaf, sets forth in considerable detail the person’s disposition and mental qualities, as affected by the position of the planets in the zodiac at the moment of birth. All this is [276]a work of labour, and of time. There are few members of respectable families who are not thus provided, and nobody grudges the five to twenty-five rupees usually paid for a horoscope, according to the position and reputation of the astrologer. Two things are essential to the astrologer, namely, a bag of cowry shells (Cypræa moneta), and an almanac. When any one comes to consult him,6 he quietly sits down, facing the sun, on a plank seat or mat, murmuring some mantrams or sacred verses, opens his bag of cowries, and pours them on the floor. With his right hand he moves them slowly round and round, solemnly reciting meanwhile a stanza or two in praise of his guru or teacher, and of his deity, invoking their help. He then stops, and explains what he has been doing, at the same time taking a handful of cowries from the heap, and placing them on one side. In front is a diagram drawn with chalk (or soapstone) on the floor, and consisting of twelve compartments (rāsis), one for each month in the year. Before commencing operations with the diagram, he selects three or five of the cowries highest up in the heap, and places them in a line on the right-hand side. [In an account before me, three cowries and two glass bottle-stoppers are mentioned as being placed on this side]. These represent Ganapati (the belly god, the remover of difficulties), the sun, the planet Jupiter, Sarasvati (the goddess of speech), and his own guru or preceptor. To all of these the astrologer gives due obeisance, touching his ears and the ground three times with both hands. The cowries are next arranged in the compartments of the diagram, and are moved about from compartment to compartment by the astrologer, who quotes meanwhile the authority on which he makes the moves. Finally he explains the result, and ends with again worshipping the deified cowries, who were witnessing the operation as spectators.”

[277]

According to another account,7 the Kaniyan “pours his cowries on the ground, and, after rolling them in the palm of his right hand, while repeating mantrams, he selects the largest, and places them in a row outside the diagram at its right-hand top corner. They represent the first seven planets, and he does obeisance to them, touching his forehead and the ground three times with both hands. The relative position of the nine planets is then worked out, and illustrated with cowries in the diagram.”

The Mulla Kurumbas (jungle tribe) of Malabar are said8 to “have a gift of prophecy, some being initiated in the art known as Kotiveykal, literally planting betel vine. The professor, when consulted about any future event, husks a small quantity of rice by hand, places it inside a scooped shell of a dried kuvvalam fruit (Ægle Marmelos), and asks one of his men to plant the betel vine. The man understands the meaning, takes out the rice, and spreads it on a plank. The professor invokes the Puthadi deity, makes a calculation, and gives his reply, which is generally found correct.”

Concerning a class of people called Velichchapād, who are regarded as oracles in Malabar, Mr F. Fawcett writes as follows9:—

“Far away in rural Malabar, I witnessed the ceremony in which the Velichchapād exhibited his quality. It was in the neighbourhood of a Nāyar house, to which thronged all the neighbours (Nāyar), men and women, boys and girls. The ceremony lasts about an hour. The Nāyar said it was the custom in his family to have it done once [278]a year, but could give no account of how it originated; most probably in a vow, some ancestor having vowed that, if such or such benefit be received, he would for ever after have an annual performance of this ceremony in his house. It involved some expenditure, as the Velichchapād had to be paid, and the neighbours had to be fed. Somewhere about the middle of the little courtyard, the Velichchapād placed a lamp (of the Malabar pattern) having a lighted wick, a kalasam (brass vessel), some flowers, camphor, saffron (turmeric), and other paraphernalia. Bhagavati was the deity invoked, and the business involved offering flowers, and waving a lighted wick round the kalasam. The Velichchapād’s movements became quicker, and, suddenly seizing his sword, he ran round the courtyard (against the sun, as sailors say), shouting wildly. He is under the influence of the deity who has been introduced into him, and gives oracular utterances to the deity’s commands. What he said I know not, and no one else seemed to know, or care in the least, much interested though they were in the performance. As he ran, every now and then he cut his forehead with the sword, pressing it against the skin and sawing vertically up and down. The blood streamed all over his face. Presently he became wilder, and whizzed round the lamp, bending forward towards the kalasam. Evidently some deity, some spirit was present here, and spoke through the mouth of the Velichchapād. This, I think, undoubtedly represents the belief of all who were present. When he had done whizzing round the kalasam, he soon became a normal being, and stood before my camera. The fee for the self-inflicted laceration is one rupee, some rice, etc. I saw the Velichchapād about three days afterwards, going to perform elsewhere. The wound on his forehead had healed. The careful observer can always identify a Velichchapād by the triangular patch over the forehead, where the hair will not grow, and where the skin is somewhat indurated.”

[279]

The Kotas of the Nilgiris worship Māgāli, to whose influence outbreaks of cholera are attributed. When the dread disease breaks out among them, special sacrifices are performed with a view to propitiating the goddess, who is represented by an upright stone in a rude temple near Kotagiri. An annual ceremony takes place there, at which some man becomes possessed, and announces to the people that Māgāli has come. At the seed-sowing ceremony, a Kota priest sometimes becomes inspired, and gives expression to oracular utterances. At a Toda funeral, the men, congregating on the summit of a neighbouring hill, invoked the gods. Four of them, seized, apparently in imitation of the Kota dēvādi (priest), with divine frenzy, began to shiver and gesticulate wildly while running to and fro with closed eyes. They then began to talk in Malayālam, and offer an explanation of an extraordinary phenomenon, which had appeared in the form of a gigantic figure, which disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. The possession by some Todas of a smattering of Malayālam is explained by the fact that, when grazing their buffaloes on the western slopes of the Nīlgiris, they come in contact with Malayālam-speaking people from the neighbouring Malabar country.

For the following note on the Sakuna Pakshi (prophetic bird) mendicant caste, I am indebted to Mr C. Hayavadana Rao. The name of the caste is due to the fact that the members thereof wear on their heads a plume composed of the feathers of the Indian roller (Coracias indica) or blue jay of Europeans. This is one of the birds called sakuna pakshi, because they are supposed to possess the power of foretelling events, and on their movements many omens depend. Concerning the roller, Jerdon writes10 that

“it is sacred to Siva, who assumed its form, and, at [280]the feast of the Dasserah at Nagpore, one or more used to be liberated by the Rājah, amidst the firing of cannon and musketry, at a grand parade attended by all the officers of the station. Buchanan Hamilton also states that, before the Durga Puja, the Hindus of Calcutta purchase one of these birds, and, at the time when they throw the image of Durga into the river, set it at liberty. It is considered propitious to see it on this day, and those who cannot afford to buy one discharge their matchlocks to put it on the wing.”

A Sakuna Pakshi, before starting on a begging expedition, rises early, and has a cold meal. He then puts on the Vaishnava nāmam mark on his forehead, slings on his left shoulder a deer-skin pouch for the reception of the rice and other grain which will be given to him as alms, and takes up his little drum (gilaka or damaraka) made of frog’s skin.

Closely allied to the Sakuna Pakshis are the Budubudikēs or Budubudukalas, a class of beggars and fortune-tellers, whose name is derived from the drum (budbuki) which they use when engaged in predicting future events.

“A huge parti-coloured turban, surmounted by a bunch of feathers, a pair of ragged trousers, a loose long coat, which is very often out at elbows, and a capacious wallet, ordinarily constitute the Budubudukala’s dress. Occasionally, if he can afford it, he indulges in the luxury of a tiger or cheetah (leopard) skin, which hangs down his back, and contributes to the dignity of his calling. Add to this an odd assortment of clothes suspended on his left arm, and the picture is as grotesque as it can be. He is regarded as able to predict the future of human beings by the flight and notes of birds. His predictions are couched in the chant which he recites. The burden of the chant is always stereotyped, and purports to have been gleaned from the warble of the feathered songsters of the forest. It prognosticates peace, plenty and prosperity to [281]the house, the birth of a son to the fair, lotus-eyed housewife, and worldly advancement to the master, whose virtues are as countless as the stars, and have the power to annihilate his enemies. It also holds out a tempting prospect of coming joy in an unknown shape from an unknown quarter, and concludes with an appeal for a cloth. If the appeal is successful, well and good. If not, the Budubudukala has the patience and perseverance to repeat his visit the next day, and so on until, in sheer disgust, the householder parts with a cloth. The drum, which has been referred to as giving the Budubudukala his name, is not devoid of interest. In appearance it is an instrument of diminutive size, and is shaped like an hour-glass, to the middle of which is attached a string with a knot at the end, which serves as the percutient. Its origin is enveloped in a myth of which the Budubudukala is very proud, for it tells of his divine descent, and invests his vocation with the halo of sanctity. According to the legend, the primitive Budubudukala who first adorned the face of the earth was a belated product of the world’s creation. When he was born or rather evolved, the rest of mankind was already in the field, struggling for existence. Practically the whole scheme was complete, and, in the economy of the universe, the Budubudukala found himself one too many. In this quandary, he appealed to his goddess mother Amba Bhavani, who took pity on him, and presented him with her husband the god Parameswara’s drum with the blessing ‘My son, there is nothing else for you but this. Take it and beg, and you will prosper.’ Among beggars, the Budubudukala has constituted himself a superior mendicant, to whom the handful of rice usually doled out is not acceptable. His demand is for clothes of any description, good, bad or indifferent, new or old, torn or whole. For, in the plenitude of his wisdom, he has realised that a cloth is a marketable commodity, which, when exchanged for money, fetches more than the handful of rice. The Budubudukala is continually on the tramp, and regulates his movements according to the [282]seasons of the year. As a rule, he pays his visit to the rural parts after the harvest is gathered, for it is then that the villagers are at their best, and in a position to handsomely remunerate him for his pains. But, in whatever corner of the province he may be, as the Dusserah11 approaches, he turns his face towards Vellore in North Arcot, where the annual festival in honour of Amba Bhavani is celebrated.”12

The principal tribal deity of the Kuruvikkāran beggars is Kāli or Durga, and each sept possesses a small metal plate with a figure of the goddess engraved on it, which is usually kept in the custody of the headman. It is, however, sometimes pledged, and money-lenders give considerable sums on the security of the idol, as the Kuruvikkārans would on no account fail to redeem it. At the annual festival of the goddess, while some cakes are being cooked in oil, a member of the tribe prays that the goddess will descend on him. Taking some of the cakes out of the boiling oil, he rubs the oil on his head with his palm. He is then questioned by those assembled, to whom he gives oracular replies, after sucking the blood from the cut throat of a goat.

The nomad Koravas or Yerukalas earn a livelihood partly by telling fortunes. The Telugu name Yerukala is said to mean fortune-teller, and, as the women go on their rounds through the streets, they call out “Yeruko, amma, yeruku” i.e., prophecies, mother, prophecies.

Korava Woman Telling Fortune with Cowry Shells in Tray.

To face p. 283.

Concerning the Pachaikutti (tattooer) or Gadde (soothsayer) section of these people, Mr Paupa Rao Naidu writes13 that “the woman proceeds with a basket and a [283]winnowing tray to a village, proclaiming their ostensible profession of tattooing and soothsaying, which they do for grain or money. When unfortunate village women, who always lose their children or often fall ill, see these Gadde women moving about, they call them into their houses, make them sit, and, pouring some grain into their baskets, ask them about their past misery and future lot. These women, who are sufficiently trained to speak in suitable language, are clever enough to give out some yarns in equivocal terms, so that the anxious women, who hope for better futurity, understand them in the light uppermost in their own minds. The Korava women will be duly rewarded, and doubly too, for they never fail to study the nature of the house, to see if it offers a fair field for booty for their men.”14

It is said that Korava women invoke the village goddesses when they are telling fortunes. They use a winnowing fan and grains of rice in doing this, and prophecy good or evil according to the number of grains on the fan.15 They carry a basket, winnow, stick, and a wicker tray in which cowry shells are embedded in a mixture of cow-dung and turmeric. The basket represents the goddess Kolapuriamma, and the cowries Pōlēramma. When telling fortunes, the woman places on the basket the winnow, rice, betel leaves and areca nuts, and the wicker tray. Holding her client’s hand over the winnow, and moving it about, she commences to chant, and name all sorts of deities. From time to time, she touches the hand of the person whose fortune is being told with the stick. The Korava women are very clever at extracting information concerning the affairs of a client, before they proceed to tell her fortune. In a note on the initiation of Yerukala [284]girls into the profession of fortune-telling in Vizagapatam, Mr Hayavadana Rao writes that it is carried out on a Sunday succeeding the first puberty ceremony. A caste feast, with plenty of strong drink, is held, but the girl herself fasts. The feast over, she is taken to a spot at a little distance from the settlement, called Yerukonda. This is said to be the name of a place on the trunk road between Vizianagram and Chicacole, to which girls were taken in former days to be initiated. The girl is blindfolded with a cloth. Boiled rice and green gram (grain) are mixed with the blood of a black fowl, black pig, and black goat, which are killed. Of this mixture she must take at least three morsels, and, if she does not vomit, it is taken as a sign that she will become a good fortune-teller. Vomiting would indicate that she would be a false prophetess.

The Irulas of the Tamil country, like the Yerukalas, are professional fortune-tellers. The Yerukala will carry out the work connected with her profession anywhere, at any time, and any number of times in a day. The Irula, on the contrary, remains at his home, and will only tell fortunes close to his hut, or near the hut where his gods are kept. In case of sickness, people of all classes come to consult the Irula fortune-teller, whose occupation is known as Kannimar varnithal. Taking up his drum, he warms it over the fire, or exposes it to the heat of the sun. When it is sufficiently dry to vibrate to his satisfaction, Kannimar is worshipped by breaking a cocoanut, and burning camphor and incense. Closing his eyes, the Irula beats the drum, and shakes his head about, while his wife, who stands near him, sprinkles turmeric water over him. After a few minutes, bells are tied to his right wrist. In about a quarter of an hour he begins to shiver, and breaks out in a profuse perspiration. This is a sure sign [285]that he is inspired by the goddess. The shaking of his body becomes more violent, he breathes rapidly, and hisses like a snake. Gradually he becomes calmer, and addresses those around him as if he were the goddess, saying: “Oh! children, I have come down on my car, which is decorated with mango flowers, margosa, and jasmine. You need fear nothing so long as I exist, and you worship me. This country will be prosperous, and the people will continue to be happy. Ere long my precious car, immersed in the tank (pond) on the hill, will be taken out, and after that the country will become more prosperous,” and so on. Questions are generally put to the inspired man, not directly, but through his wife. Occasionally, even when no client has come to consult him, the Irula will take up his drum towards dusk, and chant the praises of Kannimar, sometimes for hours at a stretch, with a crowd of Irulas collected round him.

I gather, from a note by Mr. T. Ranga Rao, that the jungle Yānādis of the Telugu country pose as prophets of human destinies, and pretend to hold intercourse with gods and goddesses, and to intercede between god and man. Every village or circle has one or more soothsayers, who learn their art from experts under a rigid routine. The period of pupilage is a fortnight spent in retreat, on a dietary of milk and fruits. The god or goddess Venkatēswaralu, Subbaroyadu, Malakondroyadu, Ankamma, or Pōlēramma, appears like a shadow, and inspires the pupil, who, directly the period of probation has ceased, burns camphor and frankincense. He then sings in praise of the deity, takes a sea-bath with his master, gives a sumptuous feast, and becomes an independent soothsayer. The story runs that the ardent soothsayers of old wrought miracles by stirring boiling rice with his hand, which was proof against burn or hurt. His modern brother invokes [286]the gods with burning charcoal in his folded hands, to the beat of a drum. People flock in large numbers to learn the truth. The soothsayer arranges the tribal deity Chenchu Dēvudu, and various local gods, in a god-house, which is always kept scrupulously clean, and where worship is regularly carried on. The auspicious days for soothsaying are Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The chief soothsayer is a male. The applicant presents him with areca nuts, fruit, flowers, and money. The soothsayer bathes, and sits in front of his house smeared with black, white, red, and other colours. His wife, or some other female, kindles a fire, and throws frankincense into it. He beats his drum and sings, while a woman within repeats the chant in a shrill voice. The songs are in praise of the deity, at whose and the soothsayer’s feet the applicant prostrates himself, and invokes their aid. The soothsayer feels inspired, and addresses the suppliant thus:—“You have neglected me. You do not worship me. Propitiate me adequately, or ruin is yours.” The future is predicted in song, and the rural folk place great faith in the predictions.

As an example of devil worship and divination, the practice thereof by the Tamil Valaiyans and Kallans of Orattanādu in the Tanjore district is described as follows by Mr F. R. Hemingway.16

“Valaiyan houses generally have an odiyan (Odina Wodier) tree in the backyard, wherein the devils are believed to live, and, among the Kallans, every street has a tree for their accommodation. They are propitiated at least once a year, the more virulent under the tree itself, and the rest in the house, generally on a Friday or Monday. Kallans attach importance to Friday in Ādi (July and [287]August), the cattle Pongal day in Tai (January and February), and Kartigai day in the month Kartigai (November and December). A man, with his mouth covered with a cloth to indicate silence and purity, cooks rice in the backyard, and pours it out in front of the tree, mixed with milk and jaggery (crude sugar). Cocoanuts and toddy are also placed there. These are offered to the devils, represented in the form of bricks or mud images placed at the foot of the tree, and camphor is set alight. A sheep is then brought and slaughtered, and the devils are supposed to spring one after another from the tree into one of the bystanders. This man then becomes filled with the divine afflatus, works himself up into a kind of frenzy, becomes the mouthpiece of the spirits, pronounces their satisfaction or the reverse at the offerings, and gives utterance to cryptic phrases, which are held to foretell good or evil fortune to those in answer to whom they are made. When all the devils in turn have spoken and vanished, the man recovers his senses. The devils are worshipped in the same way in the house, except that no blood is shed.”

The following example of the conviction of a thief by a diviner is recorded by Mrs Murray-Aynsley.17

“A friend’s ayah had her blanket stolen. The native woman rejected the interference of the police, which her mistress proposed, but said she would send for one of her own diviners. He came, caused a fire to be lighted in an earthen vessel, then took a small basket-work grain-sifter used for winnowing rice. Having repeated certain prayers or incantations, the diviner stuck a pair of scissors into the deepest part of this tray, and, having done this, required the two assistants he brought with him each to put a finger beneath the holes in the scissors, and then hold the sifter suspended over the fire. The servants of the house were then all required, each in turn, to take a small quantity of uncooked rice in their [288]hands, and drop it into the flame, between the fork formed by the scissors, the diviner all the time repeating some formula. All went very smoothly till the woman-servant, whom my friend had all along suspected of the theft, performed this ceremony, on which the grain-sifter commenced turning round rapidly. The culprit was convicted, and confessed the theft.”

The following method of discovering theft by chewing rice is described by Daniel Johnson.18

“A Brāhmin is sent for, who writes down all the names of the people in the house, who are suspected. Next day he consecrates a piece of ground by covering it with cow-dung and water, over which he says a long prayer. The people then assemble on this spot in a line facing the Bra̱hmin, who has with him some dry rice, of which he delivers to each person the weight of a four-cornered rupee, or that quantity weighed with the sacred stone called Salagram, which is deposited in a leaf of the pippal or banyan tree. At the time of delivering it, the Brāhmin puts his right hand on each person’s head, and repeats a short prayer; and, when finished, he directs them all to chew the rice, which at a given time must be produced on the leaves masticated. The person or persons, whose rice is not thoroughly masticated, or exhibits any blood on it, is considered guilty. The faith they all have of the power of the Bra̱hmin, and a guilty conscience operating at the same time, suppresses the natural flow of saliva to the mouth, without which the hard particles of the rice bruise and cut the gums, causing them to bleed, which they themselves are sensible of, and in most instances confess the crime.”

[289]

1 A. C. Haddon, “Magic and Fetishism” (Religions ancient and modern), 1906, 40.

2 For much of the note on Kaniyans I am indebted to Mr N. Subramani Iyer.

3 “Description of the Coasts of East Africa and Malabar,” translation, Hakluyt Society, 1866, 139.

4 “Journey through Mysore Canara, and Malabar,” 1807, ii. 528.

5 “Malabar,” 1887, i. 140–1.

6 The Kaniyan, when wanted in his professional capacity, presents himself with triple ash marks of Siva on his chest, arms, and forehead.

7 “Gazetteer of Malabar,” 1908, i. 130.

8 C. Gopalan Nair, Malabar Series, “Wynad, its People and Traditions,” 1911, 70–1.

9 Madras Museum Bull., 1901, iii., No. 3, 273–4.

10 “Birds of India,” 1877, i. 216–7.

11 The Dusserah or Dasara is also known as Sarasvati pūja or Ayudha pūja (worship of weapons or tools). See p. 174.

12 Madras Weekly Mail, 8th August, 1907.

13 “History of Railway Thieves,” 1904.

14 The Koravas are professional burglars.

15 “Madras Census Report,” 1901, part i. 164.

16 “Gazetteer of the Tanjore District,” 1906, i. 69.

17 “Our Tour in Southern India,” 1883, 162–3.

18 “Sketches of Field Sports Followed by the Natives of India,” 1822.

[Contents]

XI

Some Agricultural Ceremonies

For the following note1 on agricultural ceremonies in Malabar, I am indebted to Mr C. Karunakara Menon, who writes as an eye-witness thereof.

“Vishu, the feast of the vernal equinox, is celebrated on the first of the Malabar month Mēdom, between the 10th and 14th of April. To the Tamulians it is the New Year’s day, but to the people of Malabar it marks the commencement of the new agricultural year. A Malabar proverb says ‘No hot weather after Vishu.’ The first thing seen on the morning of Vishu day is considered as an omen for the whole year. Every Malayāli takes care, therefore, to look at an auspicious object. Arrangements are accordingly made to have a kani, which means a sight or spectacle (see p. 18). After the first sight, the elders make presents of money to the junior members of the family and the servants. After the distribution of money, the most important function on Vishu morning is the laying of the spade-furrow, as a sign that cultivation operations have commenced. A spade decorated with konna (Cassia Fistula) flowers, is brought, and a portion of the yard on the north side smeared with cow-dung, and painted with powdered rice-water. An offering is made on the spot to Ganapathi (the elephant god), and a member of the family, turning to the east, cuts the earth three times. A ceremony on a grander scale is called the Chāl, which literally means [290]a furrow, for an account of which we must begin with the visit of the astrologer (Kanisan) on Vishu eve. Every dēsam (hamlet) in Malabar has its own astrologer, who visits families under his jurisdiction on festive occasions (see p. 275). Accordingly, on the eve of the new agricultural year, every Hindu home in the district is visited by the Kanisans of the respective dēsams, who, for a modest present of rice, vegetables, and oils, make a forecast of the season’s prospects, which is engrossed on a cadjan (palm leaf). This is called the Vishu phalam, which is obtained by comparing the nativity with the equinox. Special mention is made therein as to the probable rainfall from the position of the planets—highly prized information in a district where there are no irrigation works or large reservoirs for water. But the most important item in the forecast is the day and time at which the first ploughing is to take place. The Chāl is one of the most impressive and solemn of the Malabar agricultural ceremonies, and, in its most orthodox form, is now prevalent only in the Palghāt tāluk. At the auspicious hour shown in the forecast, the master of the house, the cultivation agent, and the Cherumars,2 assemble in the barn. A portion of the yard in front of the building is painted with rice-water, and a lighted bell-metal lamp is placed near at hand with some paddy (unhusked rice) and rice, and several cups made of the leaves of the kanniram (Strychnos Nux-vomica)—as many cups as there are varieties of seed in the barn. Then, placing implicit faith in his gods and ancestors, the master of the house opens the barn-door, followed by a Cheruman with a new painted basket containing the leaf cups. The master then takes a handful of seed from a seed-basket, and fills one of the cups, and the cultivating agent, head Cheruman, and others who are interested in a good harvest, fill the cups till the seeds are exhausted. The basket, with the cups, is next taken to the decorated portion of the yard. [291]A new ploughshare is fastened to a new plough, and a pair of cattle are brought onto the scene. Plough, cattle, and basket, are all painted with rice-water. A procession proceeds to the fields, on reaching which the head Cheruman lays down the basket, and makes a mound of earth with the spade. To this a little manure is added, and the master throws a handful of seed into it. The cattle are then yoked, and one turn is ploughed by the head Cheruman. Inside this at least seven furrows are made, and the plough is dropped to the right. An offering is made to Ganapathi, and the master throws some seed into the furrow. Next the head Cheruman calls out, ‘May the gods on high, and the deceased ancestors, bless the seed which has been thrown broadcast, and the cattle which are let loose, the mother and children of the house, the master and the slaves. May they also vouchsafe to us a good crop, good sunshine, and a good harvest.’ A cocoanut is then cut on the ploughshare, and from the cut portions several deductions are made. If the hinder portion is larger than the front one, it augurs an excellent harvest. If the nut is cut into two equal portions, the harvest will be moderate. If the cut passes through the eyes of the nut, or if no water is left in the cut portions, certain misfortune is foreboded. The cut fragments are then taken with a little water inside them, and a leaf of the tulsi plant3 (sacred basil, Ocimum sanctum) dropped in. If the leaf turns to the right, a propitious harvest is assured, whereas, if it turns to the left, certain calamity will follow. This ceremonial concluded, there is much shouting, and the names of all the gods are called out in a confused prayer. The party then breaks up, and the unused seeds are divided among the workmen. The actual sowing of the seed takes place towards the middle of May. The local deity who is responsible for good [292]crops is Cherukunnath Bhagavathi, who is also called Annapūrana, and is worshipped in the Chirakkal tāluk. Before the seed is sown, a small quantity is set apart as an offering to the goddess Annapurna Iswari. By July the crops should be ready for harvesting, and the previous year’s stock is running low. Accordingly, several ceremonies are crowded into the month Karkitakam (July-August). When the sun passes from the sign of Gemini to Cancer, i.e., on the last day of Mithuna (June-July), a ceremony called the driving away of Potti (evil spirit) is performed in the evening. The house is cleaned, and the rubbish collected in an old winnowing basket. A woman rubs oil on her head, and, taking the basket, goes three times round the house, while children run after her, calling out, ‘Potti, phoo’ (run away, evil spirit). On the following morning the good spirit is invoked, and asked to bless every householder, and give a good harvest. Before dawn a handful of veli, a wild yam (Caladium nymphœiflorum), and turmeric, together with ten herbs called dasapushpam (ten flowers), such as are worn in the head by Nambūtiri Brāhman ladies after the morning bath, are brought in. They are:—

Thiruthāli (Ipomœa sepiaria).
Nilappana (Curculigo orchioides).
Karuka (Cynodon Dactylon).
Cherupoola (Ærua lanata).
Muyalchevi (Emelia sonchifolia).
Puvamkurunthala (Vernonia cinerea).
Ulinna (Cardiospermum Halicacabum).
Mukutti (Biophytum sensitivum).
Kannunni (Eclipta alba).
Krishnakananthi (Evolvulus alsinoides).

“Each of the above is believed to be the special favourite of some deity, e.g., Nilappana of the god of riches, Thiruthāli of the wife of Kāma, the god of love, etc. They are stuck in the front eaves of every house with some cow-dung. Then, before daybreak, Sri Bhagavathi is formally installed, and her symbolical presence is continued [293]daily till the end of the month Karkitakam. A plank, such as is used by Malayālis when they sit at meals, is well washed, and smeared with ashes. On it are placed a mirror, a potful of ointment made of sandal, camphor, musk, and saffron (turmeric), a small round box containing red paint, a goblet full of water, and a grāndham (sacred book made of cadjan), usually Dēvi-Mahāthmyam, i.e., song in praise of Bhagavathi. By its side the ten flowers are set. On the first day of Karkitakam, in some places, an attempt is made to convert the malignant Kāli into a benificent deity. From Calicut northward, this ceremonial is celebrated, for the most part by children, on a grand scale. From early morning they may be seen collecting ribs of plantain (banana) leaves, with which they make representations of a ladder, cattle-shed, plough, and yoke. Representations of cattle are made from the leaves of the jak tree (Artocarpus integrifolia). These are placed in an old winnowing basket. The materials for a feast are placed in a pot, and the toy agricultural articles and the pot are carried round each house three times, while the children call out ‘Kālia, Kālia, monster, monster, receive our offering, and give us plenty of seed and wages, protect our cattle, and support our fences.’ The various articles are then placed under a jak tree, on the eastern side of the house if possible. The next important ceremony is called the Nira, or bringing in of the first-fruits. It is celebrated about the middle of Karkitakam. The house is cleaned, and the doors and windows are cleansed with the rough leaves of a tree called pārakam (Ficus hispida), and decorated with white rice paint. The walls are whitewashed, and the yard is smeared with cow-dung. The ten flowers (dasapushpam) are brought to the gate of the house, together with leaves of the following:—

Athi (Ficus glomerata).
Ithi (Ficus infectoria).
Arayāl (Ficus religiosa).
Pēral (Ficus bengalensis).
Illi (tender leaves of bamboo).
Nelli (Phyllanthus Emblica).
Jak (Artocarpus integrifolia).
Mango (Mangifera indica).

[294]

“On the morning of the ceremony, the priest of the local temple comes out therefrom, preceded by a man blowing a conch (Turbinella rapa) shell.4 This is a signal for the whole village, and every household sends out a male member, duly purified by a bath and copiously smeared with sacred ashes, to the fields, to gather some ears of paddy. Sometimes the paddy is brought from the temple, instead of the field. It is not necessary to pluck the paddy from one’s own fields. Free permission is given to pluck it from any field in which it may be ripe. When the paddy is brought near the house, the above said leaves are taken out from the gate-house, where they had been kept over night, and the ears of paddy are laid thereon. The bearer is met at the gate by a woman of the house with a lighted lamp. The new paddy is then carried to the house in procession, those assembled crying out ‘Fill, fill; increase, increase; fill the house; fill the baskets; fill the stomachs of the children.’ In a portion of the verandah, which is decorated with rice paint, a small plank, with a plantain leaf on it, is set. Round this the man who bears the paddy goes three times, and, turning due east, places it on the leaf. On the right is set the lighted lamp. An offering of cocoanuts and sweets is made to Ganapathi, and the leaves and ears of paddy are attached to various parts of the house, the agricultural implements, and even to trees. A sumptuous repast brings the ceremony to a close. At Palghāt, when the new paddy is carried in procession, the people say ‘Fill like the Kottāram in Kozhalmannam; fill like the expansive sands of the Perar.’ This Kottāram is eight miles west of Palghāt. According to Dr Gundert, the word means a store-house, or place where temple affairs are managed. It is a ruined building with crumbling walls, lined inside with laterite, and outside with slabs of granite. It was the granary of the Maruthūr temple adjoining it, and, [295]the story goes that the supply in this granary was inexhaustible.

“The next ceremony of importance is called Puthari (meal of new rice). In some places it takes place on Nira day, but, as a rule, it is an independent festival, which takes place during the great national festival Ōnam in August. When the new rice crop has been threshed, a day is fixed for the ceremony. Those who have no land under cultivation simply add some grains of the new rice to their meal. An indispensable curry on this day is made of the leaves of Cassia Tora, peas, the fruit of puthari chundanga (Swertia Chirata), brinjals (Solanum Melongena), and green pumpkins. The first crop is now harvested. There are no special ceremonies connected with the cultivation of the second crop, except the one called Chēttotakam in the month of Thulam (November), which is observed in the Palghāt tāluk. It is an offering made to the gods, when the transplantation is completed; to wipe out the sin the labourers may have committed by unwittingly killing the insects and reptiles concealed in the earth. The god, whose protection is invoked on this occasion, is called Muni. No barn is complete without its own Muni, who is generally represented by a block of granite beneath a tree. He is the protector of cattle and field labourers, and arrack (liquor), toddy, and blood, form necessary ingredients for his worship.

“In well-to-do families, a goat is sacrificed to him, but the poorer classes satisfy him with the blood of a fowl. The officiating priest is generally the cultivation agent, who is a Nāyar, or sometimes a Cheruman. The goat or fowl is brought before the god, and a mixture of turmeric and chunam (lime) sprinkled over it. If the animal shakes, it is a sign that the god is satisfied. If it does not, the difficulty is got over by a very liberal interpretation of the smallest movement of the animal, and a further application of the mixture. The god who ensures sunshine and good weather is Mullan. He is [296]a rural deity, and is set up on the borders and ridges of the rice-fields. Like Muni, he is propitiated by the sacrifice of a fowl. The second crop is harvested in Makaram (end of January), and a festival called Uchāral is observed from the twenty-eighth to the thirtieth in honour of the menstruation of mother earth, which is believed to take place on those days, which are observed as days of abstinence from all work, except hunting. A complete holiday is given to the Cherumans. The first day is called the closing of uchāral. Towards evening some thorns, five or six broomsticks, and ashes, are taken to the room in which the grain is stored. The door is closed, and the thorns and sticks are placed against it, or fixed to it with cow-dung. The ashes are spread before it, and, during that and the following day, no one will open the door. On the second day, cessation from work is scrupulously observed. The house may not be cleaned, and the daily smearing of the floor with cow-dung is avoided. Even gardens may not be watered. On the fourth day the uchāral is opened, and a basketful of dry leaves is taken to the fields, and burnt with a little manure. The Uchāral days are the quarter days of Malabar, and demands for surrender of property may be made only on the day following the festival, when all agricultural leases expire. By the burning of leaves and manure on his estate, the cultivator, it seems to me, proclaims that he remains in possession of the property. In support of this, we have the practice of a new lessee asking the lessor whether any other person has burnt dry leaves in the field. The Uchāral festival is also held at Cherupulcherri, and at Kanayam near Shoranur. Large crowds assemble with representations of cattle in straw, which are taken in procession to the temple of Bhagavathi with beating of drums and the shouting of the crowd.”

The fact that the Cherumans, who are agrestic serfs, play a leading part in some of the festivals which have just been described, is significant. In an interesting note [297]on the privileges of the servile classes, Mr M. J. Walhouse writes5 that “it is well known that the servile castes in Southern India once held far higher positions, and were indeed masters of the land on the arrival of the Brāhmanical race. Many curious vestiges of their ancient power still survive in the shape of certain privileges, which are jealously cherished, and, their origin being forgotten, are much misunderstood. These privileges are remarkable instances of survivals from an extinct state of society—shadows of long-departed supremacy, bearing witness to a period when the present haughty high-caste races were suppliants before the ancestors of degraded classes, whose touch is now regarded as pollution. In the great festival of Siva at Trivalūr in Tanjore, the headman of the Parēyans is mounted on the elephant with the god, and carries his chauri (yak-tail fly fan). In Madras, at the annual festival of the goddess of the Black Town (now George Town6), when a tāli (marriage badge) is tied round the neck of the idol in the name of the entire community, a Parēyan is chosen to represent the bridegroom. At Mēlkote in Mysore, the chief seat of the followers of Rāmānuja Achārya, and at the Brāhman temple at Bēlur, the Holeyas or Parēyans have the right of entering the temple on three days in the year, specially set apart for them.”

The privilege is said to have been conferred on the Holeyas, in return for their helping Rāmānuja to recover the image of Krishna, which was carried off to Delhi by the Muhammadans. Paraiyans are allowed to take part in pulling the cars of the idols in the great festivals at Conjeeveram, Kumbakōnam, and Srīvilliputtūr. Their [298]touch is not reckoned to defile the ropes used, so that other Hindus will pull with them. It was noted by Mr F. H. Ellis, who was Collector of the Madras district in 1812, that “a custom prevails among the slave castes in Tondeimandalam, especially in the neighbourhood of Madras, which may be considered as a periodical assertion of independence at the close of the Tamil month Auni, with which the revenue year ends, and the cultivation of the ensuing year ought to commence. The whole of the slaves strike work, collect in bodies outside of the villages, and so remain until their masters, by promising to continue their privileges, by solicitations, presents of betel, and other gentle means, induce them to return. The slaves on these occasions, however well treated they may have been, complain of various grievances, real and imaginary, and threaten a general desertion. This threat, however, they never carry into execution, but, after the usual time, everything having been conducted according to māmūl (custom), return quietly to their labours.”

Coming to more recent times, it is recorded by Mr Walhouse7 that “at particular seasons there is a festival much resembling the classic Saturnalia, in which, for the time, the relation of slaves and masters is inverted, and the former attack the latter with unstinted satire and abuse, and threaten to strike work unless confirmed in their privileges, and humbly solicit to return to labour.”

In villages in South Canara there are certain rākshasas (demons), called Kambla Asura, who preside over the fields. To propitiate them, buffalo races,8 which are an exciting form of sport, are held, usually in October and November, before the second or sugge crop is sown. It [299]is believed that, if the races are omitted, there will be a failure of the crop. The Koragas (field labourers) sit up through the night before the Kambla day, performing a ceremony called panikkuluni, or sitting under the dew. They sing songs to the accompaniment of a band about their devil Nīcha, and offer toddy and a rice pudding boiled in a large earthen pot, which is broken so that the pudding remains as a solid mass. This pudding is called kandēl addē, or pot pudding. On the morning of the races, the Holeyas (agrestic serfs) scatter manure over the field, in which the races are to take place, and plough it. On the following day, the seedlings are planted. To propitiate various demons, the days following the races are devoted to cock-fighting, in which hundreds of birds may take part.

Important agricultural ceremonies are performed by the Badagas of the Nīlgiris, who carry out most of the cultivation on these hills, at the time of sowing and harvesting the crop. The seed-sowing ceremony takes place in March, and, in some places, a Kurumba (jungle tribesman) plays an important part in it. On an auspicious day—a Tuesday before the crescent moon—a priest of the Devvē temple sets out several hours before dawn with five or seven kinds of grain in a basket and a sickle, accompanied by a Kurumba, and leading a pair of bullocks with a plough. On reaching the field selected, the priest pours the grain into the cloth of the Kurumba, and, yoking the animals to the plough, makes three furrows in the soil. The Kurumba, stopping the bullocks, kneels on the ground between the furrows, facing east. Removing his turban, he places it on the ground, and, closing his ears with his palms, bawls out “Dho, Dho” thrice. He then rises, and scatters the grain thrice on the soil. The priest and Kurumba then [300]return to the village, and the former deposits what remains of the grain in the store-room. A new pot, full of water, is placed in the milk-house, and the priest dips his right hand therein, saying “Nerathubitta” (it is full). This ceremony is an important one, as, until it has been performed, sowing may not commence. It is a day of feasting, and, in addition to rice, Dolichos Lablab is cooked.

Another agricultural ceremony of the Badagas is called Devva habba or tenai (Setaria italica), and is usually celebrated in June or July, always on a Monday. It is apparently performed in honour of the gods Mahālingaswāmi and Hiriya Udaya, to whom a group of villages will have temples dedicated. The festival is celebrated at one place, whither the Badagas from other villages proceed, to take part in it. About midday, some Badagas and the temple priest go from the temple of Hiriya Udaya to that of Mahālingaswāmi. The procession is usually headed by a Kurumba, who scatters fragments of tūd (Meliosma pungens) bark and wood as he goes on his way. The priest takes with him the materials necessary for performing worship, and, after worshipping Mahālingaswāmi, the party return to the Hiriya Udaya temple, where milk and cooked rice are offered to the various gods within the temple precincts. On the following day, all assemble at the temple, and a Kurumba brings a few sheaves of Setaria italica, and ties them to a stone set up at the main entrance. After this, worship is done, and the people offer cocoanuts to the god. Later on, all the women of the Madhave sept, who have given birth to a first-born child, come, dressed up in holiday attire, with their babies, to the temple. On this day they wear a special nose ornament called elemukkuththi, which is only worn on one other occasion, at the funeral of a husband. [301]The women worship Hiriya Udaya, and the priest gives them a small quantity of rice on mīnige (Argyreia) leaves. After eating this, they wash their hands with water given to them by the priest, and leave the temple in a line. As soon as the Devvē festival is concluded, the reaping of the crop commences, and a measure or two of grain gathered on the first day is set apart for the Mahālingaswāmi temple.

By the Kotas (artisans and cultivators) of the Nīlgiris, a seed-sowing ceremony is celebrated in the month of Kumbam (February-March) on a Tuesday or Friday. For eight days the officiating priest abstains from meat, and lives on vegetable diet, and may not communicate directly with his wife for fear of pollution, a boy acting as spokesman. On the Sunday before the ceremony, a number of cows are penned in a kraal, and milked by the priest. The milk is preserved, and, if the omens are favourable, is said not to turn sour. If it does, this is attributed to the priest being under pollution from some cause or other. On the day of the ceremony, the priest bathes in a stream, and proceeds, accompanied by a boy, to a field or the forest. After worshipping the gods, he makes a small seed-pan in the ground, and sows therein a small quantity of rāgi (Eleusine Coracana). Meanwhile, the Kotas of the village go to the temple, and clean it. Thither the priest and the boy proceed, and the deity is worshipped with offerings of cocoanuts; betel, flowers, etc. Sometimes a Terkāran (priest) becomes inspired, and gives expression to oracular utterances. From the temple all go to the house of the priest, who gives them a small quantity of milk and food. Three months later, on an auspicious day, the reaping of the crop is commenced with a very similar ceremonial. [302]

Writing in 1832, Mr Harkness states9 that, during the seed-sowing ceremony, “offerings are made at the temples, and, on the day of the full-moon, after the whole have partaken of a feast, the blacksmith, and the gold and silversmith, constructing separately a forge and furnace within the temple, each makes something in the way of his vocation, the blacksmith a chopper or axe, the silversmith a ring or other kind of ornament.”

In connection with the ceremonial observances of the Koyis of the Godāvari district, the Rev. J. Cain writes10 that “at present the Koyis around Dummagudem have very few festivals, except one at the harvest of the zonna (Sorghum vulgare). Formerly they had one not only for every grain crop, but one when the ippa11 (Bassia) flowers were ready to be gathered, another when the pumpkins were ripe, at the first tapping of the palm-tree for toddy, etc. Now, at the time the zonna crop is ripe and ready to be cut, they take a fowl into the field, kill it, and sprinkle its blood on any ordinary stone put up for the occasion, after which they are at liberty to partake of the new crop. In many villages they would refuse to eat with any Koi who has neglected this ceremony, to which they give the name Kottalu, which word is evidently derived from the Telugu word kotta (new). Rice-straw cords are hung on trees, to show that the feast has been observed. [In some places, Mr Hemingway tells me, the victim is a sheep, and the first-fruits are offered to the local gods and the ancestors.] Another singular feast occurs soon after the chōlam (zonna) crop has been harvested. Early on the morning of that day, all the men of each village have to turn out into the forest to hunt, and woe betide the [303]unlucky individual who does not bring home some game, be it only a bird or a mouse. All the women rush after him with cow-dung, mud, or dirt, and pelt him out of their village, and he does not appear again in that village till next morning. The hunter who has been most successful then parades the village with his game, and receives presents of paddy (rice) from every house. Mr Vanstavern, whilst boring for coal at Beddanolu, was visited by all the Koi women of the village, dressed up in their lord’s clothes, and they told him that they had that morning driven their husbands to the forest, to bring home game of some kind or other.”

Mr N. E. Marjoribanks once witnessed a grossly indecent pantomime, held in connection with this festival, which is called Bhūdēvi Panduga, or festival of the earth goddess. The performers were women, of whom the drummers and sword-bearers were dressed up as men. In a note on this festival, Mr F. R. Hemingway writes that “when the samalu crop is ripe, the Kois summon the pūjāri on a previously appointed day, and collect from every house in the village a fowl and a handful of grain. The pūjāri has to fast all that night, and bathe early the next morning. After bathing, he kills the fowls gathered the previous evening in the names of the favourite gods, and fastens an ear of samalu to each house, and then a feast follows. In the evening they cook some of the new grain, and kill fresh fowls, which have not to be curried but roasted, and the heart, liver, and lights of which are set apart as the especial food of their ancestral spirits, and eaten by every member of each household in their name. The bean feast is an important one, as, until it is held, no one is allowed to gather any beans. On the second day before the feast, the village pūjāri must eat only bread. The day before, he must fast for the whole twenty-four [304]hours, and, on the day of the feast, he must eat only rice cooked in milk, with the bird offered in sacrifice. All the men of the village accompany the pūjāri to a neighbouring tree, which must be a Terminalia tomentosa, and set up a stone, which they thus dedicate to the goddess Kodalamma. Every one is bound to bring for the pūjāri a good hen and a seer of rice, and for himself a cock and half a seer of rice. The pūjāri also demands from them two annas as his sacrificing fee.”

Seed-drills used by agriculturists in the Bellary district are ornamented with carved representations of the sacred bull Nandi, the monkey-god Hanumān, and the lingam, and decorated with margosa (Melia Azadirachta) leaves, to bring good luck. [305]

1 The note was originally published in Madras Museum Bull., 1906, v., No. 2, 98–105.

2 The Cherumars are field labourers, who were formerly agrestic slaves, and, like other servile classes, possess special privileges on special occasions.

3 The tulsi plant is the most sacred plant of the Hindus, by whom it is grown in pots, or in brick or earthen pillars (brindāvanam) hollowed out at the top, in which earth is deposited. It is watered and worshipped daily.

4 The sacred conch or chank shell is used as a musical instrument in processions, and during religious services at Hindu temples.

5 “Ind. Ant,” 1873, iii. 191.

6 The name Black Town was changed to George Town, to commemorate the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to Madras in 1906.

7 Journ. Anthrop. Inst., 1874, iv. 371.

8 Buffalo races, see my “Castes and Tribes of Southern India,” 1909, i. 157–62.

9 “A Singular Aboriginal Race of the Nilagiris,” 1832, 76.

10 “Ind. Ant.” 1879, viii. 34.

11 Liquor is distilled from ippa flowers.

[Contents]

XII

Rain-Making Ceremonies

Among the Kalyāna Singapu Kondhs of Vizagapatam, a rain-making ceremony called barmarākshasi is performed, which consists in making life-size mud images of women seated on the ground, holding grindstones between their knees, and offering sacrifices to them.1

In times of drought, the Koyis of the Godāvari district hold a festival to Bhīma, one of the Pāndava brothers from whom they claim descent, and, when rain falls, sacrifice a cow or a pig to him. It is said2 to be considered very efficacious if the Brāhmans take in procession round the village an image of Varuna (the god of rain) made of mud from the bed of a river or tank. Another method is to pour a thousand pots of water over the lingam in the Siva temple. Mālas (Telugu Pariahs) tie a live frog to a mortar, and put on the top thereof a mud figure representing the deity Gontiyālamma. They then take these objects in procession, singing “Mother frog, playing in water, pour rain by potsfull.” The villagers of other castes then come and pour water over the Mālas.

The Rev. S. Nicholson informs me that, to produce rain in the Telugu country, two boys capture a frog, [306]and put it into a basket with some nīm (margosa, Melia Azadirachta) leaves. They tie the basket to the middle of a stick, which they support on their shoulders. In this manner, they make a circuit of the village, visiting every house, singing the praises of the god of rain. The greater the noise the captive animal makes, the better the omen, and the more gain for the boys, for at every house they receive something in recognition of their endeavours to bring rain upon the village fields.

“In the Bellary district when the rain fails, the Kāpu (Telugu cultivator) females catch a frog, and tie it alive to a new winnowing fan made of bamboo. On this fan, leaving the frog visible, they spread a few margosa leaves, and go singing from door to door, ‘Lady frog must have her bath; oh! rain god, give at least a little water for her.’ This means that the drought has reached such a stage that there is not even a drop of water for the frogs. When the Kāpu female sings this song, the woman of the house brings a little water in a vessel, pours it over the frog, which is left on the fan outside the door sill, and gives some alms. She is satisfied that such an action will bring down rain in torrents. On the first full-moon day in the month of Bhadrapada (September), the agricultural population in the Bellary district celebrate a festival called Jokumara, to appease the rain-god. The Barike women (said to belong to the Gaurimakkalu section of the Kabbēra caste) go round the village in which they live, with a basket on their heads containing margosa leaves, flowers of various kinds, and sacred ashes. They beg for alms, especially from the cultivating classes, and, in return for the alms bestowed (usually grain or food), they give some of the leaves, flowers, and ashes. The cultivators take these to their fields, prepare cholam (Sorghum) kanji or gruel, mix them with it, and sprinkle the kanji over their fields. After this the cultivator proceeds to the [307]potter’s kiln in the village, and fetches ashes from it, with which he makes the figure of a human being. This figure is placed in a field, and called Jokumara or rain-god, and is supposed to have the power of bringing down the rain in due season. A second kind of Jokumara worship is called muddam, or the outlining of rude representations of human figures with powdered charcoal. These are made in the early morning, before the bustle of the day commences, on the ground at cross-roads, and along thoroughfares. The Barikes, who draw these figures, are paid a small remuneration in money or kind. The figures represent Jokumara, who will bring down rain, when insulted by people treading on him. Yet another kind of Jokumara worship prevails in the Bellary district. When rain fails, the Kāpu females model a small figure of a naked human being, which they place in a miniature palanquin, and go from door to door, singing indecent songs, and collecting alms. They continue this procession for three or four days, and then abandon the figure in a field adjacent to the village. The Mālas take possession of the abandoned Jokumara, and, in their turn, go about singing indecent songs, and collecting alms for three or four days, and then throw the figure away in some jungle. This form of Jokumara worship is also believed to bring down plenty of rain. In the Bellary district, the agriculturists have a curious superstition about prophesying the state of the coming season. The village of Mailar contains a Siva temple, which is famous throughout the district for an annual festival held there in the month of February. This festival has now dwindled into more or less a cattle fair. But the fame of the temple continues as regards the Karanika, which is a cryptic sentence uttered by the priest, containing a prophecy of the prospects of the agricultural season. The pujāri (priest) of the temple is a Kuruba (cultivating caste). The feast at the temple lasts for ten days. On the last day, the god Siva is represented as returning victorious from the battlefield, after having slain the [308]demon Malla (Mallāsura) with a huge bow. He is met half-way from the field of battle by the goddess. The wooden bow is placed on end before the god. The Kuruba priest climbs up it, as it is held by two assistants, and then gets on their shoulders. In this posture he stands rapt in silence for a few minutes, looking in several directions. He then begins to quake and quiver from head to foot. This is the sign of the spirit of the god Siva possessing him. A solemn silence holds the assembly, for the time of the Karanika has arrived. The shivering Kuruba utters a cryptic sentence, such as ‘Thunder struck the sky.’ This is at once copied down, and interpreted as a prophecy that there will be much rain in the year to come.”3

It is said that, in the year before the Mutiny, the prophecy was “They have risen against the white-ants.”

The villagers at Kanuparti in the Guntur district of the Telugu country objected, in 1906, to the removal of certain figures of the sacred bull Nandi and lingams, which were scattered about the fields, on the ground that the rainfall would cease, if these sacred objects were taken away.

To bring down rain, Brāhmans, and those non-Brāhmans who copy their ceremonial rites, have their Varuna japam, or prayers to Varuna, the rain-god. Some of the lower classes, instead of addressing their prayers to Varuna, try to induce a spirit or dēvata named Kodumpāvi (wicked one) to send her paramour Sukra to the affected area. The belief seems to be that Sukra goes away to his concubinage for about six months, and, if he does not then return, drought ensues. The ceremony consists in making a huge figure of Kodumpāvi in clay, which is placed on a cart, and dragged through the streets [309]for seven to ten days. On the last day, the final death ceremonies of the figure are celebrated. It is disfigured, especially in those parts which are usually concealed. Vettiyans (Paraiyan grave-diggers), who have been shaved, accompany the figure, and perform the funeral ceremonies. This procedure is believed to put Kodumpāvi to shame, and to get her to induce Sukra to return, and stay the drought. According to Mr W. Francis,4 the figure, which is made of clay or straw, is dragged feet first through the village by the Paraiyans, who accompany it, wailing as though they were at a funeral, and beating drums in funeral time.

I am informed by Mr F. R. Hemingway that, when rain is wanted in the Trichinopoly district, an effigy called Komān (the king) is dragged round the streets, and its funeral performed with great attention to details. Or an effigy of Kodumpāvi is treated with contumely. In some places, the women collect kanji (rice gruel) from door to door, and drink it, or throw it away on a tank bund (embankment), wailing the while as they do at funerals. People of the higher castes repeat prayers to Varuna, and read portions of the Virāta Parvam in the Mahābhārata, in the hope that the land will be as fertile as the country of the Virāts, where the Pāndavas lived. When the tanks and rivers threaten to breach their banks, men stand naked on the bund, and beat drums; and, if too much rain falls, naked men point firebrands at the sky. Their nudity is supposed to shock the powers that bring the rain, and arrest their further progress. According to Mr Francis,5 when too much rain falls, the way to stop it is to send the eldest son to stand in it stark naked, with a torch in his hand. [310]

A Native of Coimbatore wrote a few years ago that we have done all things possible to please the gods. We spent about two hundred rupees in performing Varuna japam on a grand scale in a strictly orthodox fashion. For a few days there were cold winds, and some lightning. But, alas, the japam was over, and with that disappeared all signs of getting any showers in the near future. It is noted by Haddon6 that, in the Torres Straits, as elsewhere, the impossible is never attempted, and a rain charm would not be made when there was no expectation of rain coming, or during the wrong season.

There is, in some parts of the country, a belief that, if lepers are buried when they die, rain will not visit the locality where their corpses have been deposited. So they disinter the bodies, and throw the remains thereof into the river, or burn them. Some years ago, a man who was supposed to be a leper died, and was buried. His skeleton was disinterred, put into a basket, and hung to a tree with a garland of flowers round its neck. The Superintendent of Police, coming across it, ordered it to be disposed of.

The following quaint superstitions relating to the origin of rain are recorded by Mr Gopal Panikkar.7

ectacy

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 04:33:00 +0000

Ecstasy Unveiled

(The fourth book in the Demonica series)

Larissa Ione

For my mom, who taught me to be strong, to believe I could be anything I want to be. I love you.

And for all my fellow military spouses out there—you handle so much while your other half is away, you deal with the moves, the functions, and the constant changes that put pressure on your families. Your sacrifices deserve recognition and thanks.

For all the members of LIST—you LISTEEZ are fabulous, and huge thanks especially to the women who made it happen—Lo, Cin, Ada, Olivia, Natasja, and Luna. You ladies rock!

Big nods go to Ayla and Ilona Fenton, Fatin Soufan, Valerie Tibbs, Kristin Manter, Charlotte Johnson, Maureen Klatte, Lea Franczak, Ing Cruz, Greta Wheeler, Joy Harris, Melissa Bradley, Hilda Oquendo, Lillie Applegarth… your support and friendship have been beyond amazing.

And for Mho, the demon sheep, because you just crack me up…

Glossary

The Aegis—Society of human warriors dedicated to protecting the world from evil. See: Guardians, Regent, Sigil.

Carceris—The jailers of the underworld. All demon species send representatives to serve terms in the Carceris. Carceris members are responsible for apprehending demons accused of violating demon law, and for acting as guards in the Carceris prisons.

Council—All demon species and breeds are governed by a Council that makes laws and metes out punishment for individual members of their species or breed.

Dresdiin—The demon equivalent of angels. See: Memitim.

Fakires—Derogatory term used by vampires to describe humans who either believe themselves to be real vampires or pretend to be vampires.

Guardians—Warriors for The Aegis, trained in combat techniques, weapons, magic. Upon induction into The Aegis, all Guardians are presented with an enchanted piece of jewelry bearing the Aegis shield, which, among other things, allows for night vision and the ability to see through demon invisibility enchantment.

Harrowgate—Vertical portals, invisible to humans, which demons use to travel between locations on Earth and Sheoul.

Infadre—A female of any demon species who has been impregnated by a Seminus demon.

Maleconcieo—Highest level of ruling demon boards, served by a representative from each species Council. The U.N. of the demon world.

Marked Sentinel—Humans charmed by angels and tasked with protecting a vital artifact. Sentinels are immortal and immune to harm. Only angels (fallen included) can injure or kill a Sentinel. Their existence is a closely guarded secret.

Memitim—Earthbound angels assigned to protect Primori. Memitim remain earthbound until they complete their duties, at which time they Ascend, earning their wings and entry into Heaven. Also known to demons as dresdiin. See: Dresdiin, Primori.

Orgesu—A demon sex slave, often taken from breeds bred specifically for the purpose of providing sex.

Primori—Humans and demons whose lives are fated to affect the world in some crucial way.

Regent—Head(s) of local Aegis cells.

Renfield—Fictional character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Also, derogatory term for any human who serves a vampire. A vampire groupie.

S’genesis—Final maturation cycle for Seminus demons. Occurs at one hundred years of age. A post-s’genesis male is capable of procreation and possesses the ability to shape-shift into the male of any demon species.

Sheoul—Demon realm. Located deep in the bowels of the earth, accessible only by Harrowgates.

Sheoul-gra—A holding tank for demon souls. The place where demon souls go until they can be reborn or kept in torturous limbo.

Sheoulic—Universal demon language spoken by all, though many species speak their own language.

Sigil—Board of twelve humans known as Elders, who serve as the supreme leaders of The Aegis. Based in Berlin, they oversee all Aegis cells worldwide.

Swans—Humans who act as blood or energy donors for vampires, either actual undead or fakires.

Ter’taceo—Demons who can pass as human, either because their species is naturally human in appearance, or because they can shapeshift into human form.

Therionidryo—Term a were-beast uses for a person he or she bit and turned into another were-beast.

Therionidrysi—Any survivor of a were-beast attack. Term used to clarify the relationship between the sire and his therionidryo.

Ufelskala—A scoring system for demons, based on their degree of evil. All supernatural creatures and evil humans can be categorized into the five Tiers, with the Fifth Tier composed of the worst of the wicked.

Classification of Demons, as listed by Baradoc, Umber demon, using the demon breed, Seminus, as an example:

Kingdom: Animalia

Class: Demon

Family: Sexual Demon

Genus: Terrestrial

Species: Incubus

Breed: Seminus

One

He who does not see the angels and devils in the

beauty and malice of life will be far removed from

knowledge, and his spirit will be empty of affection.

—Kahlil Gibran

Lore had always believed that when it came to sex, the more the merrier. Too bad for him that when “more” meant more than just himself, people tended to die.

So what the hell was he doing in bed with a curvy liquor store clerk he’d picked up while on his third tequila run in as many days?

Sure, technically, he wasn’t in bed. He was standing at the foot of the human-looking demon’s California King, pounding into her from behind as she kneeled on the mattress, moaning through her fourth orgasm.

Pressure built in his balls and his shaft throbbed with the need to blow, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t ignite. He gripped her hips harder, thrust deeper. Faster.

Nothing.

He lifted her so her knees came off the bed, giving him absolute control as he ground against her with feverish gyrations.

Still nothing.

Sweat streamed down his face, and his lungs burned with the force of his panting breaths.

“Come on, baby,” the female—he thought her name was April… or May… maybe June—cried. She bucked, consumed by yet another climax, and then dropped her head in exhaustion, her flaxen hair pooling on the black satin sheets.

She was pretty—not as pretty as Gem, but then, no one was. Lore shook the image of the Goth half-Soulshredder doctor out of his head, because she was in love with a human jerk named Kynan, and Lore hadn’t truly had a shot with her anyway.

That he couldn’t climax because he was worried about snuffing this mystery species demon chick was really fucking funny considering that he killed for money, with no qualms, no regrets, and there were definitely worse ways to go than death-by-orgasm.

But Gem seemed to have opened up a vein in him, one that ran with pansy-ass feelings instead of blood. And in truth, there was a reason he hadn’t had sex in decades, even though his Seminus breeding gave him the over-whelming need to screw every female who crossed his path. Fortunately for him, his human side allowed him to handle those urges himself, unlike purebred Sems who had to have a female partner or die.

When Lore had female partners, they died.

With a frustrated roar, he tore himself away from AprilMayJune and fisted his cock in his gloved hand. His release was hard and fast… and, as expected, no more satisfying than if he’d been by himself. And now, with nothing to distract him, he couldn’t ignore the handprint-shaped welt that burned on his chest.

Lore had to go. No more stalling. After three weeks of avoidance—mainly to piss off his boss—it was time to take his punishment like a man. Well, a half-man, half-incubus.

The female rolled over, watched him with drowsy eyes. He still wasn’t sure why he’d fallen off the celibacy wagon for her, except maybe for the fact that she’d been in the right place, right time when he’d gotten yet another text from Eidolon, M.D. Christ, the guy just had to include the M.D. in his signature, as if the entire underworld didn’t know what he was.

The reminder that his brother was a respected doctor who saved lives, while Lore was nothing but a low-life half-breed killer, had sent him into a destructive, down-ward spiral that involved a lot of alcohol and a proposition for AprilMayJune.

Still, he was eventually going to have to face Eidolon and his other brothers again, no matter what Lore had promised his sister, because he had a feeling that if his newfound brothers wanted to find him, they would. And they didn’t seem like the types to respect space and privacy.

“I told you I’m not in season,” AprilMayJune said, her voice sleepy with sexual satiation. “I can’t get pregnant.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He tucked himself back into his leather pants. “I’m sterile.” At least, that was what one of the other brothers, Shade, had told him. Lore wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but it was definitely for the best.

She sighed and fell back against the pillows. “Then why did you just cream all over my floor? And why are you still wearing that glove?”

“To reduce the chances that I’ll kill you.” Anyone who touched the bare skin of his right arm and hand, marked by the color-diluted glyphs called a dermoire that snaked from shoulder to fingernail, dropped dead on contact. He’d worn a jacket and gloves around everyone except his sister for decades, but if he orgasmed or summoned his “gift,” he could kill right through the protective leather, which was why, during sex, he tried not to touch his partners as he neared climax. Tried, because with very few exceptions, something had always gone wrong.

The female bared her teeth, which, in the last couple of seconds, had grown sharper. And longer. “You think you can take me?”

I just did, honey. “I know I can.” He patted his pocket to make sure she hadn’t lifted his wallet, then checked his weapons harness for the same reason. He’d have to kill her if she’d swiped his Gargantua-bone dagger.

Gracefully, she came to her feet, which were now tipped by curved claws, just like her hands. What the hell kind of demon was she? “Arrogant prick.” Her pronunciation was mushy now, the words spoken through an extra row of teeth that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re messing with the wrong arrogant prick, little girl.” Lore moved toward the door. “Thanks for the laughs. See ya.”

“Little girl?” She launched at him, catching him in the back and knocking him into the wall. As he spun away, she raked her claws across his chest, tearing open his T-shirt and leaving a bloody trail of scratches behind.

Hunger glimmered in her black eyes as she crept toward him like a cat preparing to pounce. “I’m going to eat your brains raw.”

Lore clapped a hand over his stinging cuts. “Jesus. You’re a fucking Dire Mantis.” Figured that after sixty years of celibacy, the first partner he picked would be one that ate the heads of demon males.

“If it’s any consolation,” she purred, “that was the best sex any of my mates have given me.”

“Well, duh.” He watched her lick her lips as though she was already tasting his brain. Disgusting. “I can’t believe I was worried about killing you.”

She lunged. He dodged. He could kill her with a snap of the neck, but Dire Mantis bites were paralyzing, and he didn’t want to risk getting anywhere near that mouth.

She came at him again, teeth gnashing. As she reached for him, he twisted aside and seized her forearm. Killing power sizzled like lightning from his shoulder to his fingers, and she fell to the floor, her lifeless body making a soft thud. It twitched a few times before falling still.

Most purebred demons who died aboveground dis-integrated within seconds, but he didn’t stick around to watch. Or to care. He strode out of the bedroom and out of the house without looking back. He was, after all, a killer. In the three weeks since witnessing the near end of the world, meeting his brothers, and bringing back to life a human he would rather have left dead, he’d done nothing but drown himself in liquor bottles. But no more. Losing himself and his edge had almost cost him his life in AprilMayJune’s bedroom.

He wouldn’t make that mistake ever again.

* * *

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Tapping his tongue piercing against his teeth, Lore considered his answer as he stood before his master-slash-asshole boss. The tag of pimp could also apply to the demon, seeing how Deth allowed his assassins to take freelance work… as long as he received a 60 percent cut of the money earned. And none of the kills made on outside contracts counted toward Lore’s obligation to Deth, even though the demon required his assassins to accept three outside jobs a year. Asshole.

Lore kept his gaze level with Deth’s, more to keep himself grounded than to show that he wasn’t nervous. He’d come straight from the mantis’s place, but that had been yesterday. For twelve hours he’d been imprisoned below the main chamber, in stocks and kneeling on shards of glass.

Which meant he hadn’t been able to fulfill his body’s sexual needs, and he could feel the resulting tension, the growing rage that threatened to turn him into a beast clawing at the inside of his skin. The rest of his body didn’t feel much better. His joints ached, his balls were tender, and every inch of his skin burned.

But all of that pain was minor compared to the torture he’d endured while in the stocks, a punishment he’d earned when he’d used his gift of resurrection. Before Lore had handed his soul over to Deth, Lore would spend a good twenty-four hours in bloody agony after bringing someone back from the dead. But now, because of his slave bond, it was his master, Detharu, who instead experienced the agonizing price Lore paid for bringing a being back to life. And Deth made damned sure Lore paid hugely for his suffering.

Funny how his two special abilities—taking and giving life—were so opposite, but only the “good” one came with pain. He supposed it made sense; life fucking hurt.

“Well,” he drawled finally, with a calm he didn’t feel, “I’m your best-looking assassin, and without me, you’d have to stare at the likes of Hadrian Maggotface all day.”

Detharu, a demon whose species Lore had never determined, mainly because he appeared different to everyone who saw him, smiled. At least, the upturn of his black, crusted lips was the closest thing to a smile Lore had ever seen from the guy. Whatever it was, it didn’t do anything to quell the unease churning in Lore’s gut, an unease that was even more crushing than usual.

“You make a good point. But not good enough.” Shifting in his throne constructed of the bones of several demon species and at least one human, Detharu gestured with his steel-gauntleted fist.

Two of his sentries, huge Ramreel demons with curled horns and an unholy love of machetes, peeled away from the jagged stone walls. Their small, piggish eyes glowed with murderous anticipation as they came at Lore from both sides.

Four more Ramreels watched from their positions at the chamber entrance, drool dripping from their snouts as though Pavlov had rung the dinner bell. And in the shadows behind Detharu, another male stood, the expression on his face unreadable, but Lore sensed a certain… anticipation. Weird. Lore had seen the dude before, hanging out with his insane brother, Roag, and Byzamoth, an equally insane fallen angel who had tried to start Armageddon.

But both nutcases were gone now, and there was no point in wondering why the demon was there, because at the moment, the biggest mystery facing him was whether he was keeping his head.

Lore rolled his shoulders, doing his best impression of a guy who wasn’t at all worried that his next breath might be the last. “Look, Deth, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’ll make it up to you—”

“You gave someone life so I would spend two sunsets in agony!”

Only Deth would think that Kynan’s resurrection was all about him. “Yeah, but—”

“We’re assassins, you imbecile! We don’t give life! You make me a laughingstock.” Detharu came to his feet with a snarl, the fire from the huge hearth in the center of the room casting flickering shadows into the valleys between his ribs—which were on the outside of his body. “Worse, you and Zaw failed to kill the Seminus demons as you were contracted to do!”

Lore clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from doing something stupid, like strangle his boss. “I can get you the money.”

That was a big, fat lie. There was no way in Hades he could come up with the twenty million he would have gotten from the executor of Roag’s estate upon proof of Wraith, Eidolon, and Shade’s deaths. Half of that, maybe, but not the full amount.

“But you can’t get back the respect I lost in the eyes of the Assassins’ Guild,” Deth roared.

“There has to be a way.”

“There is.” Detharu sank back down as if his display of temper never happened. “Your head on a pike, displayed in the Guild hall.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t work for me.” Lore shoved his gloved hand through his hair, but that didn’t massage the tension out of his skull. “Cut me some slack, will ya? They were my brothers.”

Fortunately, Lore had failed to kill them. After the attempt and consequent revelations of blood ties, Lore had only stuck around his brothers long enough to get a little history of the Seminus breed and see what happened with Wraith’s female, and then he’d gotten out of the demon hospital as if it was burning down.

Hadn’t seen or spoken with his brothers since, though Eidolon’s constant text messages had been as irritating as claws on a chalkboard.

“Family?” Detharu leaned forward in his seat. “Then why did you agree to kill them?”

“I didn’t know they were my brothers at the time the job was offered.” No, that little secret had been as twisted as Roag.

The chair creaked as Detharu sat back and rubbed his pointed chin. “I have siblings. I killed two of them. Liked doing it.”

This wasn’t looking good. “No doubt they deserved it.” Yep, Lore could kiss ass with the best of them.

Detharu shrugged. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the occasional drip of Ramreel drool. Lore eyed the exit, hastily piecing together an escape plan. He could take out the demon closest to him, snag his machete, and then hope to God he could mow down the others before Detharu caught up to him. If he made it to the outer chamber, Detharu’s other slave-assassins would help him escape.

Not that he’d be free for long. The slave-bond, the hand imprint burned into the flesh above his heart, would eventually compel him to return here or face unimaginable suffering as the bond first seared his skin, and then worked its way to his muscles and organs. You either returned to the den, or you cooked to death. Slowly.

Finally, Detharu shook his head. “I won’t execute you for not killing your brothers.”

“Big of you,” Lore muttered.

A serrated growl rumbled in Deth’s skeletal chest. “What did you say?”

“I said thank you.” Lore scowled at the Ramreels. “You heard him. Beat it. No murder for you today.” The Ramreel minions acted more as guards than executioners, but they pretty much did whatever Deth wanted them to do, and the bloodier the task, the happier they were.

Detharu’s glowing orange eyes narrowed. “There is a price, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“I have a job for you.”

Which meant that despite the threats and posturing, Deth hadn’t intended to impale Lore’s head on a pointy stick at all. “What do I have to do?” Lore asked through gritted teeth. “Collect another debt? Deliver a bloody warning to someone? Want me to fetch a pizza? Because you know how I love playing delivery boy.”

He hated playing pizza minion.

“You can bring me an all-meat topped with a certain human’s head. I’m giving you your hundredth kill.”

Lore stopped breathing even as his pulse revved. He’d been waiting thirty years for this. After he completed his hundredth kill, Deth would no longer have any hold on him. He’d be a free man. But wait… something wasn’t right. Detharu had avoided giving him an assassin job for years, unwilling to hand out that last assignment that would free both Lore and his sister, Sin, forever.

Lore studied Deth’s impassive face, seeking, but not finding, any clues to what he was thinking. “What’s the catch?”

Deth’s bony fingers made irritating clicking noises as he tapped on the arm of his chair. “You violated the terms of our bargain by breaking the subcontract with Roag and not killing the Seminus brothers. I missed out on my share and look like a fool. Therefore, I’m amending our agreement.”

Fuck. He knew it. “And what are your new terms?” he ground out.

“In the past, you have been allowed to refuse assignments.”

“And I paid the price in blood.” A lot of blood.

“You will not refuse this one.”

Uh-oh. A chill skittered up Lore’s spine. Deth was expecting him to refuse, which meant the mark would be a child or pregnant woman or something. “And if I do?”

“If you refuse or don’t succeed, then I’ll have Sin’s head in place of yours for your failure to kill your brothers.”

A red curtain came down over his vision. Stay calm. Stay… calm. Didn’t work. The rage inside Lore screamed to the surface, completely missing the usual transition period, and he lunged at the demon. “You fuck!”

The sentries caught him, one on each arm. Instinct and anger merged, and without thinking, he charged up his gift. The Ramreel clutching Lore’s right biceps didn’t even have time to scream. He fell to the floor, eyes wider in death than they’d ever been in life.

Instantly, the other one wheeled away, drawing his machete, which he jabbed into Lore’s ribs.

Detharu came to his feet, and the next thing Lore knew, Deth’s steel-gauntleted fist was in his face. Lore’s head snapped back and pain exploded in his skull. Fury contorted Detharu’s expression, peeling his lips from his sharp, blackened teeth.

“That was stupid, Lore. Even after all this time, you have not learned to control your temper.”

It chafed to admit it, but Detharu was right on both counts. Lore’s rages had been a problem since he was twenty, when he’d gone through the weird transformation that had given him an arm covered with tattoos. But that was just for starters. He also gained the “gift” to kill everything he touched with the tattooed arm, the ability to resurrect the dead or “feel” how a person had died, and a rampant libido that had to be addressed several times daily lest he go into rages that didn’t end until he either killed or had sex—sex that ended in the death of his partner.

But being sexually sated wasn’t a guarantee against the rages. Pain and anger could still set him off no matter how many times or how recently he’d relieved himself.

Breathing deeply, he willed himself to come down before the rage took him to the point of no return or before he did something stupid again. The move he’d made against Detharu carried with it a penalty of death.

Thing was, Lore couldn’t have hurt Detharu anyway. The bond’s magic prevented violence against one’s master. Lore couldn’t so much as touch Detharu unless the demon wanted to be touched.

And thank God Deth had long ago decided Lore wasn’t allowed to touch. Few of Deth’s assassins were so lucky.

Lore clenched his teeth, determined to keep from smarting off, but refusing to apologize. Instead, he gritted out, “Who’s the target? Who is my hundredth kill?”

Lore had forgotten all about the male in the shadows, but now he shifted slightly, his black, waist-length hair seeming to absorb all the light in the room. It was as if the dude wore his shadow like a cloak. That was seriously fucked up.

A sinister smile split Deth’s face wide open. “The target,” he said, “is Kynan Morgan. The very human you brought back to life.”

The ground shifted beneath Lore’s feet. Oh, holy hell. Though Lore had saved Kynan’s life, he hated him and really wouldn’t mind putting him in the ground. But Jesus… if he killed the human, Lore would spend the rest of his sorry life looking over his shoulder. He’d have every Aegis Guardian on the planet aiming to gut him with a stang, which would be pleasant compared to what Gem and his brothers would do to him.

Deth leaned in close, so close Lore could feel the ugly demon’s heat on his face. “You have your assignment. You will kill Morgan—using your death touch—and retrieve his amulet within ninety-six hours. And if you refuse or fail, Sin will die.”

Sin, whose favorite saying was now becoming ironic reality.

No good deed shall go unpunished.

No fucking shit.

By sparing his brothers, Lore might have condemned his sister to death.

* * *

Rariel couldn’t contain a smile as he watched Lore exit Detharu’s chamber. He’d waited so long to put his plan into motion, and now that the ball was rolling, nothing could stop it.

“Why did you specifically request Lore for this job?” Detharu stood at the hearth’s edge, his normally white skin taking on the orange of the flames like a chameleon’s. Unlike most, Rariel could see the Molegra demon’s true form, though he wished he couldn’t. The eyeless man-shaped creature was one of the most repulsive demons Rariel had ever come across.

“He has a reputation as being one of the best,” Rariel lied.

Lore did have a reputation for excellence at his job, but that wasn’t why Rariel had chosen him. Rariel had chosen him because by giving Kynan, a Marked Sentinel, life, Lore had become the only being other than an angel who could take it away.

Detharu nodded, still facing the fire. “I’ll be sorry to lose him. And Sin.”

Yes, Rariel had been curious about this Sin person Detharu had dangled over Lore’s head. “Is she his mate?”

“Sister.”

Rariel’s breath caught. Sister… “Is she an assassin?”

Detharu turned around, his sausage-body undulating grotesquely. “She is. Ruthless and cunning, like her brother.”

Oh, this was perfect. Poetic, even. “Then I want Sin for the other target.”

“Same time frame?” Deth asked.

“Yes.”

The assassin master shuffled to his throne. “The rush job will cost you quadruple, as it did with Lore.”

“I’m paying quadruple because my insistence on using Lore is depriving you of him as a slave.”

“Double then. Take it or leave it.”

Rariel could leave it and go with another assassin, but the brother-sister thing gave him shivers of pleasure. “Done.”

Detharu smiled, his pale, shapeless lips forming a deep fissure that revealed tiny, pointed teeth. “Tell me, why is this amulet of Morgan’s important to you?”

“It’s a bauble. Worthless except as a trophy.” The truth, that it was a priceless bargaining chip that would get Rariel everything he wanted, was not something he would share with anyone, let alone assassin scum.

The demon seemed to buy the lie. “Come then,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “We’ll feast on the sweet flesh of a newly hatched huldrefox while we draw up the contracts.”

Furry little huldrefox hatchlings weren’t cheap, and with what Rariel was paying, the bastard could afford to eat them—or the young of any species—every day if he wanted to. Still, Rariel couldn’t scrounge up much in the way of bitterness. Not when centuries of planning was about to yield results.

Oh, yes. He could almost hear Idess’s screams of misery already.

The icy whisper of a hand caressed his arm, reminding him of the debt Rariel had yet to pay. Because Rariel wasn’t the only being in the room who was after revenge.

And after what Roag’s brothers had done to him, Rariel couldn’t blame the demon at all.

Two

Idess was close to the end. She could feel it. Could practically taste it, and as she stood at the top of Mount Everest and gazed up at the heavens, she could picture it.

An icy gale whipped up the snow around her, but she didn’t notice despite the fact that she was wearing low-waisted, cropped cammy pants, a tummy-revealing tank top, and hiking boots. As a Memitim, the only class of angel that was born, not made by the direct hand of God, she was impervious to the elements. Was impervious to most things that could harm others. Soon, even those few things that could hurt or kill her would no longer be a threat. Soon, she would Ascend, would earn her wings and join her fully transitioned angel mother, brothers, and sisters in Heaven.

Not that she cared about seeing many of them. With the exception of her brother Rami, she knew few of her siblings very well, most not at all. But she couldn’t wait to see Rami, had spent the last five hundred years since he Ascended in solitude and loneliness.

The only contact she had with people was when she shopped, a favorite pastime, and when she fed, a necessary evil she despised. “Feeding is the curse of our father,” Rami had said. “It reminds us that no one is perfect, and that we must all resist temptations of the flesh, lest we allow corruption to blacken our souls.”

Rami had feared that she would enjoy the physical contact feeding on Primori required, and that she’d gradually succumb to sin.

He was right to worry. Drinking blood did more than deliver the brief infusion of power Memitim needed to maintain their ability to flash. It also temporarily connected them psychically to their host, forcing Memitim to, for hours, feel what the Primori felt, whether it be anger, sadness, lust…

Oh, Idess couldn’t wait until the day she Ascended and didn’t need to engage in such intimacies anymore. As it was, she despised feeding so much that she had a tendency to walk a fine line with it, holding off until the last possible moment.

“It’s almost over,” she shouted to the sky. The wind ate her words, but she knew she’d been heard. In Heaven, they heard everything.

The thought brought an instant twinge of fear to her gut, because in truth, she hoped that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t exactly been… an angel.

Still, she was close to being one. She now had only two Primori to watch over, and one of them was the jewel in her crown.

Kynan Morgan was a Marked Sentinel, a human who had been charmed by an angel. Sentinels couldn’t be hurt or killed except by a being of angelic origin, which usually meant that they didn’t rate Memitim watchers. But for some reason he did, and she had been chosen to protect him from the infinitesimal chance that someone could get past his charm. On the other hand, he was immortal, which meant that she could have to guard him for hundreds of years. Thousands, even.

But she didn’t think so. Her other Primori, a werewolf, was long-lived but not immortal, so once he died or had fulfilled whatever destiny made him critical to the fate of the world, she would be left with only Kynan… and everyone knew that Memitim never guarded only one Primori.

Surely the honor of keeping Kynan safe would fall to one of her brethren, and she’d earn her wings for a job well done.

She couldn’t wait.

Earth sucked, as humans these days liked to say.

Sighing, she visualized the living room of her Italian villa and flashed from the mountain to her house. She’d been born nearby, and even after thousands of years, she still felt the pull that brought her home every day.

The soles of her boots clacked on the beige and gold stone tiles as she moved toward the kitchen. Usually she’d turn on the stereo, get some Mozart going, but excitement still stirred her blood, and hunger rumbled her stomach.

She eyed the fruit bowl on her dining room table and the dish of fine Italian chocolate on her kitchen counter, waffled… and then reached for a pomegranate.

Fruit is nature’s blessing, Rami used to say. We shouldn’t defile the bodies God gave us with spirits and unhealthful sweets.

Sure, none of that could hurt her, but Rami had been devout and pure, even before he’d been plucked out of his human life at the customary age of nineteen to become a Memitim, and as her teacher in all things holy, he’d been a strict taskmaster. Which, she thought, as she palmed a candy, was all the more reason to indulge now and then. She actually looked forward to his giving her a stern lecture when she finally saw him again.

A faint twinge streaked across her right wrist. Odd. She twisted her arm to view the two quarter-sized Primori marks on the underside. Chase’s heraldi had been there for eight years, was the same color as her skin, the thin lines raised like a brand or the outline of a fresh tattoo. But Kynan’s was new, only three weeks old, and she still hadn’t gotten used to seeing it. Frowning, she looked closer. The edges were pink… swelling rapidly… it began to burn, glow, and she dropped the candy with a gasp.

Kynan, one of the few untouchable people on the planet, was in danger.

* * *

Lore stood at the entrance to an upstate New York mansion, fists clenched and watching Kynan search the huge-ass sitting room, S-shaped stang in one hand and holy water in the other. Apparently, Croucher demons had set up shop in the dwelling, and Kynan intended to take them out before the wealthy family who lived there got too talky about what was going on. And before someone got hurt.

The Aegis to the rescue.

Bunch of do-gooder, holier-than-thou hypocrites. Lore had never liked Guardians all that much, but the dislike had turned to downright hatred two decades ago, when one of his contracted hits had been a Guardian who’d pissed off the wrong demon. The Guardian had been good enough at his job that he’d nearly taken Lore out.

Almost getting whacked wasn’t what had annoyed Lore—he’d deserved it for letting his guard down. What had gotten Lore all worked up was the fact that the Guardian had used some seriously underhanded, sleazy methods for catching and killing demons, including keeping cages full of baby demons to torture until adults came to save the little ones.

Lore didn’t harbor a whole lot of love for demons, but there were some things you just didn’t do. Er… yeah. Lore’s hypocrite switch flipped at that, because some of those things you just didn’t do had been done by him during his hell years as an assassin. He shot Kynan a glance, and okay, Lore had no qualms about putting that guy down. They’d been enemies since they first identified each other as competition for the same woman. Back then, Lore had hoped for an opportunity to take the guy’s head off, which made the fact that Lore had brought Kynan back to life after he’d been bled out so ironic. Then again, he’d only resurrected Kynan because he’d hated seeing Gem in pain.

This time, he wouldn’t have to see it.

The slave-bond on Lore’s chest pulsed, marking time in the countdown to his deadline, and there was no sense in waiting. Lore strode inside, his boots striking the black-veined red marble and announcing his presence with no subtlety whatsoever. Lore never had been subtle.

Instantly, Kynan swung around. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was a knot of suspicion and snarl, and yeah, there was no love lost between them.

Lore didn’t remove his glove; too obvious. He’d power-punch his death special through the leather. “I want to call a truce.”

Kynan snorted. “I hadn’t heard that hell froze over.”

Funny guy. Lore almost regretted having to kill him. Almost. “True story. I figure the more I get to know my brothers, the more you and I will have to see each other, and I’m thinking brawls at family picnics are frowned upon.”

“Clearly you don’t know your brothers,” Kynan said wryly, and Lore experienced a weird sensation… as if maybe he could like the human under the right circumstances.

Ruthlessly, he shoved aside the candy-ass sentiments and grew a set. His sister’s life was at stake, here. “Well, that’s sort of the point of hanging around with them.” Not that that was going to happen. He’d made Sin a promise, and this time, he wouldn’t fail her. “So what do you say?”

Skepticism put shadows in Kynan’s denim-blue eyes, and Lore’s palms dampened with sweat. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”

“No need.” Actually, some serious sucking up would be cool, considering how much pain Deth had put Lore through for using his power of resurrection.

“Bullshit.” Kynan jammed his stang into the weapons harness criss-crossing his chest, the sound of metal sliding home into its leather housing ringing out in the cavernous space. “No way am I letting you hold that over my head for eternity. I’ll thank you, and somehow, I’ll make us even.”

They’d be even when Kynan was the guest of honor at his own wake. And wait… eternity? What the hell did he mean by eternity? Lore eyed the gold chain hanging around Kynan’s neck, the one Lore was supposed to grab after killing him. Wraith had given him the crystal amulet… did it bestow magical protection or longevity?

Well, there was only one way to find out. “Fine. I accept your thanks. Truce?” Lore offered his hand, let his gift fire up with so much power that his arm burned from the top symbol at the crook of his neck to his fingertips. If he took off his jacket, he knew every glyph would be glowing like a brand.

For a long time, Kynan just stood there. Take it, take it… Lore made a come-on gesture with his fingers, hoping the guy would get with the program. Finally, Kynan nodded.

And held out his hand. “Truce.”

* * *

Idess materialized inside a house—an expensive one, judging by the decor. Instantly, an intense itch flared up between her shoulder blades along the twin marks where her wings would someday sprout. They were like twin demon sensors, and right now, they were screaming warnings.

In the center of a richly decorated but spacious room, Kynan was facing off with a huge male clad in black leather. The male must be a demon, and somehow the source of the danger vibes that buzzed through her as though she was gripping an electric wire. But how could he be a threat to Kynan? The male wasn’t a fallen angel; she’d sense that.

Still, Kynan’s heraldi was searing her arm, so the impossibility of the situation didn’t matter. She flashed between the two men, using the element of surprise and her superior strength to slam her palms into the stranger’s massive chest and heave him across the room.

“What the—” He hit the wall with a resounding crack, the impact so forceful that plaster and dust came down around him. He shook his head, flinging white wall particles from his short, nearly black hair.

Idess summoned a scythe, the Memitim’s signature weapon and very handy for separating a head from a body. She hated to kill—as the daughter of an angel, she was a giver and protector of life, by nature—but she would do anything to ensure the safety of her Primori. Anything, thanks to the more violent genes passed down by her father.

She swung the weapon in a graceful arc—Kynan hit her from behind, and her aim went awry as he slammed her to the floor.

“Idiot!” she spat. Kynan clearly didn’t realize that she was there to protect him, and didn’t it just figure that he’d come to the aid of the very man who was there to kill him. She rolled, saw the flash of a stang as it plunged down-ward, felt the whisper of metal as it grazed her shoulder.

Then the demon was there, his gloved fist coming at her so fast she barely had time to twist away. Blocking his next punch, she leaped to her feet and swept her leg out, catching him in the shin, and though he grunted, he didn’t go down.

Kynan attacked from her flank, landing what would, on a human, have been a knee-breaking strike, and darn it, she didn’t need to be fighting both of these guys. Spinning, she nailed Kynan in the jaw with a powerful, but measured punch. Shock flickered in his eyes before they rolled up in his head and he crumpled to the ground.

Pivoting, she faced the remaining male. He swung at her. She blocked. Slashed with the scythe. Caught him with an ax kick that knocked him backward, but only for a moment. He was big, but he moved like a panther, dancing lightly on his feet, every blow controlled and more often than not landing on her body.

Surprised by his skill, she lost momentum, and in a series of impressive moves, he made her spine intimate with the wall and was on her, his forearm jammed into her throat and his six-foot-six body pinning her. His fingers circled her wrist and held it at her hip, rendering the weapon useless. For the moment.

“Who the fuck are you?” The male’s ebony eyes, framed by long, lush lashes any female would kill for, glittered with anger and little gold flecks.

“Seeing as how you’re a murderer, I’d say you don’t have the right to be indignant.”

“Seeing as how I could kill you with one more pound of pressure on your larynx, I’d say that your being a smart-ass is pretty damned stupid.” He leaned into her a little more, so they were chest to chest and his lips were brushing her cheek. “But you’re hot, and I’ll bet you fuck like you fight, so I can forgive your lack of brains.”

This cretin was—what was the popular saying in this decade—toast? Yes, this cretin was toast. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Who sent you?”

“God.” She jerked up her knee. He shifted, and she struck only a glancing blow to his groin. Still, he sucked air. Nice.

“Bad girl,” he snarled, taking her to the floor with a hook to the back of her leg and a firm shove to her neck.

He dropped, coming down on top of her. With a quick thought and a flick of her hand, the scythe morphed into a dagger. She struck out, catching him in the shoulder. He hissed and yanked sideways as the blade cut through his leather jacket and into his flesh.

Score one for the bad girl. She rolled out from under him, stabbing him in the thigh on her way. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, a tantalizing scent for the part of her that must feed once a month, but more important, it told her that this male was of both human and demon descent.

The species of demon was still unknown, but given how impossibly handsome he was, she’d guess he was a breed of incubus.

Lunging, she sliced at him again, but in a cat-quick move, he flattened himself on the ground. He’d saved himself from a nasty cut, but his position gave her the opportunity to leap to her feet and smash one heel into his rib cage. Bone gave way beneath her boot, and he grunted as he grabbed her ankle with both hands.

“What is it with females trying to kill me lately?”

“Says a lot about you, don’t you think?” Feeling a twinge of regret for having to destroy such a fine male specimen, she thrust the dagger down.

A sense of foreboding prickled her skin a split second before the distinct click of a firing crossbow pierced the air. Idess jerked under the force of what felt like a cannonball punching into her spine. Blood exploded in a puff of fine mist from her chest, and steam hissed from the hole just below her breastbone where the bolt had gone through.

Agony lanced her, rending and unique in its intensity. She tasted bile. Blood. What could have done this? Gasping for breath, Idess staggered around to the female holding the crossbow. Dressed in blood-red leather that clashed with her merlot hair, she stood protectively over Kynan’s prone form. Another Guardian.

Realization and horror cut through the fog of pain. The bolt had been coated in qeres, an ancient Egyptian mummification perfume used by The Aegis to combat fallen angels. It wouldn’t kill them, but the poison could cripple and incapacitate for years.

It could, however, kill pre-Ascension Memitim.

The demon male rolled away from Idess and crawled toward Kynan.

Idess’s muscles turned rubbery, but spurred by a desperate need to keep the demon away from Kynan, she gathered the last of her strength and yanked the male to his feet. She flashed them to the most remote place she could think of—a forest deep in the Ukraine. A lot of demons died in the cold. She hoped he’d be one of them.

As they materialized in two feet of snow, it became obvious that he wasn’t one of them, and if he was surprised by their sudden wilderness adventure, he didn’t show it. But then, her vision had begun to blur, and even the pristine white landscape took on a fuzzy, gray cast. Her fingers went numb, and the dagger disappeared as her ability to maintain the conjured weapon failed. A tremor of dread ran through her soul. This was it. The end. She’d survived the fall of Rome. The Inquisition. World War II. And some little slayer who played for the same side, Team Good and Holy, had just killed her.

Blackness swirled in her vision, overtaking her senses, and she went down. A voice rang in her ears, muted and distant, and then she was being lifted, yet somehow she doubted that the arms around her were those of a savior.

Three

What. The. Fuck.

Lore stood like a dope, knee-deep in snow in the middle of some godforsaken forest, cradling his would-be killer to his chest and wondering how everything had gone to hell so fast. He’d been a heartbeat away from completing his assignment, and now he was in the middle of nowhere, confused, and in a shitload of pain.

Agony screamed through his chest with every breath. Damned ribs were broken. A raspy moan reminded him that the female in his arms was far worse off. Whatever Tayla had shot her with had done some serious damage. Obviously, his Guardian sister-in-law had believed the female to be the threat to Kynan, rather than Lore.

He still wasn’t sure why he was holding the little troublemaker instead of killing her. The bitch was mouthy, she’d tried to kill him, and her heavy ass was hell on his ribs.

Though to be fair, she wasn’t that heavy. Just… tall. And curvy. And athletically solid. Hell, she looked like she worked out with some serious weights.

As far as mouthy… damn, she had a nice one. Wide, with full lips made to make a male beg. Her features were perfect—finely wrought, delicate, feminine in a way that was utterly out of sync with the dangerous power she wielded. And she smelled as if she’d bathed in cinnamon sugar. Exotic. Sexy. Edible.

But what the hell was she, why was she after him, and why the fuck did he suddenly crave cookies in bed?

The need to get the answers to his questions had him putting out feelers for the nearest Harrowgate. His demon senses picked up on one nearby, which was good, because carrying her was going to hurt. As much as he hated to do it, he’d have to get her to Underworld General so his brothers could patch her up well enough for interrogation. If someone had put out a hit on him, he needed to know.

Who sent you?

God.

Yeah, right. How many assassin masters did he know who insisted upon being called God? This chick could be working for any of a dozen assholes.

He weaved through the trees, leaving a trail of blood—both his and hers—in the snow as he limped toward the gate. Twice he had to stop to gather her waist-length pony-tail so he didn’t step on it. At least it was tightly bound, the thick brown rope secured every six inches or so by elaborately jeweled gold bands. The effect, combined with her smooth, porcelain skin and honey-colored, almond eyes, made her one of the most striking females he’d ever seen.

But hey, if someone was going to try to kill him, he’d rather it be a hot, bloodthirsty chick than some ugly-ass dude. He hefted her higher to avoid impaling her on a tree branch, and yep, definitely better that his would-be killer was a feather-light female.

The Harrowgate loomed ahead, a vertical, shimmering curtain of light, visible only to demons. God, he hated those things. Every time he stepped into one, he felt as if his humanity was being leached out. He was always a little more raw, a little more on edge when he came out on the other side, and he wondered when the day would come that he arrived at his destination as nothing but a monster.

He hoped it wouldn’t be this day.

He limped inside and was immediately swallowed by almost complete darkness as the gate closed. Obsidian walls etched with crude maps that represented Earth and Sheoul surrounded him on all sides, the thin lines that made up the maps glowing in a painter’s palette of colors.

In his arms, the female spasmed, the force of her seizure knocking him hard into the wall. Pain tore through his upper body and his arm went limp, and motherfuck, his left shoulder had wrenched from the socket. Sucking air between his teeth, he gently lowered the female to the floor and used his good hand to tap out the map—North America, the United States, New York state, New York City—until he found the medical emblem that would take him to Underworld General Hospital, which existed beneath the streets of the Big Apple, right under unsuspecting human noses.

The gate opened into an emergency room illuminated by red bulbs caged in rows on the ceiling. A tremor of unease tripped through him, which wasn’t a surprise, given that the last time he was here, he’d come to kill his brothers.

Talk about awkward.

Cookie was still lying motionless on the floor of the Harrowgate, and she was going to stay there unless Lore got his act together. He cradled his useless arm and eye-balled one of the stone columns supporting the Harrow-gate entrance. Shit. This was gonna hurt like a mother.

Bracing himself, he jammed his shoulder into the pillar. Pain cluster-bombed his arm as it popped back into the socket. A wave of nausea rolled over him, but he gathered up the female and limped toward the triage desk.

The nurse manning the station, a dark-skinned, humanoid Bedim demon, looked up from a stack of paperwork. An extremely sensual species whose females were usually kept in a harem, the Bedim rarely ventured into the world outside whatever Sheoulin palace they lived in. Lore might have appreciated her bid for independence, had he not been bleeding to death.

“You are both injured,” she said.

“You think?”

She jabbed her pen at him. “An attitude like that will get you nothing but an ass-kicking, mister.”

Jesus. Bedim were usually a peaceful, friendly people, but give demons some power, and they turned into… well, demons. “Whatever. Just get us some help.”

The Bedim sniffed haughtily, but already medical staff were surrounding them. A guy in scrubs gestured for Lore to follow. Lore did, to a trauma room where he laid out Cookie on the examination table. A female Trillah nurse put her fingers to the female’s wrist.

“What are you doing?” Scrubs Guy shouted at the Trillah, startling Lore. “ABCs, you idiot! Airway, breathing, circulation… in that order. You’ve been a nurse for how long?”

Snarling, whiskers twitching, the nurse bit out some choice curses, and Lore swore Scrubs Guy was going to go right over the exam table at her.

“Hey,” Lore snapped. “Is this a hospital or not?”

Scrubs Guy and the Trillah uttered more obscenities, but at least they got back to the crisis at hand.

“What happened?” Scrubs Guy had a star-shaped mole behind his ear, which meant he was some sort of shape-shifter. He cut Cookie’s shirt up the middle with shears and peeled the flaps of fabric away from her skin.

“Shot with a crossbow.” Ooh, black bra. “I don’t know what kind of bolt.”

“What species is she?”

Satin, not lace. “No clue.” And front closure. Nice.

Eidolon, dressed in green scrubs and black boots, stalked into the room with the authority of a king entering his castle. “She’s a fallen angel.”

At once, in a move so coordinated it seemed rehearsed and almost comical, everyone backed away from her, hands up.

Lore turned to Eidolon. “How do you know?”

“Tayla called. Is this the female who injured you and Kynan?”

“The very cookie.”

Eidolon lowered his voice so no one but Lore could hear. “Ky can only be injured by angels, and only fallen ones would want to harm him.”

What? Eidolon had better be wrong about that, or Lore’s job just took a turn down the Royally Fucked Highway, and there were no exits on that road to hell. “Are you sure?”

“There’s a way to confirm it.”

Eidolon went to the female’s side and touched her arm. His dermoire lit up, and she moaned. “Female? What’s your name?”

She moaned again, and Eidolon leaned close. She whispered something, and Eidolon nodded as he straightened to his full height. Concentration put lines in his brow as he channeled power into her through his hand. Eidolon’s Seminus gift allowed him to probe deep inside a body for injury and heal wounds, but when his mouth tightened into a grim slash, Lore knew the news was not good.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Poisoned. Spine’s broken and she’s got massive internal injuries.” Eidolon barked some orders to the nearby staff, and when no one moved, Eidolon snapped, “Now! It’s safe to touch her. You never had a problem with Reaver.”

Reaver… right. The fallen angel who had helped in the big battle last month. Except, apparently, he was no longer fallen. Still, what did any of this have to do with Kynan?

Carefully, the medical team turned the angel chick onto her stomach. Eidolon’s fingertips feathered over two scarlike slashes between her shoulder blades. “Definitely angel.” He glanced over at Lore. “These are wing anchors.” He continued, smoothing his long fingers down her spine to probe the bolt’s entrance wound. Before Lore’s eyes, flesh and bone began to mend. “Page Doctor Shakvhan. We need to get her into a healing bath.”

A healing bath sounded great to Lore, what with the way his gut was doing gymnastics and the room was spinning. “Hey, uh… could I get a little help here? Snicker-doodle isn’t the only one bleeding to death.”

Eidolon caught Lore by the arm and guided him into the room next to the female’s. “What happened?”

“Stabbed. My arm and leg.” Lore tugged off his jacket. “Pretty sure I’ve got some broken ribs, too.”

“Gods, you’re as bad as Wraith.” Eidolon jerked his chin toward the bed as he washed his hands in the sink. “Sit. And if you can take off your clothes, do.”

While E gloved up, Lore stripped, wincing at the tug of his muscles against his ribs and around the stab wounds. Eidolon arched an eyebrow at the pile of weapons Lore had placed next to his clothes, but he didn’t say anything.

Naked except for his boxer briefs, Lore eased onto the bed and killed time by studying a crack that snaked several feet along one gray wall, bisecting the protective symbols and letters written in blood. “Thought you guys fixed the place after all that shit last month.”

“We did,” Eidolon said, as he grabbed a towel. “But we’re still having a few issues. I’ve got contractors looking into it. The integrity of the building might have been compromised.”

Lore eyed the ceiling. “So you’re saying the building could come down on top of us?”

“Do you really think I’d keep the hospital operating if it wasn’t safe?” Eidolon wrapped the towel around Lore’s right arm, covering the tattoo that, with the exception of the lack of a personal symbol, was nearly identical to his brothers’. They’d discovered that Lore’s death touch didn’t affect Eidolon, Shade, or Wraith, but all other staff would be exposed. And since the exposure would be accidental, the Haven spell, which prevented violence and intentional injury inside the hospital, wouldn’t offer any protection.

“I dunno,” Lore said, which earned him a dirty look. Touchy. “So, aren’t angels, even fallen ones, sort of immortal?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you bother fixing her, then? She’ll heal on her own.”

“I want answers, and I don’t want to wait. The weapon Tayla used could put an angel on her ass for years.”

Lore frowned. “Why did Tayla just happen to be in possession of something that can take down a fallen angel?”

“Because she’s one of Kynan’s bodyguards.”

Bodyguards? What a pussy. “And Kynan needs protection, why?”

“Because The Aegis are a bunch of paranoid drama queens.” Eidolon tore open a packet of gauze. “Except in this case, it looks like their paranoia was justified.”

“Why would fallen angels be a threat to him?” When Eidolon said nothing, Lore cursed. “Can you at least tell me why it is that only angels can harm him?”

“And fallen angels,” Eidolon said, which wasn’t the answer to his question, but Lore had a feeling it was all he was going to get from his brother. Eidolon wheeled a tray containing various medical tools to the side of the bed. “So what were you doing with Kynan, anyway?”

“Just trying to make amends.”

Eidolon let out a dubious snort, and inside, Lore tensed. He needed his brother to buy his innocence.

“I’m serious.”

“So you’re saying this has nothing to do with Gem.” Eidolon pinched Lore’s flesh near his shoulder blade. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

Relieved that Eidolon’s suspicions were misplaced, Lore relaxed. “Yeah, I’m saying—ouch! Fuck!”

“I warned you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Do you want me to patch you up, or not?”

“Are you this rude to all your patients? Or just long-lost brothers?”

Eidolon cleared his throat. “Who called who an asshole?”

If the shoe fits… “Whatever. Do I need surgery?”

“Nope. The lacerations are shallow, and nothing was hit that I can’t fix right here.” He picked up an evil-looking instrument off the tray. “A little sting….”

Lore nearly came off the damned table. Little sting, his ass. “Why aren’t you just doing the heal thing with your gift?”

“I used a lot of power on the fallen angel. Had a busy day and I was already nearly tapped before I worked on her. I don’t want to waste too much of what’s left on nonlife-threatening injuries like this. Hold still.”

Lore gnashed his teeth as Eidolon went to work, mending his flesh with a combination of manual tools and, toward the end, a little of his gift, a process that burned and was almost as painful as the initial injuries. When he was done, Lore had to admit—grudgingly—that the guy had done a good job, and his efficiency and professionalism had been downright surprising.

He was still an asshole.

“Thanks,” Lore muttered, and Eidolon gave a brief nod before calling in a nurse to clean Lore up.

The nurse lumbered in, and didn’t it just figure that it would be male. And Slogthu, which meant furry and fugly.

Lore waited to do any more probing until the nurse had finished sponging blood off him and left. When he and Eidolon were alone, Lore played casual. “So… how’s Kynan?” With any luck, dead.

A low growl rumbled up from Eidolon’s chest. “I don’t know. Shade and Tay are bringing him in. They should be here any second. What happened with Idess?”

“Idess? That’s the angel’s name?” Pretty. Idess. Eye-dess. Idess, Idess, Idess. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. “Idess.”

Eidolon looked at Lore as if he was nuts. “Ah, yeah. Idess. What happened?”

“She popped out of thin air and attacked us.”

Eidolon frowned. “Why did she disappear from the mansion with you? Where did she take you?”

The scent of cinnamon sugar came back to Lore, hitch-hiking on the memory of Idess’s tall, slinky body clad in low-riding cammy pants and a matching olive-drab and pink tank top that had revealed a long expanse of toned, flat belly.

“She took me to some bumfuck forest, and I have no idea why she did it,” Lore said, now more confused than ever. He’d figured she was after him, but if what E had said about angels being the only creatures who could hurt Kynan was true, then maybe Lore was merely collateral damage. “I thought I was the target. She said she was going to kill me. That’s why I brought her here instead of finishing her off. I need to know if some ass-wipe put out a hit on me.” Eidolon laughed, which was pretty damned rude. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“You’re an assassin, but you’re indignant about the fact that someone might be trying to assassinate you?”

“Double standards get a bad rap.” An eerie chill whispered across Lore’s skin, but Eidolon didn’t seem to notice as he rummaged through a drawer. “Look, why don’t you give me the skinny on Kynan. If I know what you’re keeping from me, we might be able to piece together what’s up with this Idess chick.”

Eidolon tossed him a set of scrubs. “It’s not that I want to keep anything from you, but it’s Kynan’s story to tell. Not mine.”

Man, Lore hated demons with ethics. He tugged on the oh-so-manly mint-green pants while his brother dumped the bloodied tools into a biohazard bin. He was pulling the shirt over his head when that weird buzz of unease he’d gotten when he first arrived swamped him again.

“Do you feel that, E? It’s like I’m being watched.” Or hunted.

Eidolon’s head whipped around. “Like sandpaper on nerve endings?”

Lore couldn’t have said it better. Shrugging into his jacket, he nodded.

“Everyone’s feeling it. Shade, Wraith, the staff. We’ve all been on edge.”

Which explained the snippy triage nurse and the pissy folks who examined Idess when Lore first brought her in. Then again, so could the fact that they were demons.

Raised voices outside the room snapped Lore’s gaze to the doorway, where Tayla stood, green eyes blazing. “Where is that bitch?”

“Recovery,” Eidolon said, and when Tayla opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, but I had to fix her so we can find out what she’s up to.” He glanced at Lore. “And who she’s actually after. Where’s Ky?”

Shade brushed past Tayla. “He’s in exam three. He lost consciousness for a few minutes, but I did a quick probe inside his head and aside from a mild concussion, he’s fine. You might want to give him a tune-up with a healing wave, though.” He swung around to Lore. “What the fuck were you doing there?”

Okaaay. Lore hadn’t expected a hug or anything, but last time he’d seen Shade, the guy had at least been conversational. Sort of.

“Hello to you, too, bro.”

“Answer the question.”

Already on edge from the malevolent vibe and everything else that had gone down today, Lore shoved to his feet, through with Shade’s bullshit. “None of your fucking business.”

Shadows writhed in Shade’s eyes. “I told you to stay away from Gem.”

Like Lore needed the reminder. The warning had been the very last thing Shade had said to him as Lore left the hospital three weeks ago. Don’t be a stranger, Lore. Oh, and stay the hell away from Gem.

“Last time I checked,” Lore gritted out, “you weren’t my boss.”

Shade’s fists clenched at his sides as he took a menacing step forward, and good goddamn, if the boy wanted to throw down, Lore was more than ready. The weird venomous vibe tangled with his temper, and he met Shade head-on. The first throw was his. Seminus brother-on-brother violence wasn’t covered by the Haven spell.

Eidolon stepped between them, and Tayla flanked him. Too bad. “Shade….” The warning in Eidolon’s voice was gentle but unmistakable. “Back off. This isn’t about Gem.”

“You seriously believe that?” Shade demanded.

“What I think doesn’t matter, but yeah, I do. Lore fought the angel, which may have saved Kynan’s life. So let it go.”

There was a long, tense silence, during which a tiny stab of guilt pricked Lore’s conscience. Lore cleared his throat, more to make noise in his mind than to end the silence. “Ah, hey, can someone finally tell me what’s up with Kynan and the angel thing?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Shade said, throwing Lore’s words back at him.

Lore shot Eidolon a glare. “If you’re wondering why I haven’t answered any of your texts, there’s your answer. You’ve all been so welcoming.” Of course, the fact that he’d tried to kill them might have something to do with that.

“I only wanted to run some tests, find out why your gift was mutated,” Eidolon said.

“I thought everything was fucked up because I’m half human, and Seminus and human don’t mix.”

“I’m sure that’s why, but if I can ascertain exactly what went wrong, I might be able to fix it.”

Lore’s heart gave an excited thump. His gift had caused him a lifetime of misery and loneliness, and he’d give his left nut to be rid of the damned thing.

But a lifetime of disappointment had also taught him to be skeptical, so he brought himself down with a bitter laugh. “And then I’ll be grateful, and we’ll bond and be one big, happy family?”

“You have a lot of other options, then?” Eidolon drawled.

“I manage fine on my own.”

Eidolon cocked an eyebrow at the bloody pile of clothes on the floor. “Obviously.”

Sarcastic ass. Then again, Eidolon might have a tweaked sense of humor, but at least he had one. As far as Lore could tell, Shade barely knew what a smile was, and Wraith hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, either.

None of it mattered, though, because even if Lore hadn’t promised his sister he’d stay away from them, they wouldn’t ever forgive him for killing Kynan.

Assuming he could. The fact that Kynan had demonslayer bodyguards watching out for him was a complication he didn’t need. Lore could handle it—he’d trounced Buffies before. But once he got past them, he had a much bigger issue to deal with if only angels could waste Kynan.

Suffocating under the crush of so many hostile glares, Lore moved toward the door. “I’m outta here.”

“In a hurry to kill someone?” Shade asked.

The question hit a little too close to home, but Lore rolled with it, happy to needle Shade. “Yep.”

Eidolon crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You’re not going to wait for our injured angel to wake up? It isn’t like whoever you have to kill is going to get any more alive. Kill him later. Maybe while you’re waiting, he’ll get struck by lightning or something. Save you some work.” Yep, Eidolon was a comedian.

“Let him go,” Shade said. “Obviously, he has work to do.”

Shade’s false niceness made Lore want to stay out of spite. “What do you guys plan to do with Idess?”

“As soon as she’s awake, we’ll get some answers out of her.” Eidolon leveled Lore a cold look, made all the more chilling by the fact that there was no emotion in it. “One way or another.”

* * *

Lore hoofed it toward UGH’s Harrowgate, away from his brothers, and away from Kynan. But he wasn’t heading home. Not yet.

Casting a covert glance over his shoulder to make sure his nosy siblings weren’t watching, he slipped past the triage desk and down a hall, knowing exactly where he was going. He’d interrogated staff and memorized the hospital blueprints when he’d plotted out the hits on Shade and Eidolon. The recovery rooms, three suites outfitted with various types of baths, chairs, and heated and chilled beds, were at the end of the wing, just past the seawater pool that was big enough for a killer whale to do laps in.

He found Idess in the first recovery room.

Everything but her head had been immersed in a vat of what was probably water infused with magical herbs. A spicy, medicinal fragrance permeated the air and made him want to sneeze as he closed the door behind him and moved toward her. The water bubbled around Idess, and steam swirled over the surface, but none of that hid the fact that she was naked. Shadows thrown by the dim light accented full breasts and slim hips, but left details tantalizingly to the imagination.

Lore had always had a great imagination.

Someone had taken the gold rings out of her hair, and now her chestnut mane fanned out across an inflatable pillow and the tiled floor behind her head, and he had the strangest urge to touch it and see if it was as silky as it looked.

Instead, he went down on his heels at the edge of the pool and studied her profile, so feminine and peaceful, as if she were lounging in a Jacuzzi instead of recovering from an injury that would have killed anyone else. Her long, sable lashes cast shadows across the delicate ivory skin beneath her eyes, and her cheeks had pinked up, maybe from the heat of the water—or a sexy dream.

“Don’t suppose you can hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

“What’s your deal?” he asked quietly. “You after Kynan, or me?” This time, her eyes opened and fixed on him. There was no recognition there, no sign that she even knew where she was.

“Rami?” There was hope and desperation in her voice, both of which made a person vulnerable. Exploitable.

He could use that. “Yes,” he said, running with the exploitation thing. “It’s Rami.”

Her lush lips curved into a smile that punched him right in the gut. That was a mouth any man would kill to taste—or to have taste him.

“You’ve come for me?”

He couldn’t help it; he let his gaze slide down the long, lean length of her. Freaking gorgeous. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I’ve come for you.” I’d come with you.

“Good,” she sighed. “Take me to heaven.”

His dick jerked, all, Sure, we’ll take you up on that offer, and Lore had to admit, if circumstances were different—meaning, she hadn’t tried to kill him—he’d be all over that. “First, why don’t you tell me what your mission is?”

She frowned. “Did I fail?”

“Fail to kill Kynan?”

“Kill?” She shifted, and a lock of hair slipped into the water, spreading like blood over her chest. “Protect.”

Acid bubbled up in Lore’s throat. She was Kynan’s protector?

“Take me, brother,” she said, and whoa, that cooled his jets. “Take me to Heaven so I can get my wings.”

Lore rocked backward, remembering what she’d told him at the mansion.

Who sent you?

God.

Oh, Jesus, she was really talking about Heaven. The Heaven. Not a fallen angel. An angel.

Not that it mattered. She was a threat to him if she was truly protecting Kynan.

Numbly, he peeled off his glove. The hospital was safe-guarded by the Haven spell, but he was willing to risk a skull-splitting headache if it meant saving his sister’s life. He’d suffered worse, for sure.

He reached for Idess. All he needed to do was to brush a knuckle over her cheek… a lover’s caress that would send her to Heaven, just as she’d asked. She closed her eyes, as if anticipating his touch, and his hand began to shake.

What the hell? He was an assassin. A cold-blooded killer. And she was dangerous, someone who not only stood between him and his goal, but who had tried to whack him.

But right now, she didn’t look dangerous. She looked sweet and angelic. Fragile. Helpless.

Lore might be a killer, but he had standards, and he’d never, ever taken the coward’s way out. He gave every one of his victims the courtesy of a wide-awake, face-to-face assassination. Murdering a female while she recovered from injuries was low, even for him.

The door opened. Lore leaped to his feet to face Wraith, who stood there, blond hair falling around a severe jawline and fangs bared in a silent snarl. “What are you doing?”

“Just thought I’d check on her. Why are you here?”

Wraith’s gaze dropped to Lore’s exposed hand, and when he looked back up, the glint of awareness in his blue eyes told Lore his brother knew exactly what had been about to happen. “Your revenge will have to wait.”

Lore exhaled, a futile attempt to release some tension. “Why?”

“Because,” Wraith said, his voice thick with anger, “I’m going to get into her head. I want to know who wants Kynan dead. And then I’m going to make them wish they’d never been born.”

Four

“I need your help. Please, Idess.” Clutching his forearm, Rami doubled over at the Nile River edge. Idess kneeled beside him.

“What’s wrong?” But even as she spoke, she knew. Two of his four heraldi were glowing angrily. Two? That was beyond rare—so much so that she’d never heard of it happening. When a single Primori was in trouble, the pain was excruciating. She couldn’t imagine having two in danger at the same time. “What can I do?”

“Help… the Viking.”

“Of course.” She feathered her finger over a heraldi on Rami’s arm, and instantly, she was transported to some sort of battle.

The stench of death was as thick as the fog around her. The ground was soaked with blood, strewn with body parts and bowels. The victims… oh, sweet Lord, the victims… women. Children. This wasn’t a battle. It was a slaughter. And in the center of it all, hacking up a dying man with an ax, was Rami’s Primori, a Viking whose evil aura wrapped around him like a shroud, nearly snuffing the blue glow that gave away his Primori status. Though humans could be as evil as any underworld creature, this one made her wing marks itch and sent chills slithering up her spine. Demon blood flowed through this Primori’s veins.

A woman in tattered rags was crawling toward the Viking, murder burning in her eyes and a dagger clutched tightly in her fist. She was the threat to the Primori. Should the woman kill him, whatever fate he was supposed to bring about in the world, be it good or evil, would not happen.

Should she kill him, Rami would have a black mark on his record, would be forced to make amends by remaining earthbound even longer.

Which meant he could stay with Idess. Maybe even long enough that they could Ascend together.

The thought flickered through Idess as excitement, followed immediately by shame. She wanted Rami to earn his wings and find eternal happiness in Heaven. But once he was gone, Idess would be left on Earth, lonely and miserable without the brother she’d relied on for centuries.

The woman crept through the blood and gore, revenge and pain etched in her face as she eased up behind the Viking and raised her knife…

Stop her. The compulsion to do her job lashed at Idess, but so did the knowledge that if she saved the Primori’s life, he’d slaughter the woman, probably after raping and torturing her. A tremor rattled Idess’s very soul. The half of her that was her mother’s daughter demanded mercy for this woman even though Idess’s duty required her to do what was right for the world, not an individual.

But she’d seen the horrors men inflicted on women. The evidence lay strewn all around her.

Idess closed her eyes.

And did nothing.

The woman sank the blade deep into the Viking’s back. His roar of fury and pain carried through the veil of fog, silencing the sounds of battle in the distance. The woman stabbed again, striking the Viking in his neck, and he crumpled to his knees. Idess didn’t wait around to see more. She flashed to her brother, who was standing outside an Asian temple near the body of a male whose head lay several feet away. Nearby, the female Primori sat propped against a tree, stunned, but alive.

Rami turned to Idess, panting, clutching his forearm. “Thank you, God,” he whispered. “You are uninjured. When I felt my Primori die I worried that you had been hurt—”

“I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I… failed.”

“You tried. That is all I can ask.” Rami slipped his arms around her and held her close. “I’m so proud of you, sister. You’ve come to my aid how many times now? You are a credit to all Memitim, and I know our Lord will reward you well.”

Guilt settled over her like a two-ton shroud, and her knees buckled under the weight of the enormous, loath-some mistake she’d made. She’d betrayed her brother. Her race. Her God…

Idess sat up with a scream. Her lungs burned with the force of her panting breaths, and her pulse hammered in her veins. She hated that dream. That nightmare. She couldn’t believe that even after twelve hundred years it still had the power to reduce her to a quivering mess.

Couldn’t believe that even now the searing, twisting guilt was gripping her in a vise of sorrow once again. Especially since she’d long ago convinced herself that Rami would forgive her once she explained what she’d done. He’d always been a forgiving soul, gentle and caring. More important, he’d operated on the same wavelength as she did. He’d understood her like no one else, and he’d been reluctant to leave her alone when he Ascended. So reluctant that he’d avoided stepping into the beacon of light for months, even at the risk of incurring the Memitim Council’s wrath.

That had been five hundred years ago, and still, the pangs of betrayal coursed through her. Clutching her stomach with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other, she willed herself out of the past. The present was better. Much, much better. Humans had coffee now. And gelato. She could use a gallon of both…

Mouth watering, she opened her eyes, wincing at the sandpaper texture of the inside of her eyelids, and at the reddish light that filled her vision. Where was she? Squinting, she made out the hospital-equipment-lined gray walls, which were splashed with what appeared to be protective spells written in blood. Skulls and creepy things in jars sat in perfect rows on high shelves. She looked down at herself, at the thin cotton hospital gown covering her bandaged body.

She was a patient at Underworld General. This had to be the infamous demon hospital. How had she gotten here?

Something blew by her in a blur. Startled, she rolled her head to the side. Two ghosts hovered near the far wall, as clear to her as solid beings.

He’s back. Back! Hurry! The male’s voice was tinny, high-pitched, and dripping with panic.

The female launched into an attack against the wall, a flurry of fists against the long crack that ran horizontally from one corner to the other. Idess watched covertly, because as soon as they realized she could see and hear them, they’d mob her, either with pleas to help them cross over or with messages to deliver to surviving loved ones.

Hurrrrrrry! The crack widened into a deep fissure beneath their fists. The terror emanating from the ghosts was a low-level buzz of electricity over Idess’s skin. What could frighten the dead like that? And even more mysterious was the fact that they were humans. How had they gotten here? Were they trapped because the light couldn’t penetrate a demon-built facility?

Shuddering at that thought, she tried to swing her legs off the bed… and was jerked short. She’d been chained down. Fools. Restraints couldn’t hold her. With a snarl, she drew on two of her innate Memitim powers; super strength and speed.

Nothing happened. She couldn’t break the chains. She tried again. Still nothing. Well, damnation. Frowning, she tried to flash out of the hospital. Again, failure. She renewed her efforts with a sense of urgency, yanking on the chains that connected her wrists to what appeared to be huge bolts in the floor. She even tried morphing into her alternate form, but she couldn’t grow a single claw.

“Fighting is futile, female. Those are Bracken Cuffs, used by demon jailers and Justice Dealers to negate any powers you might have.”

A dark-haired Seminus demon in scrubs strode into the room, everything about him exuding confidence, from his rolling gait to the shrewd intelligence in his gaze. He bore a striking resemblance to the demon who had tried to kill Kynan, and she wondered if they were kin. She didn’t know much about the rare breed of incubus, but she did know that those related within a few generations tended to bear family traits, and brothers could often be mistaken for twins.

“And,” he continued, “you should know that in the demon legal system, you’re guilty until proven innocent. Burden of proof is on the one wearing the cuffs, not the victim.” An arch smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “It’s a great system. Very few repeat offenders.”

“Release me,” she snapped. “You have no right to detain me, no matter what your idiotic demon laws state.”

“This is my hospital. I have the right to do whatever I want.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your doctor. Name’s Eidolon. I know your name is Idess, but who are you?”

“I’m not telling you anything.” The ghosts beating against the wall slipped through it and disappeared. Another popped inside from the opposite wall. “Why would you have human ghosts?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ghosts. You know, dead people. Your hospital is infested with humans. Why?”

He gaze was maddeningly calm, his tone condescending. “Some species, like shifters and vamps, have human souls.”

Of course. If they’d died here, they’d be trapped. How awful.

The door opened, and two more Seminus demons stalked in, one with dark hair and wearing a black paramedic uniform, and the other a big blond in jeans and a Jack Daniel’s T-shirt. Both had longish hair that fell to their shoulders, and all had glyphs running from the tips of their right fingers to their throats, where two linked, tattooed rings circled their necks.

“The only way you’re getting released is if we take you outside and separate your head from your body,” the blond said in a ho-hum voice, as if he was the hospital’s resident decapitation specialist who was prepping for yet another routine job.

And decapitation would definitely be one of the sure-fire ways to kill her. She opened her mouth to respond… and left it hanging open when Kynan entered. Following him was the Guardian who had nailed her with the crossbow bolt, and Kynan’s wife, Gem, whom Idess had seen only once, when she’d gone to acquaint herself with—basically, spy on—her new Primori. Gem was dressed much as she’d been then, in midnight Goth pants, buckled boots, a skull-patterned corset, and a dog collar. Only her hair was different; instead of black and pink, her braided pigtails were black and electric violet.

What were Kynan and Gem doing in a demon hospital? What was a Guardian doing here? They were supposed to kill demons, not hang out with them. Idess knuckled her eyes, wondering if she was asleep. But when she looked again, they were all still there, surrounding her like hyenas going in for the kill.

She tugged futilely at her chains. “What’s going on?”

Gem shouldered Eidolon aside to get in Idess’s face. She more than anyone looked as if she wanted to cause Idess some serious pain, and as her black-painted lips curled away from her teeth, it seemed maybe she wanted to take a few bites out of Idess, as well. “Why did you try to kill Kynan?”

Idess gaped. “Kill him? I was trying to save his life.”

“And that’s why you knocked me out?” Kynan’s voice was gravelly, and though Idess hadn’t learned much about Kynan’s background yet, she suspected the mass of scars on his throat had something to do with that.

“You attacked me. I only hit you to get you out of the way so I could protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

The paramedic crossed his arms over his chest and looked pointedly at her. “Except from fallen angels.”

“Fallen angel? That’s what you think I am?” She snorted. “Please. Those scum wouldn’t lift a finger to protect their own mothers. If they had them.”

“Then what are you, and why do you claim to watch over Kynan?” Gem gestured to the blond demon. “Wraith couldn’t get into your head to get any information, so we know you’re some kind of powerful evil.”

“I’m not evil,” she gritted out, but that was all she was saying, because there was no way she was letting demons know about Kynan’s Marked Sentinel status.

“Then you’d better start talking,” Kynan said. “You know I’m charmed. And you know only angels and fallen angels can harm me. So I want to know why and how you learned about me. And I hope for your sake you aren’t planning some sort of apocalypse, because we’re still recovering from the last one.”

Idess’s blood froze in her veins at the word “charmed,” because the only reason he’d feel comfortable admitting such a huge secret was if the demons already knew, and if he didn’t feel that Idess’s knowing such a thing was a risk.

Which meant that they planned to kill her. “I’m not looking to start an apocalypse, I assure you.”

“So you thought you’d pop into a demon-infested mansion and punch me? If not for Tayla and Lore, who knows what would have happened?”

Tayla must be the crossbow-happy Guardian next to Eidolon, but… “Lore?”

“The demon who was with me. The one who brought you in.”

The demon she’d tried to kill had saved her? “Fools,” she muttered. “You halfwits! I’m assigned to protect you. I’m a Memitim, a Primori guardian.”

Eidolon repeated the word, “Memitim,” under his breath.

Gem turned to the doctor, her braids slapping softly against the bare skin of her shoulders. “What’s a Memitim?”

The room fell silent as Eidolon ran his hands through his hair a few times. “According to some religious scholars, Memitim are angels who preside over dying humans who are no longer being watched over by guardian angels.”

He was right, in a way. But what he described was a Memitim’s duties after Ascension. Right now she was earthbound, and little more than a glorified bodyguard. She locked gazes with Kynan. “May I speak with you alone?”

“No.” Kynan gestured to the demons surrounding him. “They’re my friends and in-laws, and they know everything about me.”

Oh, so not good. Kynan was not only an Elder, the very top of the Guardian tier, but as a Marked Sentinel, he was in possession of something so important to the survival of the human race that he’d been charmed by angels with immortality in order to protect the item—an item that demons could use against humans to enslave them, destroy them, or worse.

“There are things I cannot discuss in front of demons.”

“These demons made me what I am. I’m even married to one. So get over it.”

The paramedic rapped his knuckles on her chains. “It’s not like you have a choice.”

She scowled at him. “What’s your name?”

“Shade.”

“Well, Shade, I might not have a choice, but neither do you. Kynan is in great danger, and if you don’t release me, he could die.”

Kynan slid her a look edged with doubt. “Who is after me? A fallen angel? As you saw, I’m prepared.”

“Not a fallen angel. The demon you call Lore.”

Eidolon arched a brow. “That’s impossible.”

“I’d have thought so, too, but I wouldn’t have been summoned to Kynan if he hadn’t been in true danger.”

The entire lot of them exchanged glances, and then Kynan unclipped her chains from the stakes in the floor. “Only one way to find out.”

“Reaver?” Shade asked.

“Yup.”

They dragged her unceremoniously through the sliding ER doors into an underground parking lot, the Bracken Cuffs still circling her wrists, which meant there’d be no flashing out of there. Not that she would. She needed Kynan to understand the seriousness of his situation. But why the parking lot?

“There’s a spell shielding the hospital from entry and exit via any means other than the Harrowgate and the parking garage,” Eidolon said, obviously anticipating her question. “Since Reaver can’t use Harrowgates anymore, he has to materialize someplace unprotected.”

Kynan stood at the back of a black ambulance in the middle of the lot and shouted for Reaver.

“Who is Reaver?” she asked.

“An angel.”

An angel? Surely he meant a fallen angel…

A bright light flooded the lot, blinding in its intensity. Idess winced, shielded her eyes until it faded away. And there, standing in front of Kynan, was a beautiful male angel, his golden hair flowing in an impossibly perfect curtain around his broad shoulders. His clothes were modern, business casual… black slacks and a dark blue shirt that matched his eyes, and no way was this a fallen angel.

Idess gaped like an idiot. Since true, full angels tended to hang out in Heaven, she’d seen very few, and those had been only in passing and from a distance.

“Hey, man,” Kynan said with a smile. “Good to see you.”

Reaver shoved his hands in his pockets and gave them all a once-over, his gaze lingering for an extra second on Idess. “Wish I could say the same,” he said gruffly, though a slight tilt of his mouth gave away the fact that he wasn’t completely annoyed at having been summoned. “It’s not really cool for me to be hanging out with demons at a demon hospital.”

“Oh, sure,” Wraith drawled. “Now that you’re all angelfied, you’re too good for us, huh?”

Reaver appeared to consider that. Then he nodded. “Pretty much.”

Wraith snorted, revealing fangs. He was part vampire?

“Lemme see your wings,” he said, and when Reaver leveled a flat stare at him, Wraith rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. I saved the world. I should at least get to see your wings.”

He’d saved the world? Surely this insolent sex demon was not the one rumored to have prevented Armageddon. Over the last few weeks, the story had spread like hellfire through the earthbound Memitim ranks, but the information she’d gleaned from her brethren had been all speculation. And the demon supposedly fighting on the side of good against the fallen angel, Byzamoth, was said to be twenty feet tall, humble, and a servant of God.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the demon cajoled, with a waggle of brows, and this definitely could not be the unholy champion who was already a legend. “Show the savior of the human race some feathers.”

“We’ll never hear the end of that, will we?” Reaver asked, and Eidolon shook his head.

My God, it’s true.

“We get to listen to it every day.”

The blond Sem grinned. “The Vamp Council hung a portrait of me on their hero wall. How’s that for ironic?”

“Especially since they showed it to you just before they tortured you for Serena’s turning,” Shade said.

Wraith snorted again. “Fuckers.”

“We won’t keep you,” Eidolon interrupted. He gestured to Idess, who was still processing what she’d just learned. “But we need to know if what this… person told us is true.”

“What did she tell you?”

Idess raised her chin and stepped forward. “I’m Memitim, and Kynan is my assigned Primori.”

Reaver narrowed his eyes at her before nodding. “She is Memitim.” He turned to Kynan, who had his arm around Gem’s waist. “You are Primori.”

“What’s a Primori?” Kynan asked.

Reaver shrugged as if it was no big deal. Probably because he was a full angel and not a low-ranking, bottom-of-the-barrel pre-Ascension Memitim like she was.

“Primori are humans and, occasionally, demons, who have a destiny to fulfill. They might change the course of history or cause, by their actions, changes in law, etcetera. Once their destiny is realized, they either die or go back to being regular people. But until then, they have guardians assigned to keep anything from interfering with an untimely death.”

“So what you’re saying is that she’s a good guy?” Kynan asked.

“Yes. An angel-wannabe, of sorts.” Reaver shot Kynan a miffed look. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

Idess resisted the childish urge to say, “I told you so,” to all of them. Instead, she stepped forward. “He’s in danger. But not from a fallen angel.”

Reaver’s head swiveled around to Idess, his eyes flashing. “Then who? No one but an angel—”

“Lore,” Gem said abruptly. “Idess claims it’s Lore.”

Reaver turned back to Kynan. “The one who resurrected you?”

“I could have done without the reminder, but yeah.”

Reaver’s expression grew contemplative. “It’s possible. He gave you life with mystical powers that shouldn’t exist. It’s the order of the universe that he can take that life away.” Reaver’s eyes locked on Idess’s so intently the air whooshed from her lungs. “You know Kynan is a Sentinel, and that the amulet he wears is the most important object in the universe, but do you understand that he is just as important?” Of course she did—sort of—but when she opened her mouth to say so, the angel cut her off. “If you fail to keep him safe, Memitim, you will fail human-kind, and you will never Ascend.”

“Dude.” Wraith looked at her. “No pressure, right?”

Eidolon swore softly. “I’ll talk to Lore.”

“Kynan must be protected at all costs,” Reaver said. “Talking isn’t enough.” Reaver’s face turned to stone, but his eyes burned with celestial fire as he narrowed his gaze on the doctor. “You must kill him.”

* * *

Lore used the Harrowgate to get to his North Carolina home, which was really nothing but a one-bedroom shack in the middle of the woods. He had money—lots of it—but he didn’t see the point in buying a big, fancy house when this one did him just fine and had for a hundred years.

He walked past his ancient pickup and new Hummer, neither of which saw much drive time, but he liked the reminders of his humanity. He sensed his twin sister’s presence before he entered through the back door and saw her lounging on his couch in her usual leather pants and black, short-sleeved hoodie, tipping back shots of his homemade moonshine. Before Detharu had enslaved him, the illegal alcohol had provided his primary income for over half a century. Prohibition had been a great thing for Lore.

As he stepped into the living room, Sin slammed her glass down on the coffee table, sloshing liquid all over the oak top. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Got into a little scuffle.”

Coal-black eyes narrowed into fierce slits as she shot to her feet and fingered his scrub top. “You went to that… that hospital, didn’t you?” She spat out the word “hospital” as though she’d bitten into something bitter and vile.

He tugged off his jacket and shirt and dropped them on the floor, eager to shed the foreign-feeling garment. “Can’t get anything by you.”

“Did you see… them?”

“Yes.”

Her expression tightened. “You didn’t say anything about me, did you?”

“I promised I wouldn’t.” He headed toward the bath-room, but Sin didn’t take the hint and Velcroed herself to his heels. At the door, he spun around, and she nearly collided with him. “Do you mind?”

“They can’t know about me.”

“I don’t think it would be a big deal—”

“Really? A sister who shouldn’t exist? Who is an aberration? A freak?” She jammed her fists on her hips. The muscles in her biceps twitched, making the dermoire on her right arm writhe, and making the scars intertwined with the marks ripple. “Come on. Even humans kill their own kind when someone ‘isn’t right.’ You think demons won’t? We’ve seen it happen.”

Yeah, they’d seen it happen. In fact, there were species of demons that dedicated themselves entirely to the destruction of human-demon hybrids and mixed-breed demons. Seminus demons were one of a handful of breeds that bred with other species, mainly using the females as incubators, but the offspring were always male, and always purebred no matter what the mother’s species.

Unless the mother was human.

But as funky as Lore’s breeding had gone with a Sem father and human mother, it couldn’t compare to what had happened with Sin. As far as he knew, there had never been a female Seminus, and yet, they’d shared a womb, a birthday, and arm markings.

“You’re not a freak. And I doubt you have anything to worry about with them.” He held up his hands when she opened her mouth to argue. “But don’t spaz. I promised.”

“Spaz?” She huffed. “I’m going for a walk. Have a nice shower.”

She stalked away, her blue-black hair slapping against the small of her back. With one last noise of disgust, she slammed out of the house. She was overreacting. A lot. But she had a tendency to fly off the handle first and think later, and she used her long walks as a way to work off the initial burn of whatever had set her off.

Lore just shook his head and stepped into the shower. His sister was the most closed-off person he’d ever met, but then, with her past, he could understand that. He just wished he’d been able to help her long before she came back into his life. Like, maybe before he’d abandoned her to decades of abuse. Yeah, that would have been good.

He washed, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, his past wouldn’t come clean. Too much had happened, too many people had died, and too many mistakes had been made. A shower wasn’t going to send it all down the drain.

Still, he savored the feel of hot water and soap suds sluicing down his body, washing away the blood and dirt the Slogthu nurse missed when he’d sponged Lore down. At least the wounds were healed. The lacerations had been closed internally with dissolving stitches, and though Eidolon had barely used his healing gift, it had been enough to seal the outer layer of skin and leave only the thinnest of shiny white scars. It had also knitted his ribs back together, and his shoulder felt good as new.

All in all, Lore was back in top form and ready to take out Kynan. With any luck, there wouldn’t be some crazy-hot female who smelled like sugar and spice around to get in his way this time.

Idess’s interference had been unfortunate, annoying, and… arousing. And how fucked up was that? She’d tried to snuff him, yet some twisted part of him found that to be one hell of a turn-on. Enough of one that she became the image in his mind as he fisted his cock and began to stroke. Usually his sessions were a matter of keeping his rage at bay, but for the first time in a long time, he was in need of a release for himself, not for his rage. Even AprilMayJune, like all the females before her, had been about the rage, and ultimately, she’d been nothing more than a means to an end.

But Idess… she was different, and in this hot fantasy, she was the sexy female on her knees in front of him. He could picture her gazing up at him, her eyes drowsy, lips swollen, the little hoop earring at the top of her right ear glinting in the light. He bit back a moan as he pumped his palm up and down his shaft, imagined it was Idess’s wet mouth doing the work. Fuck, yeah, she was good… so freaking good he couldn’t hold on, and when he came it was the best damned orgasm he’d had in decades.

When his legs stopped shaking, he finished with the shower, slung a towel around his hips, and went to his bedroom. He dressed in sweat shorts and a tee, and made a mental note to go shopping soon—he was down to his last leather jacket.

He padded barefoot into the living room, where the morning sun was just peeking through the window. Sin had come back, was sitting on the couch watching the Today Show, the bottle of moonshine and her glass balanced on the cushion next to her. Overhead, the ceiling fan spun in lazy circles that did nothing to ease the spring humidity.

Sin didn’t seem to notice the sticky breeze as she idly flipped one of her blades into the air and caught it with nimble fingers. She could hit a target in the eye from ten yards with those throwing knives. Not that she needed to kill that way; her dermoire gift was similar to his but more controlled, and she used it often.

She continued to toss the knife as he took a seat in the leather recliner at the end of the coffee table. “So, did you kick his ass?” Her words were slightly slurred. “The guy you got into the fight with?”

“It wasn’t a guy.”

“Well, I know you weren’t out tomcatting, so what happened?”

“Hey,” he said, offended. “I can tomcat. Did it just the other night.”

She snatched the knife out of the air and tossed it again. “Uh-huh.”

“Seriously.”

“You kill her?”

“A little.” He kicked his feet onto the coffee table. “But it wasn’t my fault. She was a mantis. Tried to eat me.”

Sin barked out a laugh. “Only you, bro. Only you.” She turned back to the TV and flipped off a guest talking about love and marriage. “So? The chick who kicked your ass hard enough to land you in the hospital?”

“She was defending my target,” Lore said carefully, because although the assignment was good news, he didn’t want Sin to know that her life could end if he failed.

“Freelance job?”

“No.”

She turned to him so fast he heard her neck crack. The blade in the air came down and embedded in the arm of the couch. “Are you serious? Lore? Are you fucking with me?” She hit the mute button on the remote, cutting off Ann Curry.

The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat in his ears filled the silence. “I’m dead serious.”

She squealed. His sister never squealed. “Oh, my God! I thought you’d say no. This is your hundredth, Lore. We’re almost free!” She splashed liquor into a shot glass with a shaky hand.

“Yup.”

“Okaaaay.” She put down her glass. “You don’t seem very excited.”

Shit. “I am. We’ve wanted this for decades, right?” Felt like centuries, though, since the day he’d agreed to a hundred kills in exchange for both his and Sin’s freedom.

“It’s the deadline, isn’t it?”

He blinked. “How do you know?”

“It was a guess, because I have one, too. A job. With an impossibly short deadline.”

Dread curdled the contents of Lore’s stomach. They’d never had to complete an assignment in under two weeks before. “What happens if you don’t make your deadline?”

Sin’s gaze skipped away, and she retrieved her knife.

“Sin?” Lore’s voice cracked. For the first time in a very long time, he was afraid. Not for himself, but for Sin, who had been through more than her fair share of misery in her life.

“He’ll sell me,” she said between clenched teeth. “He’ll hack off my arm so I can’t use it to kill, and sell me to the Neethuls.”

Oh, Jesus. Neethuls were an incredibly cruel race who bred, trained, and traded slaves… particularly sex slaves. Before being sold to Detharu, Sin had suffered as a slave who had to do anything her master wanted, from selling drugs to killing enemies, but the Neethuls would make what she’d gone through seem like a day at the beach.

“That won’t happen,” he swore. “I’ll help you take out your target. Who is it?”

“You have your own mark to deal with.” She tested the edge of her blade with her thumb. “What happens if you miss your deadline?”

“Nothing.”

Her gaze turned steely, silver shards against a black backdrop. “Bullshit. Tell me.”

“If I miss the deadline, Deth gets to double my time of service,” he lied.

She regarded him warily, as though trying to decide if he was telling the truth or not. She had a tendency to question everything, especially if it came from Lore, and he wondered if she’d ever fully trust him again.

“You won’t miss your deadline,” she said finally. “You never do. So what happened while you were trying to take out your mark? It’s not like you to get caught out like that.”

Outside the open window, the high-pitched warble of a bird sounded like laughter, which was fitting. “I got cocky.”

“Now that I believe,” she said wryly. “So who is it? Your mark?”

It was a question no assassin asked another—the risk of someone homing in on your kill and stealing it from under you was too great—but Lore and Sin had always shared deets. “Remember I told you about that human asshole I brought back to life? It’s him. Should have left him dead, I guess.”

Sin’s grip on her knife tightened. “Ah… isn’t that guy friends with…” She trailed off, because she refused to say it. Our brothers.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I’ll handle it so they never find out it was me.” Doubt set her jaw in a stubborn line, so he steered the conversation away from Kynan and the potential trouble Lore was in. “What about you? Who’s your mark?”

Sin stretched out on the couch and tucked an arm behind her head. Dark circles under her half-lidded eyes revealed her exhaustion. “Some werewolf. Loner. Should be a quick in and out.”

Sounded like an easy enough hit for Sin, but still, the second Kynan was dead, Lore was going to help Sin with the werewolf, or warg, as they liked to be called. No way was she going to be sold to the Neethul.

A faint buzzing noise snagged his attention, and he heaved himself out of the chair to grab his cell phone from the scrub pants’ pocket. Figured it would be Eidolon. Again. Sighing, he opened up the message… and promptly stopped breathing.

Come to my apartment. Now. We need to discuss Kynan.

Five

Lore stood outside Eidolon’s door, unable to shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap. And yet, like a cat with a string dangling before it, he couldn’t resist.

But that didn’t mean he was a total chump. He’d play this to his advantage, would use this opportunity to learn anything he could about Kynan. Usually Lore had weeks to plan a hit, to educate himself about his marks’ jobs, friends, families, vulnerabilities, and habits, but the expiration date on this assignment was bearing down on him too fast for comfort and with extra complications, and the whole thing was about to go sour.

As he raised his fist to knock on the door, a tingling sensation prickled the back of his neck.

“Well, well,” a female voice purred. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Idess.” He pivoted around. She stood a few feet away, her faded, ripped jeans revealing tantalizing slashes of skin from her slim thighs to her knees, where the denim disappeared into heeled leather boots. Lore entertained an image of lying on the ground with her straddling him, one sexy boot on each side of his chest as she lowered herself onto him, and shit, his hormones were out of control lately.

She cocked her head to the side, and her ponytail swung behind her, the curled tip brushing her hip and only adding to that straddle fantasy. “What are you doing?”

“I think you know.”

Her sly smile made her eyes sparkle. “You want to see how much your brothers know about you trying to kill Kynan.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” he said easily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Idess tsked. “I wasn’t born yesterday, demon.”

“Angels are born?” Breathing deeply to take in her rich, spicy scent, he took a step closer, testing his boundaries. Her chin came up a fraction of an inch, but she didn’t budge. “So all the pure, holier-than-thou shit is bullshit? You guys are fucked into existence like everyone else? Like us lowly demons?”

That sinful, wicked mouth pursed. “You know what I meant. There’s no need to be crude.”

“There’s always a need to be crude.” He raked his gaze from her head to her toes, lingering on all the sweet spots. Mostly, he was just being obnoxious. Mostly. Her sweet spots really did deserve extra ogling. “Especially when you want to shock the shit out of some prissy little angel.”

“Prissy?” She brought her ponytail over her shoulder and played with it idly, her fingers stroking the gold bands that secured the exotic length at evenly spaced intervals. “Stay away from Kynan, because next time you try to harm him, I’ll spank you. And not in the fun way, either. How’s that for prissy?” Winking, she waggled her fingers at him and poofed out of the hallway.

Man, he hated poofers. You couldn’t ever nail them down. Not that he wouldn’t like to nail her.

And what was that about spanking? Because all spankings were the good kind. If she was going to threaten him, she had a lot to learn.

He knocked on the door, and Eidolon must have been right there, because it swung open. Without so much as a hello, Eidolon turned and stalked down the hall, obviously expecting to be followed. As if a Ph.D. made him God.

Lore went after him, catching up to his brother in the huge living room, where a black and tan mutt lay on the leather couch, valiantly trying to ignore the ferret playing with his tail.

Eidolon rounded on Lore. “What’s up with you and Kynan? And don’t bullshit me. We know you want him dead. I want you to promise to leave him the fuck alone.”

Idess, you little rat. “Look, whatever Cookie told you, it’s a lie. I don’t want anything to do with Kynan—”

Suddenly, his back was kissing the wall and Eidolon’s fist was tangled in his shirt. Gold eyes glowed with fury. “I said, don’t bullshit me,” he snarled. “We know. You need to lay off this obsession with Gem. She’s Kynan’s, and that isn’t going to change, even if he’s dead.”

Lore’s own temper flared, and he dragged in a deep breath, fighting to stay calm. Raging out on his brother wasn’t going to help anything, and really, the fact that E thought this was about Gem was a good thing. “Fine. Okay, I get it. Gem’s taken.” He was over her, and if his brothers believed it, they might leave him alone if he promised to let it go. “Now step off.”

Muscles twitched in Eidolon’s jaw, and Lore heard the grind of enamel as he worked his molars together. Finally, with a shove, he released Lore. “I’m dead serious. This isn’t about protecting a friend. This is about saving a brother.”

“Yeah, I know you’re tight with Kynan—”

“No. It’s about saving you.” Eidolon jabbed his finger at Lore’s chest. “You so much as breathe in Kynan’s direction, and your life is going to mean jack shit. Do you understand?”

“I can handle Idess.”

Eidolon’s face was grim. “Just promise me, Lore. Promise me you’ll stay away from Kynan. And while you’re in avoidance mode, add Shade and Wraith to your list.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Wraith drawled from the entrance, where he, Shade, and Kynan stood, all glaring daggers at him. Perfect. Just perfect.

Shade pushed past Wraith and Kynan. “What the fuck, E? Nice that Idess had to clue us in on your little get-together.”

“Maybe your invitation got lost in the mail,” Lore offered.

Eidolon put himself between Lore and his other brothers. “Calm down. Lore has agreed to stay away from Kynan.”

Wraith pegged Lore with a hard stare. “I don’t believe him.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Lore shot back. “You guys can go fuck yourselves. I’m out of here.” He fired up his gift and headed toward the hall. He could just brush by Ky—

A fist slammed into his jaw, spinning him into Eidolon.

Idess stood there, looking pretty proud of herself, and he supposed she should be—she had one hell of an uppercut.

Wraith came out of nowhere, making like a linebacker and taking Lore to the carpet. Lore snarled, bucking his brother hard enough to throw him, but Wraith moved like a phantom, somehow avoiding Lore’s deadly accurate spin-kick. Shade drove his boot into Lore’s side, and Lore grunted, but he leaped to his feet and got in his own well-placed kick to Shade’s thigh. Now, he could rush Kynan—

“Stop!” Eidolon’s roar froze everyone except the animals, who scampered out of the room. “Let him leave.”

“He wasn’t trying to leave,” Idess said. “He was gunning for Kynan.” She rubbed her forearm as though it hurt. “He’s still planning to kill him.”

Eidolon’s eyes went from gold to red, and he shoved Wraith and Shade away, fisted Lore’s shirt again, and brought them nose-to-nose, his entire body shaking. “You said you were done with Gem.” There was so much rage in his voice that it was warped, hard to understand. “Why are you doing this? Answer me, damn you!”

“Because I don’t have a choice,” Lore shouted. “He’s an assignment.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Eidolon’s face, and Lore used the moment to slam him into the wall and rush Kynan. He needed to be done with this, once and for all. If his brothers killed him afterward, who cared? Hell, bring it on. At least he’d die knowing Sin would be safe.

And free.

A fierce sting at the base of his skull made him stumble, and Idess’s grip on his biceps brought him to a full stop.

“Take another step and I release the bore worm,” she said, and ice froze the marrow in his bones. Being eaten alive from the inside was not on his list of fun ways to die.

She pressed the length of her body against his left side, gluing herself to him so she could feel even the smallest twitch, the tiniest warning that he might fight back. Smart cookie.

Her fingers gouged his arm. “I can’t allow Lore to harm Kynan. So either one of you kill him, or I will.”

Shade, Wraith, and Kynan raised their hands to volunteer. How special. Brotherly love ran like syrup in the room.

Lore weighed his options. He could kill Idess… but once she was dead, he doubted he’d make it through the advancing wall of demon brothers to get to Kynan.

And if he failed to kill her, he had a bore worm attached to his spine. If she sent it into his body, one of the side-effects of being eaten alive was that it would render him susceptible to commands, and she could make Lore do anything she wanted, from clucking like a chicken, to stepping in front of a bus.

The upside was that she’d be reluctant to use it. As long as the creature was inside its host, the summoner suffered nearly debilitating pain. Bore worms were temporary measures, at best.

As his brothers and Kynan closed in on him like rabid wolves, the first stirrings of apprehension that he might not make it out of this scrape alive rippled through him. He didn’t fear death; he feared dying before he could make sure Sin was safe.

The very real possibility that he was going to die right now brought a veil of lava-red cascading down over his vision. He breathed deeply, willing it to recede as he glared at his brothers. “Back the hell off—”

Idess spun him into the wall so he was eating plaster, her pelvis hugging his ass—in a great fit, he couldn’t help but notice, even through his growing anger. Her plump breasts rubbed on his back, and he popped an erection as the sexual side-effect of his rage took hold.

“It’s a little late for backing off,” she murmured against his ear, and his blood thickened with both fury and desire. “The only reason I haven’t killed you yet is that I want to know who wants Kynan dead. Plus, I thought I’d allow your brothers that honor.”

“Aren’t you the vicious one,” he growled. “That’s hot.” I’m going to kill these guys and then fuck you hard. The thought blasted into his brain, pumped in on the rage that was poisoning his system. He panted, desperate to come down from this, because he was only one insult, or one prick of pain away from no-return.

And then he could guarantee that males were going to die. The female…

Idess jammed her knee into a pressure point in his thigh and tripped his land mine. Lore exploded out of her grip, knocking her into Shade. They both went down. Kynan. Kill the human first—

Idess leaped to her feet, spitting commands in the universal demon language, Sheoulic.

Lore checked up hard as pain shot from his brain stem to his tailbone. His lungs vapor-locked and his muscles cemented in place. He was a dead man now.

His last semicoherent thought as his brain function shut down like a computer’s blue screen of death was that he should have negotiated with Detharu for ninety-nine kills instead of a hundred.

* * *

Idess doubled over as the full body migraine struck, squeezing her brain, her spinal fluid, and even the marrow in her bones. She hated using bore worms, but she liked to win, and she’d take the tradeoff any day.

Wincing, eyes slitted against the light that stabbed her nerve endings, she lifted her head—and gasped. Lore was standing there, surrounded by his baffled brothers, gaze vacant thanks to the worm’s influence. That was to be expected. What was unexpected—and a whole lot of trouble—was the fact that he was surrounded by a faint azure glow.

In the span of time it took for an angel to flap her wings, he’d become a Primori, important to the very fabric of the world. Which meant she couldn’t kill him. And worse, her arm burned anew as a circular symbol set into her wrist…

Impossible. No, no, no! Nausea swirled in her stomach, but from the agony wrenching her brain and bones or from the growing fear that the heraldi forming in her skin was bad news, she didn’t know.

But as the mark embedded firmly into her arm above the other two to form a triangle of circles, she couldn’t deny the new link that stretched like an invisible string from her to the new charge.

Lore was not just Primori; he was her Primori.

Oh, this was a sick joke.

His symbol began to throb harder, a screaming warning that Lore was in danger. She looked in time to see Kynan draw a pistol from his chest holster, murderous intent turning the blue in his eyes to glacial arctic ice. Weakly, because the bore worm was sapping her energy, she grasped Lore’s wrist and flashed him to her house.

She had to restrain him, and fast, before the worm caused permanent damage to him, and before her own pain became so overwhelming that she lost control over the creature.

Quickly, she led Lore to the bedroom and ordered him to strip off his gloves and jacket—and his leather chest harness that was loaded with weapons… and the wrist housing… and the ankle holster with the pistol, and the other ankle sheath with the blade… and the throwing stars in his pants pockets…

She eyed one weapon in particular as it fell to the floor, an exquisite, rare Gargantua-bone dagger. Those priceless beauties were practically indestructible, and once wetted with the blood of an intended victim, the dagger would virtually guide the wielder’s hand to unerringly accurate strikes against that victim. Wow—Lore was one well-equipped assassin.

When he lifted his shirt to remove a ceramic blade taped to his ribs, she sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of his muscular abs and hard-cut chest. Yes, very well-equipped. He was massive, a mountain of power she wanted to touch, if only to see if she’d feel the shock of it through her fingertips.

She scowled, eyes locked on the odd, handprint-shaped mark over his heart. An assassin bond?

Speaking of bonds, Lore’s heraldi had settled down, but another one had started to tingle. The werewolf’s. The buzz was mild, which meant the threat was real but not immediate, and it could even pass. Still, this was truly unbelievable. Even at her busiest, when she’d been in charge of a dozen Primori, she’d rarely responded to more than one incident a month. Now she’d had three Primori in trouble in a matter of hours.

Not good. “Get on the bed,” she told Lore. “Back against the headboard.”

He obeyed like a good little zombie, though she swore she heard the faintest rumble of a growl. Amazing. Few could maintain any kind of awareness while under the spell of a bore worm.

A particularly sharp burst of worm-hurt stabbed her brain and, wincing, she flashed to the garage, where she’d dropped the Bracken Cuffs she’d stolen from Eidolon when she left the demon hospital. What handy devices. Everyone should have a set.

The sting of the warg’s heraldi intensified. Hurry, hurry…

Urgency kicked her into high gear as she dug through the neat stacks of her brother’s belongings until she found what she was looking for; a twenty-foot length of finely wrought but strong chain. Gathering it and the Bracken Cuffs, she hurried back to Lore and ordered him to snap his own wrists into the cuffs while she looped the chain over the top of her canopy bed and attached the ends to each cuff. The result left him sitting with his arms stretched up and out, with little give in the chain to allow him leverage. He was strong, no doubt, but he was no match for the bed she’d had specially made to buffer her nightmares.

“Estalila enalt.”

The bore worm spell broke, and instantly, her body migraine disappeared, but so did her strength. She’d need to feed very soon. Lore’s snarl followed her as she grabbed the Gargantua-bone dagger, touched her warg’s heraldi, and materialized in the wooded backyard of a tiny mobile home.

Praying she wasn’t too late, she burst through the open back door. She found Chase Barnstead in the living room, naked and doubled over, arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen. A woman wearing only underwear and a bra was clutching his shoulder, almost as if she were concerned, trying to help him… but the markings on her right arm were writhing fiercely.

Those were Seminus markings. A Sem mate? So many coincidences, and none of them good. Whatever she was doing to Chase was killing him, and the damage had already been done. The warg’s brand on Idess’s arm was fading, and a sickly gray light pulsed around him, marking him as one who was fated to die. Her healing powers wouldn’t help him. His death was locked into the web of life now.

Fury and the need for vengeance roared to all-consuming life inside Idess. She launched herself, nailing the female in the chest—dead center in the middle of a handprint-shaped scar—with a roundhouse kick.

The female flew backward into a duct-taped recliner, smashing a beer bottle, but to Idess the kick felt sloppy, with not nearly enough power behind it. The black-haired harlot should have gone right through the wall.

That’s what I get for not feeding. And all these fights were only draining her faster. She rushed the other female, preparing to drive the Gargantua-bone dagger right into her heart. “I’m going to laugh when the griminions come for your soul.”

Idess raised the blade… and a hot poker of pain shot through her arm. Lore. In danger. How? She staggered, dropping the dagger. The raven-haired devil tore a bloody shard of bottle glass out of her thigh and, with a snarl, she came at Idess, a whirlwind of arms and legs.

Off-balance from pain and surprise, Idess fell back under the rain of blows, dodging and blocking and unable to land a blow of her own. Knuckles smashed into Idess’s mouth, splitting her lip. Her head snapped back on her spine and ow, she was going to feel that one for a month.

Idess dropped and rolled away from the other female, who had somehow gotten hold of the dagger. The Sem struck out, and Idess hissed at the bite of metal in the flesh of her left biceps. Now that her blood had wetted the blade, the dagger would not miss if swung at Idess again.

She flung herself backward, out of the range of the other female’s reach. This was a lost battle. Chase was as good as dead, anyway.

In fact… he was gone. While she’d been fighting with this assassin, he’d fled.

Slapping a palm over the cut made by the Gargantua dagger, Idess flashed out of there, sickened by her failure to save Chase, and by the knowledge that his death had just cost her several more centuries on earth.

* * *

The tension inside Eidolon’s apartment could have been measured by a barometer, even several minutes after Idess had disappeared with Lore. What the hell had she done with him?

Kynan finally headed for the front door. “I’m going to Aegis HQ. There’s got to be a way to neutralize Lore’s ability.” He paused before he got too far, and when he spoke, there was resolve in his voice, but not unkindness. “I know he’s your brother. But I’ll do what I have to do to protect myself. Gem’s pregnant, and I won’t leave her alone or my child fatherless.”

Eidolon’s breath caught at the unexpected news, and Shade let out a juicy curse.

“That’s not going to happen,” Wraith swore.

Kynan inclined his head and swept out of the apartment, leaving E alone with Shade and Wraith, both of whom radiated anger in sharp bursts Eidolon could feel like tiny whips against his skin.

“Well?” Shade prompted, and if he expected an apology for cutting him and Wraith out of the talk with Lore, he’d be waiting a long time. Eidolon had done what he needed to do to keep his family intact. “You want to explain why Idess had to tell us about your little meeting?”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to find her,” E said. “Before she kills Lore.”

“Fuck that,” Shade growled. “I say we let her.”

“He’s our brother, Shade.”

“So is Ky,” Shade pointed out. “He’s not blood or even the right damned species, but he gave his life to save us, our families, and this entire fucking planet. We don’t know shit about Lore except that he tried to kill us.”

Eidolon stared, unable to believe what his brother had just said. “I agree with you about Kynan, but seriously? You don’t care if Lore dies?”

“Better him than Ky,” Wraith ground out.

“We’ll handle this.” Eidolon’s gaze flicked back and forth between Wraith and Shade. “We’ve got to give him a chance.”

Shade made a sound of disgust. “Like you did with Roag? Over and over?”

Gods, he was so sick of the Roag conversation. Yeah, Eidolon had fucked up. But he could only beg for forgiveness so many times. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Let it go?” Shade asked incredulously. “I lost Skulk because you kept giving Roag chances. Kept saying, ‘He’s our brother.’ Well, fuck that, E. If we’d taken care of him when we should have, Skulk wouldn’t be dead.”

Skulk had been Shade’s Umber demon sister, and they’d been close. So close that she’d worked as a paramedic at UG just so Shade could keep an eye on her. Eidolon missed her, and every day his heart squeezed with guilt at his unintentional role in her death.

“And you wouldn’t have a mate and kids if not for Roag.” It was the wrong thing to say, and Eidolon knew it. Knew it even as Shade’s fist slammed into his jaw.

Eidolon’s head rocked back and pain shot through his face, sparking his own anger. He returned fire with the power of his entire body behind the cross-punch. A crack rang out as Shade’s nose sprayed blood. Crimson swallowed the black in Shade’s eyes, no doubt matching E’s, and it was on.

They came together with the force of two bulls. Distantly, Eidolon heard furniture breaking and pictures coming off the walls, and then the crash of the television.

They went to the floor, pummeling the unholy hell out of each other in a no-holds-barred, who-can-hurt-who-the-most fight, something E and Shade had never done.

This was what Wraith and Shade did.

A particularly hard hammer-fist to the side of the head made Eidolon see stars and hear bells. Snarling, he jammed his knee up and into Shade’s gut. Shade slammed Eidolon’s skull into the floor, putting Eidolon’s fury onto a whole new tier of pissed.

“Stop it!” Tayla tore them apart, shoving Shade so hard he wheeled backward and tumbled over the back of the couch. Then she rounded on Wraith, who was propped against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and ankles locked casually together.

“Thanks for the help, jerk. You couldn’t have stopped this before I had to?”

“Stop it?” Wraith cocked his thumb toward the kitchen. “Hell, I was about to go make popcorn to go with the Jerry Springer.”

Shade came around the couch, ready to go at it again. Once more, Tayla put herself between them, crouching in a defensive position, and E had to bite back a smile at her fierceness.

He was so going to make love to her the second he got his brothers out the door. Right now, though, he wasn’t going to let her fight his battles. Gently, he squeezed her shoulder and pulled her back. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“No, Eidolon, it’s not. It’s far from okay.” Blood ran in multiple streams from Shade’s nose and a nasty gash in his brow, and his bared teeth were streaked with crimson. Powering up his gift, Eidolon reached out to heal him, but Shade reared back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Shade had never been so pissed that he wouldn’t let Eidolon tend to his wounds.

“Shade, listen to me—”

Eidolon’s beeper went off. He ignored it, though he knew his plan to get Tayla naked would have to be put on hold. “We can’t let Lore die,” he finished.

Wraith pushed away from the wall. “We can’t let Kynan die either.”

“This isn’t an either-or,” Eidolon said, suddenly weary despite the adrenaline that was still rushing through his system. “No one dies. We’ll talk sense into Lore, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll contain him.”

Shade’s eyes flashed violently. “Do what you have to do. But know that if it comes down to a choice, I choose Kynan.”

“But if—”

Shade cut him off with a snarl. “You really don’t want to go there.”

With that, Shade stalked out of the apartment. Wraith shot E a don’t-say-a-word look and followed their brother out.

Releasing a frustrated breath, Eidolon dabbed blood off his split lip with the back of his hand,

Tay wrapped herself around him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied, even though she’d sense the truth through their mate-bond. And the truth was that when he’d told Lore that his staff had been on edge lately, that wasn’t the half of it. Everyone at UG was at each others’ throats, which had led to critical errors and slipshod patient care.

“You can’t lie to me, Hellboy,” Tay said.

“I know,” he sighed. “I’ve just never seen Shade so worked up. I seriously think he would let this tear us all apart.”

“That won’t happen. You guys have survived worse than this. Shade’s angry now, but the very thing he’s angry about, your loyalty to your brothers and family, is why he loves you. Give him a chance to cool off.”

Tayla was young—compared to Eidolon—but she’d been around the block, and she understood people. And demons… in part because she was half Soulshredder, and she could see scars most couldn’t.

But in this case, Eidolon had his doubts about Tayla’s prediction. Where Roag had failed to tear them apart, Lore just might succeed.

* * *

The rage was like drowning in an ocean of boiling blood. It wrapped around Lore and squeezed so that every breath was an agonizing struggle.

He’d come to chained to a bed in a frilly bedroom, his head pounding and still engaged in fight mode. He didn’t know where he was, who had taken him, and he burned with the need to kill.

Every second he fought against the chains made him angrier, and that, combined with the jackhammer in the brain and a lack of a recent release, was putting him on a tightrope where the slightest nudge would plunge him right into Noreturnsville Avenue’s hard pavement.

No net in sight.

Adrenaline surged through him as if a dam had burst. He yanked on the restraints. No good. He yanked harder, until he felt the pop of his elbow and shoulder sockets. Pain exploded in a flash of light behind his eyes.

His groin throbbed, and fuck, if he could just reach his cock, he could end this before it went too far…

A warm trickle ran down his wrist. Blood. The feel, sight, the smell… it triggered his need to slaughter as if someone had flipped a switch and turned on his inner Jason Voorhees.

He roared as the only thread keeping his sanity in check snapped.

At least he was restrained, so he couldn’t run rampant. Couldn’t kill innocents.

No, this rage would kill him.

Six

The bloodcurdling snarl reached Idess’s ears before she’d fully materialized in her living room. Exhausted but fueled by fear, she sprinted to the bedroom, skidding to a shocked halt at the doorway. Lore was alone. No one was trying to kill him.

But… he’d transformed. His eyes, burning like coal embers, bored into her, and his skin had darkened to a deep, dusky red shot through with dark veins on top of bulging muscle. He bared his teeth, as if he wanted to take a bite out of her. He was beautiful and terrifying, and a tremor ran through her as she stepped into the bedroom.

What in the world had happened to him? Whatever it was, it threatened his life. The heraldi on her arm still burned, hurting much more than the dagger wound. She’d heard that some species could become uncontrollably enraged to the point of permanence.

Or, apparently, death.

“Lore—”

His violent roar shook the house’s very foundation. Blood dripped from his wrists, which he’d worn raw beneath the shackles. The soles of his boots had shredded the bedspread and sheets, all the way to the mattress.

“What can I do?”

“Release. Me.” His words were distorted by rage and hatred.

Steeling herself, she said, “That’s not possible.”

A torrent of f-word-spiced curses ripped from his mouth. “Damn you and the bitch who whelped you!”

She inched toward him. “I can’t release you. What else can ease you?”

He went mad, his flailings so violent that a crack rang out as her bed frame broke. Red flecks danced in eyes that had gone fully black, swallowing the whites, the demon behind the handsome face coming through like some sort of transparent overlay.

She halted beside his hip, a huge mistake, because although his wrists were bound above his head, his legs were free, and he kicked out at her, catching her in the ribs and slamming her into the door to the bathroom.

Rubbing her aching chest, she went back to him, this time easing next to his shoulders and out of range of those huge, booted feet. Still, he whipped his knees back and nearly brained her. The boy was remarkably flexible.

He was hurting himself, and it was only going to get worse. “Tell me what will make this better.”

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw popped. “Fuck.”

She really hated demons and their foul mouths. “Tell me,” she repeated.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “Sex.”

“Sex?” She laughed. “If you think I’m falling for that, you’re beyond stupid.”

Punching his head back with such force that he left a dent in the plaster, he let loose an agonized roar that rattled through her insides. A blast of heat rolled off him, a wave of need she felt as a loosening of her muscles and a sudden liquid rush between her legs. A dark, sinful scent wrapped around her, filling her lungs and making her sway toward him. She caught herself, took an awkward, stumbling step back. She’d been around long enough to know incubi could throw off pheromones to attract partners, but she’d never experienced it… until now.

Her gaze flickered involuntarily to his hips, where, sure enough, a massive erection was straining against the fly of his pants. No way. Nuh-uh. There had to be another way. Any way.

“Just… hold still.” She took another lungful of that delicious scent into her. “I’ll release you or something—”

“No!” His head snapped forward, and his eyes, glowing with an eerie luminosity, fastened on her. “I… can’t… control… myself.” Every word was delivered between clenched teeth. “Not safe… I’ll attack. Or worse.”

Idess let out a startled breath. He was worried about what he’d do to her, to others if he escaped in this condition. She hadn’t known all that many demons, but those she had known wouldn’t have cared. A thread of admiration crept up on her, and curse him, she had no business feeling anything for this male but hatred and disgust. She despised assassins, wasn’t overly fond of demons, and he’d caused her a lot of trouble.

Then again, he’d also saved her life.

Of course, he wouldn’t have had to save her life if he hadn’t been trying to kill Kynan in the first place.

His moment of clarity passed quickly, and suddenly he was a mass of violence again, throwing himself against the chains, testing their strength, and the bed cracked some more.

Guilt pricked at her; she was the cause of his misery. She might not like demons, but it wasn’t in her nature to cause suffering. Her mind worked frantically for a way to help him. First, she had to stop him from hurting himself worse. Hastily, she forced his legs down with a firm grip on his thighs.

He went into a renewed frenzy, trying to bite her, his arms jerking against the chains. His hips bucked, brushing that massive erection against her arm. The moment he made contact, he calmed a little. He did it again, this time with a controlled roll of his pelvis.

Interesting. All right, so maybe addressing his arousal was the only way to help him. She eyed the massive bulge in his pants. Oh, my. How long had it been since she’d touched a man intimately? The answer to that question was, too long. She’d lived the first nineteen years of her life believing she was human, and though she’d known sex for only the last two years of her human existence, she remembered exactly how good male flesh felt against hers.

Even after two thousand years of celibacy. And not one orgasm.

Be not tempted by the pleasures of the flesh, Idess. She’d heard that from Rami with annoying frequency whenever he caught her admiring men. It had been so easy for her brother to say, since he’d never had sex—he’d been celibate even during his human years. But she’d had a wild side as a human, and for centuries afterward, and he’d been ruthless in his quest to tame her.

It had taken her betrayal of him to finally bring her to heel.

She let out a long, slow breath. “Be not tempted by the pleasures of the flesh,” she whispered. Telling herself she had no choice and that it was no big deal, she palmed the thick length that pressed so hard against the leather that she could make out the shape of his shaft. The thick head. He shouted and stiffened, but at least he’d stopped thrashing. The whites had returned to his eyes, and now they were wild, wide, like those of a spooked horse. He was panting, but he remained motionless, as though waiting to see what she was going to do next.

He was remarkable. Even in his fury, he was gorgeous. Her body responded once again, warming and tingling, growing achy in that most primal of instincts.

Instincts that must be ignored. It was forbidden for Memitim to have sex with humans, so she could only imagine how much trouble she’d be in for having sex with a demon.

She frowned. Was this some sort of final test? Rami had faced something similar, just before his Ascension, when he’d fallen in love with a human woman he’d nursed back to health after finding her injured by an archer’s arrow. When, after a serious internal struggle, he’d resisted her invitation into her bed, he’d been offered his final reward.

What if this was Idess’s test? Not that she’d ever be in danger of falling in love with a demon, but this was a sex demon, a species known to be irresistible to all females. Had he been given to her in order to determine her ability to resist? That would explain why he’d suddenly become a Primori. Her Primori.

And if so, it was a poor test of her willpower. Like all Memitim, she’d taken a vow of chastity, and no male, human or demon, could make her break it after thousands of years.

Satisfied that she could handle this without losing herself to lust, she ran her hand down his shaft, letting her palm mold to the firm length of him. His lips parted on a soft gasp, and crazily enough, she wanted to touch them. With her fingers, her mouth…

Cursing her response but encouraged by his, she rubbed harder, and his gasp became a long, tortured moan.

She took her hand away.

Instantly, he arched his back, yanked his chains, and howled… a sound of unimaginable pain.

“Okay,” she said quickly, and palmed him again. Once more, he settled down, but his entire body trembled. “I’m sorry.”

Maybe she could use this. Just a little…

“Tell me,” she said, as she straddled his knees and plucked at the top button on his pants, “who hired you to kill Kynan?”

He shook his head, and she drew her hand away.

The sound of his teeth snapping together jarred the air. He shook so hard she was nearly dislodged from her seat.

“Bad idea,” she muttered, as she tore open the remaining buttons and released him. He was enormous, a thick column of deep, blushing brown that disappeared into the V of his fly. Only a very light dusting of dark hair trailed from beneath the hem of his shirt across his abdomen, which was marked with all manner of scars, to his groin.

Forbidden need washed over her, and at the same time, Lore pushed his hips upward, putting the blunt head of his penis in contact with her hand.

“Aren’t we impatient?” We was right, because this was as close as she could get to a male, and she wanted this nearly as much as he did. Using only the tips of her fingers, she stroked the velvety cap until Lore’s head fell back against the wall and his eyes closed with relief. “This feels good, doesn’t it?” It certainly felt good to her. Oh, she remembered this. Except she didn’t recall taking so much pleasure in touching a man.

“Mmm-hmm.”

She squeezed his shaft, marveling at the satiny skin that stretched over a thick rod of iron. She didn’t recall the men of her day being this big, either. “About Kynan…”

Baring his teeth, he shook his head. She drew her hand away once more.

He went crazy, and her heart clenched and that was enough testing him. Hastily, she gripped him again, the effect on him so dramatic she could hardly fathom how crucial sex must be to his very existence. The way he settled down so quickly, his expression reflecting both stark relief and misery… it was fascinating. For so long she’d avoided anything even remotely sensual or sexual, because while not bedding a man was simple enough, the vow of chastity also banned self-pleasure, and that hadn’t been so easy. And now, as if her body had come out of a deep freeze, it flared hot and went liquid, and she couldn’t wait to see Lore come, to watch pleasure take him in the most male of ecstasies.

“Good boy,” she murmured. Adjusting her position, she made room for her other hand so she could reach below his shaft to his balls. They lay heavily in her hand, and when she began to roll them gently, he cursed on a low, ragged breath.

She dragged her other hand up, from the thick base to the flared head. A crystal drop formed in the slit, and she swiped her thumb through it, spreading the silky moisture around the crown. Lore rocked his hips, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. His shaft pulsed and swelled, and she sensed he was close.

“Faster,” he said hoarsely. “Harder.”

She obeyed, pumping him the way he wanted her to, loving the friction building between her palm and his skin. She tore her gaze away from what her hand was doing so she could gauge every reaction.

And oh, what reactions he had. His eyes were open, hungry, and focused on her face. The tendons in his neck and the muscles in his arms stood out starkly as he strained against the chains, and she knew if he got free she’d be under him in a heartbeat.

Desire curled in her gut, and a heady sense of power shot right to her head with dizzying speed. She could change the intervals between his breaths by altering the speed of her strokes. She could make him moan by altering the tightness of her grip. And when she swiped her thumb against the area just under the head, his entire body arched.

Crazily, her body arched, too. Toward him. She was shockingly aroused by this, in a way she’d never been. Oh, she got antsy at times, but punishing exercise or dessert sprees never failed to rescue her from lust’s clutches. This time, she had a feeling no amount of push-ups or tiramisu would ease the ache that throbbed through her. Her pulse beat erratically through her veins, her nipples hardened into sensitive pearls that rasped against her bra with every uneven breath, and somehow she had slid right up to the edge of orgasm.

Would it go against her vow to come even without touching herself? If it was an accident?

An accidental orgasm. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because her body was a pot about to boil over, and as much as she craved what she’d been denied for so long, she also couldn’t risk it.

Angry and hurting, she took it out on Lore, since really, this was his fault. She squeezed him harder, pumped him faster, drawing a pleasured hiss out of him. He watched her as though trying to figure out a way to get to her, but when she looked back down at the erotic sight of his plum-ripe head thrusting through the ring of her fingers, he became lost in the rhythm, throwing his head back once more.

“Don’t… stop.” His guttural voice was at once a command and a plea, and he came suddenly, his body bucking with such violence that she had to grip his hip to keep from being thrown. A raw curse erupted from deep inside his chest, and semen shot onto her hand and in thick ropes over his six-pack abs.

He was beautiful, so big, his muscles straining and his body hard. He’d feel good on top of her, his weight holding her down as he thrust into her. He’d be naked, sweaty, and they’d be skin on hot skin, their bodies joined and their tongues tangling.

Pressure reached critical at her core, and she realized she was grinding herself against his thigh even as she finished him off with her hand. Her gaze flew up to his face, and she drew a startled, horrified breath at the way he was focused on her, eyes drowsy but glowing with knowledge.

Clearing her throat, she released his penis, which was still semihard. “How often do you need sex?” she asked casually, though she felt anything but, especially with the way her skin tingled where his seed had splashed over her hand, filling her with the oddest urge to smooth it over sensitive, private places.

“Few times a day.” His voice was husky, a lovely postcoital growl.

More rattled than she cared to admit, she peeled herself off him to visit the bathroom and slap a bandage over the cut on her arm. By the time she finished, she felt almost normal again, though she could definitely use a cold shower and two gallons of spumoni ice cream.

She found a tube of antibiotic ointment in her medicine cabinet, wetted a washcloth, and returned to Lore. “If you don’t get sex, you go into rages?”

“Yes,” he grunted, as though embarrassed. “How did you manage to truss me up? And what do you plan to do to me?”

“I made you truss your own self up.” She sank down on the mattress beside him. “And I plan to keep you from killing Kynan.”

“You’re an angel, right? Like, Kynan’s guardian angel?”

“Something like that.” Gently, she wiped away the blood on his left arm, working her way from his thick shoulder to the cuff around his wrist. His skin was supple, smooth, the muscles beneath set with deep grooves between the mounds of steel. She lingered more than she should.

“So why not just kill me? Why hold me prisoner?”

Because I have to protect you, too, and your brothers seem ready to cut your heart out.

“Maybe I want to keep you chained to my bed as a sex slave before I kill you.” Stupid thing to say, because the possibilities started rolling through her head.

“If that were true,” he drawled, “you’d have fucked me instead of jerking me off.” His lopsided smile and mussed hair gave him a charming boyish appearance that was at odds with the crude words and the raw masculinity he threw off. “And I know you wanted to fuck me, but you didn’t. So the sex slave thing? Not buying it.”

“You are incredibly arrogant.”

“Am I wrong?” His tone said he knew damned good and well that he wasn’t wrong.

She ignored his question. “Tell me who hired you.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “We’re back to that again?”

“It’s kind of important.”

Lore shrugged, rattling the chains. “No one hired me. Kynan’s a tool. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Even though you told Eidolon that Kynan was an assignment, I might believe you if I hadn’t found another one of my charges being slaughtered by a female assassin.”

Something flickered in his dark gaze. “Coincidence.”

“Really?” She gently wiped his shredded wrist beneath the cuff. It must have hurt, but he didn’t flinch. “Is it also coincidence that the assassin bore faded Seminus tattoos just like yours?”

This time, the change in his expression was an easy read: fear. He schooled it hastily, but still too late.

“Who is she?” Idess pressed. “And why have assassins been sent after my Primori?”

“No idea. What are Primori?”

“Primori are what I’m assigned to protect,” she said vaguely. “And you’re lying.”

“You think assassin masters share anything with their slave-assassins? We’re given a job to do and we don’t care why.”

“Lovely.”

He snorted. “You are judging me? Hello, I didn’t chain anyone to a bed to use as a sex slave. Not that I mind,” he added. “But I could sex you up a lot better if I were free.”

Impossible male. “Tell me about the female Seminus,” she ground out.

“There are no female Sems,” Lore said. “Male Sems use females of other species as hosts for their offspring, which are all born male.”

“Then she’s a mate.” Again, some unknown emotion brought color into his cheeks, and a disturbing thought made her gut twist. “Yours? Is she yours?”

He just stared. Now he decided to clam up. But his silence was answer enough.

* * *

Lore kept a curious eye on Idess, noting how suddenly ill she seemed after asking if Sin was his mate. No way was she jealous. Maybe the idea that she might have gotten intimate with a taken male disturbed her goodie-two-shoes self.

Funny.

But it wasn’t funny that she knew about Sin, and by the looks of it, their introduction hadn’t involved handshakes. Idess’s bottom lip was swollen and cut, there was a gash in her upper arm, and thick locks of hair had come free of her ponytail, giving her a Xena, Warrior Princess, look he shouldn’t appreciate. But did. Or would have, if he wasn’t worried about his sister.

He kept his voice level. Barely. “Where is the female?” She said nothing, and he snarled, sick of her game, whatever it was. “What did you do to her?”

Idess avoided eye contact, instead concentrating on smoothing ointment onto his wrist. He couldn’t wait until she got to his right arm. She’d be so dead. She might have managed to escape contact with his dermoire earlier, but he’d get her to touch it now.

“If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Answer me!” he roared, and she recoiled.

“Don’t worry,” she snapped. “She got away. But she did kill one of my Primori.”

Good. Sounded like Sin had completed her mission. No slavery at the hands of the Neethul for her. But if he didn’t take care of Kynan, doing vile things for the Neethul would be the least of her concerns. “That’s too bad, Cookie.”

Idess ignored his sarcasm and moved to his other side. Anticipation swelled as she prepared to wipe down his right arm. He rolled his head toward her and tried not to admire the long, lush lashes framing her big toffee eyes. Eyes that had watched him with stark hunger as she stroked him. They’d gone half-mast, darkened, and she’d rolled her bottom lip between sexy white teeth as though she’d wanted to use her mouth instead of her hand.

He’d have been all right with that. More than all right. Hell, he was getting hard again just thinking about it. Idess leaned in. Maybe she’d kiss him. If she got into it the way she had when she’d jerked him off, he’d enjoy every second of it. At least, until she got carried away and came into contact with his arm.

Closer. Closer… in a moment she’d be dead and he’d… what? He’d be chained up with no way to get free.

“Stop!”

She froze, the cloth mere millimeters from his arm. “What?”

“My arm… it’s sensitive. Leave it alone.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. For a big, bad demon assassin, you’re a baby.” Glaring at him, she dropped the washcloth, and he breathed a sigh of relief. And then, to his horror, she put her palm gently on his forearm.

“Idess!”

She gasped, her eyes going wide. Her fingers dug into his skin and she groaned… but oddly, she didn’t seem to be in pain. If anything, he’d say the expression on her face was as far from death as it could be.

Was she…? Nah. If she was coming, she’d be wild. And loud. Somehow he knew she’d be vocal in bed.

“Lore,” she moaned. Her touch grew lighter, her fingers barely resting on his arm—but she was touching him.

Stunned, he stared at her hand. Her warmth seeped into his dermoire and radiated up his arm, the exact opposite of what should have happened. Why hadn’t she keeled over? It didn’t escape his notice that he’d called her by her name in his panic, and for some reason, doing so felt strangely… intimate. Finally, she pulled away, her eyes focused on the way his markings writhed on his skin. “What… what just happened?”

“Ah… I don’t know. What did just happen?”

Tentatively, she touched him again. This time, the experimental swipe of her fingers seemed to have no effect. “I don’t understand. When I touched you before, it was…”

“Orgasmic?”

She speared him a look of annoyance. “Hardly. It was as if I took energy from you. Do you feel drained?”

Winking, he rocked his hips. “Oh, yeah.”

This time she just huffed. “I’m serious.”

“So was I.”

She muttered something about incubi that didn’t sound complimentary. “Maybe it has something to do with the Bracken Cuffs.”

Bracken Cuffs, the same demon jailer devices his brothers had used on him last month to negate his gift. He should have known. No wonder she hadn’t fried when she touched him.

“Is it okay to wash it now?” she asked.

His cock jerked. “It?”

“Your arm,” she ground out.

“Why do you care?”

She shrugged and reached for the wet cloth again. “I have to keep you from killing Kynan, but that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer.” She dabbed blood from his abraded wrists. “Does it hurt?”

Far from it. The swirling glyphs had always been sensitive; he hadn’t lied about that. But they were sensitive in a highly erotic way, and now that it was clear she wasn’t going to die from touching them, the nerve endings just beneath their surfaces sparked, each brush of her fingertips sending pleasant jolts straight to his groin. God, no female had ever touched his arm like that, and it shook him. Excited him. Threatened to drive him to heights he’d never known.

“No,” he rasped. “I’m good.”

“The glyphs are remarkable,” she said. “They seem to move.” She traced one with a fingernail, and he bit back a groan. “They’re not tattoos, are they?”

“They’re a history of our paternity.”

“Were you born with them?”

“Most Sems are.”

She rinsed the cloth and went back to wiping down his arm, even though it no longer seemed necessary, and a shiver stole through him. “But you weren’t? Does this have anything to do with your human breeding?”

“How do you know I’m from human stock?”

“I can smell the human in your blood.” She shifted on the bed.

He didn’t see any reason to keep his background a secret, and besides, maybe if he could get her talking, she’d reveal information he could use. Like why she was guarding Kynan. And if it was true that only angels could harm him. And how Lore could get around that minor detail. “My mother was human. Apparently, that makes things go a little screwy.”

“So when did you gain the symbols?”

“When I was twenty.” They’d come with a side order of pain, followed by a dessert of lust and rage. Oh, yeah… good times.

She used a square fingernail to trace the outline of the arrowhead symbol in the crook of his elbow. His erection throbbed as though it hadn’t just enjoyed the most intense orgasm of its life. “And how long ago was that?”

“If you want to know how old I am,” he said, “you can just ask.”

“Fine. How old are you?”

“I was born in 1880. You?”

Her grin transformed her face from beautiful to drop-dead gorgeous. “I’m considerably older than you are.”

“Yeah?” He waggled his brows. “I’ve always had a thing for older women.”

There was more muttering about incubi as she dropped the cloth into the laundry basket. “I was born the day Julius Caesar died. That’s very old.”

“So you really were born. And on the Ides of March,” he mused. “Is that what you’re named after?” When she nodded, he settled back and gave her a sleepy, seductive look. “It’s a pretty name. Pretty, like you.”

She snorted, totally calling him out. “I’m not going to fall for any of your tricks. Especially not when they’re so obvious.”

“Give me a break. I don’t have a lot of experience seducing women.”

“Yeah, right.” She frowned when he didn’t react. “You’re serious. How can you be an incubus and not have that kind of experience?”

He shrugged, unwilling to tell her about his death touch. “Guess there are anomalies in every species.”

“Seeing how you’re a sex demon who kills, I’d say that’s true.”

“There are incubi that use sex to kill. But it’s not like I want to kill anyone,” he added, and though it was true that he was playing up to her soft side, it was also just… true. He wasn’t a killer because he wanted to be.

No, you kill for money. That’s so much better.

“Good,” she said. “Then I need you to not kill Kynan.”

“Yeah, okay. I won’t.”

Her eyelashes swept down, creating shadows under her eyes, and she suddenly looked tired. “I know how assassin masters work, Lore. You can’t just ignore your orders.”

“Then why are you asking me to not kill Kynan if you know I have to?”

“I just want your word that you won’t kill him while I’m trying to find out who hired you, and why.”

“So you think that if you take out whoever hired me, the hit will be called off and Kynan will be safe?”

“Yes.”

It was a nice thought, but it wasn’t going to happen. The Assassins’ Guild had built its rep on its vow of discretion and silence, and no one learned the identity of any party who had hired an assassin. It had happened only once, several hundred years ago, when a client had been betrayed by an assassin master, and that master had been made an example of.

His wrecked body, preserved in wax, graced the entrance to the Guild Hall, his flesh peeled like a banana away from the bone. But the worst part was that somehow his soul had been trapped with the body, and his screams could be heard by every demon who entered.

But he wasn’t going to tell Idess that. Nope. He’d play along.

“You’ll need my help,” he said.

She swiped at her brow, which glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. “I can manage on my own.”

“Really? You know who my master is? You can contact him?”

Pink mottled Idess’s cheeks, because he had her there. “Will you tell me?”

“Will you let me go?”

She wobbled on her feet, and a lightning strike of panic zinged through him. “Cookie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She lifted her chin and straightened her back in a show of strength, but a trickle of perspiration ran down her temple.

“You want my help? You tell me what the fuck is wrong. Right. Now.”

She hesitated, and he got that. Vulnerability was not easy, especially in front of an enemy. A whimper escaped her as she sagged, catching herself on the dresser.

“Idess? What is it?”

Her jerky gaze tracked to his, a little glassy and a whole lot desperate. “It seems,” she whispered, “that I need to feed.”

Seven

I need to feed.

Had she really said that? The words were still ringing in Idess’s ears as an undying echo. It grew louder and louder, until she slapped her palms over her ears. She heard Lore calling her name, his deep voice a mere buzz.

Calm down… calm down…

Oh, this was bad. Her utter hatred of feeding had led her to ignore her body’s needs for too long, and the battle with Lore and subsequent injury hadn’t helped anything. As the nausea waned, she tentatively peeled her hands away from her head.

“Idess.” Lore’s hard tone finally penetrated the haze in her brain. “When you say feed, do you mean what I think you mean?”

“Yes.” She sank down on the bed next to him, her legs too wobbly to support her for much longer, and the last thing she wanted was to do a face-plant right in front of her captive. That would certainly go a long way toward showing him who was in charge.

“But aren’t you some sort of angel?”

“Consider me an angel in training.” She rubbed her eyes even as she swiped her tongue over the tip of a canine that had started to descend.

“Do all angels drink blood?”

She was so tired she no longer cared about keeping things from Lore. So exhausted, in fact, that she swayed, her head spinning as if she’d had one too many glasses of wine—which was the only alcohol Memitim were supposed to drink. She’d indulged a lot during her wilder days. Now she avoided it—and anything that might chip away at her control and lead her away from the path of goodness she tried so hard to follow. “No. Only my kind.”

“And what kind are you, exactly?”

“I’m Memitim.” She skimmed her hand over the hand-made royal blue and gold comforter she’d bought in the Italian countryside. Small things like this would be what she missed when she Ascended. “Unlike Cherubim and Thrones and all the other classes of angels you may have heard about, Memitim are born on Earth and we remain here until we Ascend. And because we’re tied to the earth and this plane, we must feed if we’ve depleted our energy.” Or maybe what Rami said was true; that they fed not because they were bound to this life, but because of who their father was and that Memitim were, in essence, paying for his sins. The sins of the father they all shared, as it were.

“Why are you depleted?”

“Fighting with you, for one,” she said wryly. “Being shot and losing the Primori your mate killed took a lot out of me, too.”

He was silent for a long time, leaving her alone with the throbbing in her head. “Feed from me.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his. “Ah… excuse me?”

“Take my blood.”

Already her teeth were pulsing inside her gums, eager to extend. “Why are you offering?”

“Because you look like you’re going to keel over at any second. And if you starve to death, I’m never getting out of these chains.”

Her belly was practically twisting in anticipation, her mouth was watering, and her fangs punched down. Lore noticed, his gaze going to her parted lips, and she swore she saw a flicker of hunger in his eyes, as well. She squirmed, unsure about this. She’d never taken from a demon before. In fact, she’d always sought out the gentlest, most decent human Primori she could.

When their emotions remained with you, you didn’t want a psychopath’s blood thrumming through your veins.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’ll find someone else—”

“Take it,” he said, and this time his voice was rough. Commanding. “Take whatever you need.” His eyes dropped, and she followed his gaze to his erection. “Take whatever you want.”

“Arrogant bastard,” she muttered, but there was no power behind the words. She wanted his blood, and truth be told, her treasonous body ached for everything he was so boldly offering.

She had to get out of there.

She flashed. Tried to flash. Her body flickered like a dying lightbulb. Oh, sweet Lord, she was stuck. If Kynan were to be attacked right now…

She had to do it. She had to take from Lore, if only to ensure Kynan’s safety. But the thought of drinking from him, of taking lifeblood from his powerful body… it was dangerous. What kind of emotions would stay with her if she drank from an incubus? Already, the very idea had her warming up all over, her thighs clenching and wetness blooming between her legs.

He tilted his head to the side. His muscular neck was exposed, his jugular pulsing strong and steady beneath tan skin.

Just a small taste. A sip. Enough to give her the strength to hunt down a proper host. Decision made, she mounted him, straddling his thighs. She scooted backward in an attempt to avoid intimate contact, but his wicked grin said he wasn’t going to play that way. He lifted his knees to shift her forward, and she nearly gasped at the feel of the hard ridge of his sex against hers.

Damn him. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, so she braced her hands on his shoulders and leaned in. His scent, earthy and bold, ignited a pleasurable hum inside her. Oh, how she needed this.

“It won’t hurt,” she whispered against his skin.

“Not worried about that,” he whispered back.

She told herself that touching him was necessary, that it meant nothing, told herself all kinds of lies as she dragged her tongue up his neck, right along the jugular. His body went taut beneath her, but with anticipation or dread, she didn’t know. She licked again, taking her time, even though she didn’t need to; her first stroke numbed the bite site. No, this second taste was for her, not him, and there was no lying about that.

“I’m starting to feel like a Tootsie Pop, here,” he rasped.

She couldn’t contain a smile. “Yes… how did that old commercial go?” She licked him. “One.” She licked him again, and he moaned. “Two.” She licked him once more, and his hips came off the bed.

“Three.”

* * *

Idess’s fangs slid into Lore’s throat so smoothly he felt only the slightest tingle, and then her mouth latched on.

Oh… yeah.

No one had ever bitten him before, but wow, this was amazing. He still wasn’t sure why he’d offered to play juice box, but he definitely didn’t regret it. Warmth flowed from her mouth through his body, loosening his muscles and his mind. He drifted in a happy place as she sucked on his neck, her tongue and lips caressing his skin so gently he almost asked her to suck harder, to give him even more to feel.

With the way the bed canopy bowed from his struggles, the chains had enough give in them to allow him to touch her if he strained. Stretching, he raked his fingers through the loose strands of her hair, marveling at the silky texture and curling waves. At his touch, she gave a little start, and then she sagged against him, putting them into full body contact.

It shouldn’t feel so good. She was his captor. If he didn’t get free, Sin would die. No amount of pleasure should be able to sway him, but Idess was pleasure in the flesh, and his incubus body could only respond.

And did it ever respond. Despite the earlier release, his cock was aching inside its leather prison, his balls were tight, and his skin burned all over.

God, he wished he could touch her, really touch her. He wanted to rip off her clothes, roll her onto her back, and drive into her until she screamed. He’d show her what it was like to be held captive, helpless to feel anything but what your captor wanted you to feel.

He’d torture her, all right. He’d take her to the edge of passion and hold her there until she was insane with the need to come. Only after she begged for it long enough and good enough, would he give it to her.

She was panting, and so was he, his body out of control. Lost in his own head, he hadn’t been aware that they were grinding against each other, having sex with their clothes on. “Touch me,” he said roughly.

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, digging in with such sweet pain. It was damn good, but he wanted her fingers to take a leisurely slide south. Far south.

“Like that. But lower.”

Her fingers dug in even more, and he hissed. How was it possible to feel both relaxed and energized at the same time?

He cocked one leg up for leverage—and to put his erection more firmly against her. But even as she arched into him, a low moan dredged up from deep in her chest and her grip on his shoulders eased. Her teeth unplugged, and he felt the warm stroke of her tongue over the skin of his neck.

Strangely, she didn’t move off him. Instead, she laid her head down on his shoulder.

“Ah… this can’t be all there is to feeding, right? I mean, we got a little below the waist action going on…”

She didn’t move. Shit.

“Angel Cake?” He rattled his chains. “Idess!” Worried that she was injured or ill or that his demon blood was poison to an angel, he tugged on her hair.

And was rewarded with a tiny squeak… followed by a series of soft snores.

She’d fallen asleep. She’d taken nourishment from him, and then, like a contented kitten, she’d nuzzled against him and fallen asleep.

Something inside him shook so hard he was surprised Idess didn’t get jiggled right off him. This was the closest he’d ever been to a female. Oh, he’d fucked them, and he’d even cared for one he’d foolishly thought could be his. But never had any female fallen asleep on him. It was a surprising intimacy that gave him some hellacious warm fuzzies in a situation he had no right to feel good about at all.

And yet, he stroked her hair and tried to be still, because crazily, this was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him.

Eight

Underworld General was the last place Sin wanted to be. But Lore was missing, and the fact that the chick who had interrupted Sin during her assassination attempt had tried to kill Sin with his dagger was a chilling sign that he was in trouble. The only upside was that the blade had tasted the female’s blood, which meant it wanted more.

Unfortunately, the Gargantua dagger had one serious limitation; it could only be used to track a victim during the devil’s hour in the time zone where the prey’s blood had been shed. So, since Sin had time to kill, she searched for Lore in all of the obvious places. She’d gone to the assassin den. Nothing. She’d stopped by his house. Nada. She’d called and texted and emailed. Not a goddamned thing.

Her last resort was UGH, where he might be a patient… or where he might be getting all chummy with his brothers. His brothers, because she refused to acknowledge them.

And why the thought that he might be hanging out with them made her horribly uncomfortable—jealous, even—she had no idea.

She stepped out of the Harrowgate and into what must be the emergency department. A male Umber looked up from the triage desk, his steel gray lips peeled back from white teeth.

“What do you want?”

Apparently, people skills weren’t necessary to work in a demon hospital. Sin approached him, limping from the wound she’d taken during the battle with the mystery chick. “Do you have a patient named Lore?”

The Umber sneered. “I’m not allowed to give out information on patients.”

Both relief and dread flooded her. “So he is a patient.”

“I didn’t say that,” the Umber said.

Sin slammed her fists down on the desk. “You ass.”

“Is there a problem here?” The deep voice froze her to the black stone floor. It wasn’t Lore’s, but the forbidding tone was the same. This would be one of the brothers. Crap-o-rama.

Slowly, she turned. Found herself looking at a sinister medical symbol on a scrub top covering a broad chest. Swallowing dryly, she dragged her gaze up, and yup, this guy, with his short hair, I-own-this-hospital presence, and stern expression might not be the spitting image of Lore, but close enough. Plus, the dermoire that extended to his neck and connected to two rings around his throat—mate marks and maturity marks—sort of gave him away. Well, that, and his nametag. Eidolon.

Not good.

“The female is looking for Lore,” the Umber said, and inside, she cringed. This was the scenario she’d hoped to avoid.

Eidolon’s expression remained stony, and she suddenly wondered what it would take to rile him up. “How do you know Lore?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Guess you don’t want to know if he’s a patient.” Eidolon swung around and headed toward a couple of curtained cubicles.

Cursing, Sin jogged to catch up. “I work with him.”

Eidolon stopped and eyed her with suspicion. “He’s not here.”

“You couldn’t have said that without all the drama?”

Eidolon didn’t have a chance to reply, because the sliding emergency room doors opened, and two medics guided in a stretcher—a stretcher laden with her warg victim. Holy shit.

One of the medics straddled the warg, pumping compressions into his chest. Eidolon sprang into action.

“What do we have?” he asked, moving alongside the medics. Sin kept pace despite her limp, but hung back to play fly-on-the-wall.

The medic pushing the stretcher, his flashing fangs giving away his vampire status, said in a clipped voice, “Warg. Found unconscious and not breathing. Our attempts to resuscitate him were successful, but we lost him three blocks out.”

He rattled off some vital statistics that Sin didn’t understand as they wheeled the stretcher into one of the curtained rooms. More medical staff swarmed inside. Sin waited just outside, listening to more medical-speak that didn’t sound good. Well, not good for the warg. Good for her.

After a few minutes, the medics exited. One took off through the doors, while the other, the blond vamp, paused outside to scratch notes on his clipboard.

Sin cleared her throat. “Hey, how is the warg?”

His eerie silver eyes shifted to hers, but he kept writing. “Dying. Why?”

“No reason.” She rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her denim jacket and fidgeted under his unnerving gaze. “What’s wrong with him? Was he in an accident? Is he sick with something?”

“You’re kind of nosy.”

You’re kind of hot. She shrugged. “Just a concerned citizen.” Yeah, concerned Eidolon would save the werewolf and she’d have to kill him again.

The vamp watched her for a moment, and the floor seemed to shift beneath her. He really was extraordinary. He was easily as tall as Lore, his shoulders as broad, but that was where the resemblance ended. Hot Vamp Medic had a lean, athletic build, chiseled cheekbones, and a full, sensual mouth that no doubt could latch on to a female’s most sensitive spots and make her whimper.

He scanned her from head to toe. “You should get your leg looked at.”

Frowning, she looked down at the spot of blood that had seeped through her jeans and the bandage she’d wrapped around her thigh. “It’s no big—”

He didn’t even wait for her to finish. He handed the clipboard to the Umber and exited through the doors he’d come through. He was a charmer, that one.

She’d have been irritated by his blatant dismissal if not for the fact that the warg she needed to die was being treated by her brother, who didn’t know she existed. Christ, only she could get herself into this kind of mess.

This had never happened before—a victim of hers surviving even minutes after being infected by her touch—and a horrifying thought stabbed at her brain; what if he’d infected someone else? While her heart had turned to brimstone decades ago, and for the most part she couldn’t care less about the lives and deaths of people she didn’t even know, she didn’t kill for fun. When she killed, it was deliberate and quick. Controlled. Killing was the only thing she had any command over, the only aspect of her life that wasn’t chaotic, and she couldn’t stand the thought that she might be responsible for deaths she couldn’t prevent or make happen the way they should.

She paced, hanging back near the Harrowgate where the Umber wouldn’t notice her but she could keep an eye on the room. It was weird, being in the hospital her brothers had built. She hadn’t known what to expect, but disarray and unprofessionalism wasn’t it. The staff was grumpy, and when a patient came in with a spear impaled in his gut, two doctors spent so much time fighting over who got to treat the guy that he collapsed while the doctors screamed at each other.

She’d seen more order in a bar brawl.

“What the hell is going on?” Eidolon stepped out of the warg’s room, his gold-glowing eyes fixed on the guy bleeding out on the floor. His fury seemed to knock some sense into the arguing doctors, but as Eidolon rushed toward the patient, his expression told Sin that those physicians were soon going to wish their parents had practiced birth control.

But hey, the commotion made for a great distraction, and Sin could turn any situation into one that benefited her.

While all attention was on the skewered-guy drama, Sin peeked into the warg’s room. Relief flooded her at the sight of a sheet draped over a body. Now, if she could just gather her proof of death and get out of there so she could find Lore…

Of course, she couldn’t very well get proof while the body was lying in the middle of the emergency department. She’d have to wait until they took him to the morgue. In the meantime, she needed privacy.

Making sure no one was watching, she slipped down one of the halls and into a room full of medical equipment, wicked-looking, odd restraints, and even odder homey touches, like a wooden dresser and shelves stocked with towels and slippers in various sizes and shapes.

Sin removed her jacket, sat on the edge of the bed, and waited. She didn’t have to wait long. A vibration started deep in her body, growing steadily until it concentrated in her right arm. Her dermoire writhed, tightened, and finally, the skin between two symbols split, and a deep gash appeared in her biceps.

Even clenching her teeth so tightly her jaw popped, she couldn’t contain a cry of pain. Blood spurted, but she didn’t bother to stop it. No, this was a cleansing of sorts, something that happened after every kill, as though her body was purging itself of the guilt she couldn’t allow herself to feel.

“What the fuck?” Eidolon rushed into the room, grabbed her wrist, and slapped his hand over the gash.

“Don’t touch me!” She wheeled away from him, but he moved like Lore, with incredible speed and grace, and in a heartbeat he had her back on the bed, arm stretched out, with one palm putting pressure on her biceps.

His dermoire lit up. She kneed him in the junk, and with an “oof!” he doubled over, his grip loosening enough to allow her to leap away, scoop up her jacket, and dart toward the door.

He tackled her before she made it.

She smacked the floor hard, her breath exploding from her lungs. Eidolon rolled her, straddled her, and pinned her wrists together on her chest. Then he stared down at her with that furious, golden-eyed glare Lore had perfected.

“You want to explain those?” His gaze cut to the markings on her right arm. “And how you got around the Haven spell?”

“Haven spell? Get the fuck off me and I’ll leave you alone.”

He kept her wrists pinned with one hand and used the other to tear away her tank top’s shoulder strap, revealing her dermoire all the way to her neck. “You had this applied. How? Magic?” He rubbed his thumb over one of the symbols. “Permanent ink? Tattoo?”

“Fuck you.” Pain streaked up her arm from the tear in her biceps, which was gaping open from the awkward grip he had her arm in, and blood was pooling on the floor next to her.

She wriggled, but he held her tighter, squeezed her more firmly between his thighs even as he slapped his palm over the laceration and applied pressure. “The top symbol is my father’s. Were you mated to him? To Khane?”

Mated? To a Seminus demon? Eew. Still, she put on her best honest expression. “Yes. Love those hot, sexalicious Seminus males.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re lying. Wrong arm for mate marks.”

“If you already knew the answer, why’d you ask?”

He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Unless… you could be bonded to Lore, since the markings are the same. With his human genes, the bond could have gone funky.”

“Yep,” she said, feeling nauseated at the mere thought of being bonded in any way other than birth to Lore. “We were wondering what happened with that.”

His gaze cut sharply to hers, and in the long, tense silence, they stared at each other. It was weird, looking at the complete stranger who was her brother, as he tried to puzzle together both the obvious and the impossible.

Blood pumped from her wound in a warm rush between his fingers, and his dermoire lit up.

“No!” she snapped. “Don’t heal it. It’s mine to deal with.”

Ignoring her, he slid his fingers into the wound. She rocked her head up and bit him in the biceps.

“Ow!” He jerked his hand away. “Damn you. At least let me stitch it.”

“I’ve hit you, kneed you, bitten you… and all you can think about is fixing a scratch?”

“It’s more than a scratch, and I am a doctor. So, go figure, I’ve got this crazy desire to help people.” Warily, he released her. “You going to play nice so I can close that wound?” He scanned her body. “And the one on your leg?”

Shit. This had gotten way out of hand. She could promise to play nice and try to escape again, but she had a feeling she’d end up in the same situation she was currently in. And he wasn’t going to let the dermoire thing go. The fire in his eyes made that clear enough.

Damn you, Lore. You just had to find these guys, didn’t you?

“Fine,” she growled. “But don’t you dare use that stupid healing thingie Lore says you do. I want stitches. On my arm. You can zap the leg scratch.”

“Stitches will leave a scar…” He trailed off as he took in the hundred other scars running the length of her arm. “Though I guess that’s not a big deal for you.”

“Duh.”

He shook his head in exasperation, but he eased off her and offered her a hand up. She refused. Her arm hurt like hell, but she managed to get up and plant herself on the bed while he gathered a tray of supplies.

“So. You’re mated to Lore. Since when?”

Her heart shot into her throat at the seemingly innocent question she knew was really a grilling. Low-level heat, but still. “It was recent. Still honeymooning, you know?” God, it actually grossed her out to say that.

“Really.” He drew a chair and the tray around the bed in front of her. “And you say you’re looking for him?”

“Yeah. I’m worried.”

“Is he in pain?” His dermoire lit up, and he channeled an excruciating amount of power into her leg.

“I have no idea,” she gritted out. “How the hell would I know?”

He leaned forward to look her in the eye, and she started to sweat, because he’d just turned up the heat a notch. “Because,” he said, “if you were bonded, you’d feel his pain. You aren’t mated to him. So why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“And what would that be, Dr. Smartypants?”

“That you are somehow his sister.” His voice went low. Dangerous. “Which means you’re somehow mine.”

* * *

Eidolon shut off his healing power and waited for the female’s response, his mind working overtime to believe what it insisted made sense, despite the utter impossibility. A sister? How?

“There are no female Seminus demons,” she said finally. “You should know that, brainiac.”

His movements were jerky and brisk as he swabbed the area around her arm laceration and prepared to inject her with anesthetic. “I do know that. But unless this is a trick, the evidence is telling me otherwise.”

“Well, aren’t we the logical one?”

“I try.”

He eyed her, noted that she had their family’s dark hair, though hers was so black that it had a blue cast to it. She had their dark eyes, tan skin, and the markings on her arm were fucking perfect. Of course, any of those things could be manufactured. Only her size was odd—she was short, maybe Tayla’s height, and though she was toned, she was petite, and in that way very opposite Eidolon and his brothers.

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re wrong. And don’t put that shit in me. I can take the pain.” She shoved his hand away as he attempted to inject the numbing medicine.

“Funny how you sound just like Wraith, Ms. I’m Not Related to You.” Ignoring her Wraithlike string of insults, he paged a nurse, and while he waited, he prepared a suture kit and let what he’d learned sink in. Lore’s markings were identical to hers… faded, with no personal symbol. Lore was a cambion, born of a human-Seminus mating, and those went screwy a lot, so even though it was unlikely that a female could be born of that kind of mating, it might not be impossible.

The door opened, and Chu-Hua, a Guai nurse who resembled an upright wild boar, stepped in. “Yes, doctor?”

He gestured to the female. “Take a blood sample. I want DNA results compared to mine ASAP.”

The little female jerked away. “Oh, no. Stay the hell away from me.”

“You got something to hide?”

“No.”

He nodded to the nurse, but his patient hissed and backed away. He grasped her wrist. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I strongly recommend the easy way.”

Her glare drilled holes right through him. “I hate you.”

“I’m hurt.” That earned him a middle-finger salute. He held her arm while Chu-Hua started the draw. “How is the patient?” he asked the nurse, referring to the one who’d been bleeding out while doctors Pon and Rivers went at it.

“He’s being prepped for surgery,” she said, dragging out the “y” in a grating piglike squeal.

“Keep me informed.” He’d have dealt with the patient himself, but the elflike blanchier demon was one of the few species that didn’t respond well to Eidolon’s healing gift. “And make sure Rivers and Pon don’t leave my office.” On any other day, he’d have fired the doctors, but Eidolon suspected that whatever was making the rest of the staff snap was affecting the two physicians as well.

Chu-Hua left with the blood sample, leaving him alone with the female, whose glare hadn’t eased up at all.

“What’s your name?” He pinched the base of her laceration and started the first stitch.

“Ouch! Fuck. Where did you get your degree? Online?”

“I told you it was going to hurt. What’s your name?”

“Sin.”

“Short for?”

“How do you know it’s short for anything?”

Because a human wouldn’t name a child Sin. “Answer the question.”

“Sinead.”

“So… Loren and Sinead. Twins, I’m guessing?” It wasn’t a longshot of a guess; their father had been the rape ’em and leave ’em kind, and Eidolon seriously doubted he’d impregnate the same female twice. When Sin didn’t answer his question, he sighed. “The DNA test will confirm what I already know. So just admit it.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Lore is my twin brother. You must have been at the very top of your online class.”

He ignored the barb. Tayla had broken him in to a female’s sharp tongue a long time ago. “Why hasn’t Lore mentioned you?”

She snorted. “I told him not to tell you about me.”

“Why keep it from us?”

“Why not?”

Gods, she was exasperating. She was like a female Wraith. “Are you going to answer the question?”

She sighed. “I have one pain in the ass brother already. I don’t need more, okay?” There was a defiance and a wariness in her eyes that indicated there was more to the story than what she was telling him, but now wasn’t the time to push.

Working carefully, he put the final stitches in place. “So if you didn’t want to know us, why risk coming to the hospital?”

“I told you. To find Lore.” She bit her lip, and he gave her a moment to decide if she wanted to say anything more. “He’s sort of missing.”

Yeah, Eidolon was achingly aware of that. But before he told her what he knew, he wanted as much information from her as possible. “He’s after a friend of mine. You know that, right?”

For the first time, something other than anger flickered in her expression. Fear. “What did you do to him? I swear, if you hurt him—”

“I didn’t do anything to him. Yet.”

She swallowed audibly. “It’s not Lore’s fault. He has to do it. There are severe consequences to failing a mission.”

“You sound like you know this from experience. Are you an assassin, too?”

“Another gold star for you.”

“My online degree has served me well,” he said dryly. “So who hired him?”

“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you, nosy-ass.” She swung her legs to the opposite side of the bed and leaped down. “Now, unless you plan to tackle me again, I’m going to go find my brother.”

Eidolon blocked the door, fully intending to physically restrain her if he had to. “I just want to ask a few more questions. And maybe I can help find Lore.”

She seemed to consider that, and though she narrowed her eyes at him, she nodded slowly.

“How did you get hurt?” he asked.

“That’s none of your business.” When he cursed, she huffed. “What? It’s an answer.”

Gods, she was starting to make Wraith look agreeable. “What’s your gift?”

A plastic model of a set of lungs crashed to the floor, startling Eidolon and making Sin jump. “What the hell was that?”

“Ghost.” Damn, he was getting sick of this shit. “Your gift?” he prompted.

Glancing at the shattered model as if it was going to launch at her, she rubbed her bandage, but when she realized what she was doing, she let her hand drop. “Gift isn’t the word I’d choose for it.”

“Ability, then. What is it? You don’t wear a glove, so I’m guessing it’s not the same as Lore’s.”

She laughed bitterly. “No, but it’s still fucked up. Apparently, only you purebreds get the cool stuff.”

“Apparently.” He waited for her to answer his question, but she didn’t, and he gnashed his teeth. “So… your ability? What is it?”

“I can cause disease at a touch.”

“Disease?” he repeated, just to make sure he heard correctly.

“D-I-S-E-A-S-E. Disease. You should have learned all about them in one of your internet classes.”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “What kind of disease?”

Turning away, she rubbed her injury again. “It’s different in everyone. It’s like I send a spark into someone, and the spark searches out the most horrible, personalized disease it can find to kill that individual.”

Gods, Lore and Sin couldn’t be more the opposite of Eidolon in terms of abilities. He healed; they killed. “And you do this, why?”

She rounded on him, jabbed her finger in his chest. “Don’t you judge me, asshole. You’re not exactly an angel, either. I do what I have to do. And if it makes your highly educated, superior self feel any better, I do it quickly. The werewolf was an accident.”

“What werewolf?”

She jerked. “It’s nothing. I have to go.” Sin shoved at him, but he seized her arm and hauled her up so she was on her toes, off-balance, and couldn’t possibly mistake how through with her games he was.

“The warg that came in,” he growled. “His death was your doing, wasn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“Sin, dammit, answer me!”

“Yes, okay?” Her black eyes glinted with flecks of gold, a Seminus trait that couldn’t be faked, and every last drop of doubt left him in a rush. “You happy now?”

“Not really,” he muttered, releasing her. Gods, his mind was still having trouble processing all of this. Lore’s existence had been unexpected, but a sister? A brother with a human mother was fucked up enough, but Eidolon couldn’t even begin to imagine what could go wrong with a Seminus female. “I was hoping to help Lore deal with his gift… maybe I can help you with yours.”

She laughed and put a few steps between them. “Help? Yeah, okay. If you really want to help you’ll chop off the warg’s head and bring it to me in a bag. That would be a big help.”

He let out a disgusted breath. “You need proof of his death.”

“There goes the brain surgeon again.”

“You’re not getting his head,” he said tightly. “I won’t let you desecrate his body.”

“You have to!” Panic snuffed out the gold flecks in her eyes. “I need proof.”

“Or what?” When she said nothing, he repeated himself, his voice cracking in the still air. “Or what?”

“Or I’m going to be sold to Neethul slave traders.”

Eidolon inhaled sharply. As far as punishments went, it didn’t get much worse.

“Hey!” Sin jabbed him in the biceps. “You stroking out or something? You’re pale. And you’re not being all superior. Something’s wrong.”

Oh, she was a riot. “Will anything other than his head be acceptable?”

“Sometimes a unique identifying feature will work, but you need a damned good reason for not having the head.”

“Would your employer accept my word as a Justice Dealer and physician?” Granted, he was no longer an enforcer of demon law, but he had powerful connections and a fucking great game face.

She leveled a look of disbelief at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I can make it look official. I’ll include an autopsy report and a photo.”

“I guess that’s not a horrible idea.” She slid him a puppy-dog look with a side of pout and batting eyelashes that must come standard on every sister, because Omira, the Judicia sister he’d grown up with, used to try the same thing. “You sure I can’t have his head? Pretty please? It’s not like he needs it.”

“I’m sure. Come back tomorrow for the report.” He paused. “About Lore…”

Sin froze as she reached for the door handle. “What?”

He told her about Lore and Idess, and everything that had gone down, though he left out the details about Kynan’s Sentinel status.

“So this chick is protecting Kynan? Why?”

“I don’t know,” he lied.

Sin erupted with a creative flow of curses, and when she was finished, she asked, “What does she look like?” Sin asked.

“Like she’d look good on a mattress.”

Sin jammed her fists on her hips. “That tells me nothing, and aren’t you mated?”

“I’m also a male sex demon. I didn’t go blind when I took a mate.” He had, however, lost all desire to so much as touch another female. He only wanted Tayla. Wanted her constantly, and even now heat began to kindle at the mere thought of her. “Long, dark brown hair she keeps in a ponytail, light brown eyes. Tall. Right ear is pierced at the top.”

“That bitch.” Sin’s voice went low and deadly, her body coiled like a predator about to strike, and he suddenly saw the assassin she was. “She attacked me, too. And she had Lore’s Gargantua-bone dagger. I got it back.”

Eidolon blinked at that. Those daggers were rarer than acid sprite mana and just as priceless. “Did it taste her blood?”

Sin’s grin was downright evil. “Yes. Come 3:00 A.M., I’m hunting.”

Eidolon had no doubt Sin would find Idess. He hadn’t known his… sister… for long, but already he knew she’d inherited their family’s single-minded determination. And stubbornness. “Sin, you can’t kill the female when you find her.”

“Oh, I plan to kill her. Like, a lot. After she tells me what she’s done with Lore.”

“She’s an angel. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

“You might be surprised. But what happens when I do find Lore?” she asked quietly. “He’s after your friend. You just going to stand by and let Lore have him? Or will I be rescuing him just so his own brothers can kill him?”

“Nothing is going to happen to him,” Eidolon said, but he doubted she believed him, because he didn’t believe it either.

* * *

Warmth surrounded Idess like a blanket. A heady, masculine spice tickled her nose. Wriggling, she burrowed closer to the scent and warmth. After all the years of loneliness and feeling as if she didn’t belong—or deserve to belong anywhere—she finally felt at peace. She must be dreaming… except, she didn’t dream. She had nightmares. Not that she was going to complain. She was going to enjoy this wonderful feeling while she could.

“Idess?” The husky voice floated down to her. “Angel?”

“Mmm.”

“I gotta take a leak.”

She jerked upright, blinking, trying to focus her eyes and her brain. It took several seconds to recognize her bedroom, her bed… her demon that was chained to said bed.

Stunned by the realization that she’d fallen asleep on him, she muttered into her palm, “Oh, I’m… sorry. Are you okay?” Her weight had to have put extra pressure on his shoulders and arms.

“Yeah.” His voice was gruff. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, too. A sudden tenderness in her groin nixed the sleep theory, as arousal pulsed into her through their blood connection. Grr. She knew it had been a mistake to feed from him. “I just gotta take a piss.”

Flustered by the powerful sexual need coursing through her, she scrambled awkwardly off him, wondering how they were going to manage this. Wondering how much longer she could keep him prisoner.

She checked her watch and let out a mild curse.

“What is it?” Lore asked.

“It’s almost 3:00 A.M. in New York, which means that in about fifteen minutes, your girlfriend is probably going to be hunting me down with your Gargantua dagger.”

“You stole it from me?”

He sounded so indignant. “I borrowed it. But she took it.”

“And she knifed you?”

“Please. It was just a scratch.”

The morning sun streaked through the window and fell across his body but cut off abruptly at his neck, leaving his face in shadow. His espresso eyes seemed even darker in the gray wash.

“What do you plan to do?”

A note of jealousy rang through her at the way his voice had gone low and dangerous at the mention of his girlfriend. His fear hit her as well, a psychic blast that gave her a headache.

“Nothing,” she snapped irritably. “I’ll flash around and make her chase me, but I won’t kill her.”

“Why not? She hurt you and killed your Primori. Why not take revenge?”

“I’m an angel. I’m above that kind of selfish pettiness.” Liar.

“So you’re saying you’ve never let your emotions rule your actions? You’ve never done anything shitty to someone in your entire life? Not buying it.” He jerked on his chains, and her heart jerked in response. “What are you going to do to her, Idess?” He tugged on his chains again, more violently, and sparks of gold pierced the coal in his eyes.

His concern rattled her, became her concern. No matter how desperate she was, she would never feed from him again. “Lore—”

“Tell me!”

“I already said I won’t hurt her,” she said, but his doubt screamed in her mind so loudly she wanted to cover her ears. “We try not to mess with Primori lives if we can avoid it.”

His breath caught. “She’s Primori?”

“No, you are,” she blurted stupidly. So stupidly. Primori were never to be told what they were. The idea of being watched didn’t sit well with many of them, and in the past, they’d found ways to hide themselves. She had to get away from Lore. Now, before she said something else that compromised her. Or Kynan. Or the entire universe, with the way she was going. “I’ll be right back.”

Ignoring his irate curses, she hurried to the garage and found another length of chain. He’d stopped swearing by the time she returned, and he remained silent, watching her with shrewd, intelligent eyes while she rigged the chains so he had some freedom to move around. Not much, but he could at least get to the bathroom five feet away.

She stood back as he came to his feet smoothly, if a little stiffly. Instead of moving directly to the bathroom, he stalked toward her. More accurately, he stalked her. And now that he was on his feet, he was much bigger than she’d remembered, a wall of muscle and male flesh that filled her vision so there was nothing else but Lore. Every step made her heart skip a beat, as if the heavy thud of each footfall shocked it out of rhythm.

Though she knew the chain would stop him, she couldn’t help but take a step back.

The chain yanked him short two feet away. He stood there, dark eyes drilling into her and holding her as captive as he was.

“I’ll get free,” he growled. “And when I do, you’re going to experience everything I have. I promise you that.”

Swallowing dryly, she stepped forward, resisting the urge to flinch when he strained against the chains so he was no farther than an inch from her.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, surprising the wind out of her, and she suspected that if he could, he’d kiss her.

“You can’t best me,” she ground out, a little breathlessly.

“Yeah. I can.”

Oh, he was arrogant and intimidating and way too sexy for his own good. And worse, he might be right. She was vulnerable to him in a way she’d never been vulnerable to anyone before. Especially now, with his blood coursing through her veins, and his every desire and emotion channeling into her, making her sympathize with him. Empathize. Want him.

“Maybe we don’t have to best anyone,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as choked with lust to him as it did to her. “We can help each other.”

He smiled and lifted his gaze so their eyes were locked. “Agreed. You let me go, and I’ll do whatever you want.” He inhaled deeply, and his smile grew sinister. “And I know exactly what you want.”

Her body tingled and her heart raced, pushing super-heated blood through her veins. Yes, he knew exactly what she wanted. And it was something she could never have.

Nine

Wraith really hated family fucking meetings. Always had, always would. That he had a mate and kid now didn’t mean he loved to sit in Eidolon’s den and listen to his brothers chew him out for something.

Not that this would be an ass-chewing. Wraith had been a good boy—relatively, anyway—since Serena and his son had come into his life, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize the happiness he’d found.

So if this meeting wasn’t about him, he had a feeling it would be about Lore.

So fucking cool to finally not be the brother causing the trouble.

Mickey, Tayla’s ferret, attacked him the moment he walked through the front door of Eidolon’s Manhattan high-rise apartment. Wraith handed his infant son, Stewie, to Serena, just as the weasel scampered up his body and onto his shoulder, all chatter and nuzzling.

Serena laughed, a sound Wraith didn’t ever think he’d tire of hearing. Sometimes, he wondered how he’d lived without it for so long. “You weren’t kidding when you said he likes you.”

“Yeah,” he said, as he stroked a finger over the critter’s narrow head, “bugs the shit out of Tayla, too. Cracks me up.”

Serena lifted their son so he could see Mickey, and between the baby’s toothless grin and the weasel’s chatter, Wraith figured they’d end up the best of friends soon.

He left his mate and son in the living room with Tayla and Mickey, and as he was heading to E’s den, Shade came in, a baby in each arm. Behind him, Runa brought in the third of the triplets. She was smiling, but Shade didn’t look happy to be here. Obviously, the fight earlier was still too fresh. Which was odd, since Shade had never been one to nurse a grudge against E or Wraith—and Wraith had definitely deserved some continued resentment.

Wraith left him to get the kids settled and walked into E’s den. As usual, his brother was sitting at his desk, nose buried in a medical text, his dog, Mange, at his feet.

E looked up. “Is Shade here, too?”

“Yeah.” Wraith sank down on the leather sofa and sprawled out, kicking one foot up on the cushions.

Shade slammed into the room. “What’s this about?” He didn’t sit, just stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, jaws working overtime on a piece of gum. “Because if it’s about Lore, you’re wasting your time.”

“It’s about Lore,” E said softly. “But mostly it’s about his sister.”

Shade narrowed his eyes. “How does he have a sister? His mother was human, so any sister would be long dead or really fucking old.”

“He does have a sister, and she’s not going to be happy with us if anything happens to Lore.”

“So what?”

Abruptly, Eidolon came to his feet. “Gods, Shade! How can you be so cavalier about Lore’s fate?”

Shade’s eyes sparked gold, and Wraith braced himself for Jerry Springer, round two. “I’m not. I’m just not as in love with him as you are. And I couldn’t give a shit about the sister. I don’t know her, and I don’t want to.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Eidolon said. “I do know his sister. And you’re both going to want to.”

Wraith yawned. “I don’t.”

Eidolon shot him an annoyed look—as if Wraith hadn’t seen one of those before. “Yes you do. Because she’s not just Lore’s sister. I think she’s ours, too.”

“Hell’s bells,” Shade muttered. “I must have hit you in the head harder than I thought.”

“Her name is Sin,” E continued. “She’s Lore’s fraternal twin. And she’s a female Sem.”

Whoa. Wraith sat up straight and wondered if he looked as stunned, confused, and skeptical as Shade did. “That’s impossible.”

“I know. But I met her. Unless she’s using one hell of an illusion enchantment to change her appearance, she’s not faking it. I took DNA samples to be sure. We’ll know something tomorrow.”

Shade paced, his long strides forcing a U-turn every five steps. “Bullshit. You’re wrong. She put a spell on you or messed with your head.” He halted and swung around. “Hell, you’re so fucking desperate to save Lore, I wouldn’t put it past you to invent this new sister.”

“You think I’ve manufactured this?” Frost formed on E’s words, and shit, things were going to go critical.

Wraith shoved to his feet. “Ah… look. E’s got a hard-on for Lore, but he’s not a liar.” Gods, when had he become the voice of reason in the family?

Shade barked out a laugh. “So you think we should just roll over and let Lore kill Kynan so this sister doesn’t get her little feelings hurt?”

“Fuck that,” Wraith said. “Lore isn’t touching Kynan. But it’s a non-issue right now, since the angel took him. He could be dead.”

“What a shame,” Shade said in a taunting tone as he swung his head toward Eidolon in a blatant attempt to rile him… and it worked. E lunged.

Wraith caught him, and in one easy, fluid motion, shoved him against the wall. This was crazy. These two had never been at odds like this before. It wasn’t like E to be so hot-tempered, and it wasn’t like Shade to be so callous. Something was seriously wrong.

“We’re not doing this,” Wraith gritted out. “Not in a house full of kids. So you boys need to step off, or I’ll lay you both flat.” His threat pretty much flew in the face of what he’d just said about not fighting, but E and Shade were too busy snarling at each other to notice.

Shade put his fist through the wall. “No problem. House won’t be full of kids, because we’re out of here.” He moved toward the door.

“Shade!” Eidolon’s booming voice halted their brother in his tracks, though he didn’t turn around. “If you ever accuse me of trying to pull off a deception like that again, you’ll need more than Wraith to save you.”

Shade’s fists clenched at his sides, and for a long, drawn-out moment, the tension vibrating the air danced on Wraith’s skin. Finally, Shade stalked out, and the room seemed to breathe easier. At least, until E tried to follow.

“I don’t think so.” Wraith held him against the wall until the commotion outside and the slamming of the front door made it clear that Shade, Runa, and the little ones were gone. The moment he released E, his brother took a few laps around the room, dropping cuss-bombs with every step.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” E asked.

“Him? You’re both being assholes.” Wraith folded his arms over his chest. “E?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think this Sin chick is legit?”

Eidolon stiffened. “You doubt me, too?”

Wraith chose his words carefully, not wanting to send E into orbit again. “It’s just damned convenient. I know you’re not fucking with us, but what if she is? What if this is a scam to help Lore kill Kynan?”

“I don’t know, Wraith. I really don’t.”

Man, what a freak show. “What if it’s true? What would it mean that there is a female Sem in the world?”

“Best guess?”

Wraith nodded.

“Chaos,” Eidolon said grimly. “From what I’ve seen, this female is chaos on legs.”

* * *

Three A.M. New York time took forever to arrive.

Sin had hung out at the assassin den for a while, had won six hundred Sheoulin gold marks in two games of pool, but ultimately, the wait had driven her aboveground and back to Lore’s place. At least in his house, she could feel him, could hold on to the hope that he was still alive.

Finally, as the clock struck the devil’s hour, the dagger in Sin’s hand began to glow. The heat seeped into her palm and up her arm to her brain, as though it had plugged into its target’s life force.

Idess was a great distance away, but thanks to the Harrowgates, thousands of miles translated to seconds of travel time. Which was good, since Sin only had sixty minutes to work with the dagger.

She stepped into the gate near Lore’s shack. Closing her eyes, she let the dagger guide her hand over the lit maps of the world and Sheoul. When her fingers touched down, she opened her eyes once more.

The lines in the walls shifted, bringing Canada into detailed view. The dagger guided her hand to the north-west, to the Yukon Territory. Once again, the lines rear-ranged, focusing on the remote province. And then her finger came down near the center, and the Harrowgate opened up into a forest—and about three feet of snow.

Mother. Fuck. Did Canada not know it was May?

Idess must know she was being tracked, and she was going to make this as difficult as possible. Furious, Sin tapped the maps until she came out in Sheoul, at the gate near the assassin den. She hurried to her quarters, changed into her cold-weather gear, and hit the Harrowgate at a run. As she tapped the map to get back to Canada, she glanced at her watch.

Dammit! Half an hour wasted. She practically dove out of the Harrowgate, cursing up a storm in every language she knew. Not that she was fluent in any but English. She just knew a lot of cuss words.

Almost instantly, the cold ate her curses as her breath froze in her throat and nose. With every step, her boot broke through the thick crust of ice on top of the snow, slowing her down and pissing her off.

Sin was so going to torture Lore’s location out of this bitch.

Hands shaking, she peeled back her parka sleeve and checked her watch. Time was nearly up. And then, ahead… a lone figure stood in a clearing, wearing nothing but jeans, boots, and a damned tank top. How nice that abductor chick was impervious to the cold, while Sin was about to freeze to death.

“Where is he?” she called out. “Where is my brother?”

Idess blinked. “Brother?” For some reason, she smiled. “No worries. He’s fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

In Sin’s hand, the dagger vibrated, hungry for another taste of the female’s blood. But as Sin moved forward, Idess moved back.

“Let Lore go,” Sin growled.

“That’s not possible.”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” Sin took another step forward. Idess took another back. “Damn you! Lore can’t be held prisoner. He needs… he has needs.”

“Yes,” Idess said flatly. “I’ve discovered that.”

“If you’ve let him suffer—”

“I haven’t.” She glanced down at her watch and smiled. “Looks like our time here is done. If you want your brother returned, you’ll have a name for me next time we meet.”

“A name?”

“The name of the person who hired you and Lore.”

Sin sucked in a harsh breath and nearly choked on the icy air. “Can’t,” she wheezed. Jesus, even if she knew who hired them, to tell would break the assassin code and earn you a fate way worse than death.

Idess shrugged. “Then you won’t see Lore again.” She waggled her fingers and disappeared, leaving Sin half-frozen and furious in the middle of a godforsaken forest.

* * *

Idess had been gone almost twenty hours. Twenty freaking hours. She’d needed only an hour to evade Sin, and scenarios of what might have gone wrong kept tripping through Lore’s head. Worry, helplessness, and hunger gnawed at him, and he’d had to take care of his physical needs with annoying frequency.

For some reason, his releases had been unsatisfying, and tension remained just below the surface of his skin, as if at any moment his skin could split, releasing his inner demon for a devastating rampage. His body had experienced Idess, and it was her touch it craved, which could be a serious fucking problem if his usual methods for rage control began to fail.

So yeah, twenty hours spent worrying, jerking off, and plotting an escape that involved seducing Idess into letting him go. It was the lamest escape plan in the history of lame escape plans. She was two thousand years old. No way was she falling for the old I Love You So You Can Trust Me ploy.

Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t going to try. He just didn’t have high hopes for it.

He did, however, have high hopes for his other plan. Because when he’d cuffed himself while under the bore worm’s influence, his subconscious had been in self-preservation mode. He’d done a shitty-ass job, and with little else to do during the last twenty hours, he’d managed to work his left wrist out of the cuff, and if he could get Idess close enough, he could snare her.

But she needed to hurry back. In addition to his impending rage-out, his chest had begun to burn. Detharu was summoning him. Worse, the bond’s pulse, which grew stronger and faster as his deadline approached, had just kicked up a notch.

He’d been here for almost two days. Almost two days closer to Sin’s death. Assuming she was still alive, where did she think he was? She had to be worried. At least, as worried as Sin got about anything.

The sound of footsteps shocked his heart into a stuttered beat, and he quickly snapped his wrist back in the cuff, leaving it loosely closed. His gaze glued to the doorway, he held his breath as he waited to see whether Idess or Sin would walk through.

Idess. Strangely, he was as relieved to see her as he was suddenly afraid for Sin, and how fucked up was that?

Then she smiled, and his mouth dried up. That was a very wicked smile.

“So,” she said. “The Seminus female? Seems she’s your sister.”

Control was at a premium right now, and it took every last drop of it to keep from lunging at Idess and demanding answers. “I’m aware of that. If you did anything to her—”

“I said I wouldn’t.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I got her to follow me to the Canadian wilderness. I’ll have to keep avoiding her… tonight I’m thinking I’ll start in China, and then maybe bounce around a little. Do you think she’d like to see the Great Wall?”

Relieved that Sin was okay, Lore relaxed and put on a nonchalant smile. “Sin likes to travel.”

“Good. So do I.” She held up her hand, and bless her little angel heart, she had a bag of fast food. The scent of burgers and fries made his mouth water.

The sight of a long, creamy expanse of stomach between Idess’s bunched-up tank top and low-slung jeans did, too. His stomach growled and his cock hardened as his body played tug-o-war with its two hungers.

“You hungry?”

“You can’t even imagine.”

Regret swirled in her eyes. “I really am sorry, Lore. I’m not practiced at holding anyone captive.”

“Yeah, your rookie is definitely shining through,” he said gruffly. He didn’t know how to deal with a captor who was actually nice. If she’d beaten him or taunted him or even just said nothing at all, he’d be right in the zone. But Idess left him in a state of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now, when he normally knew exactly what to do in any situation.

She also left him in a state of arousal, and he definitely knew what to do in that situation.

He had to get her naked. And chained up. And if the signals she’d given off during and after her feeding were any indication, she wouldn’t mind. No, she’d been hot for him—that much had been certain.

She sank down next to him, and her hand came up to cup his cheek. The gesture was so tender, so intimate, that once more, he wasn’t sure how to react. His head felt like a damned Ping Pong ball.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long. Believe it or not, I’m trying to find a way out of this.”

“Ah… keys?” he suggested. “That would get me out of this.”

One corner of her mouth cocked up in a flirty little half-smile. “Nice try.”

“So that’s a no?”

“That’s a no.”

He glanced at the bag. “Could I get something to eat then?”

“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a Coke, burgers, fries, tots, and a chicken sandwich.” She gave him a puppy-dog-did-I-do-good look that made something inside him melt when nothing should be melting for this woman. His dick twitched, and okay, not everything was melting.

“At this point, I’d eat a fucking cactus,” he muttered, and her shoulders slumped a little. And he actually felt bad about making her feel bad.

Welcome to Stockholm Syndrome.

She handed him the bag and waited as he wolfed down the chicken sandwich and fries. When his stomach stopped rebelling so loudly, he slowed down. “So. Tell me about yourself.”

She blinked. “Me? There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’re two thousand years old, and you’re saying you have absolutely nothing to talk about?” He downed half the soda. “Tell me something about how you were born. Were your parents human?”

For a long time she sat there, long enough for him to eat one of the two burgers. One delicate hand came up to worry her ponytail as she spoke. “I was born of an angel… I was switched out with my mortal parents’ true infant daughter. They were slaves in a wealthy Roman household.”

“So you grew up thinking you were human?”

“Yes.”

He had, too, but deep down, he’d always felt different, and in the 20/20 hindsight, he could see the neon signs. Like the one where his mother screamed, “You’re the spawn of the devil!” And, “I should never have let that demon plant his seed in my womb.” Sure, all the doctors in the sanitarium said his mother was insane, but her “delusions” never changed, and the friends who had been with her the night they’d “summoned Satan” had confirmed everything his mother said. They hadn’t believed the dark-haired stranger with the tattoos on one arm was Satan himself, but they were sure he was either some sort of demon, or a con artist.

They were right on both counts.

“Was there ever anything that made you stand out?” he asked, mainly to get out of the past. “Did you feel different from everyone else?”

“Not all.” She twisted one of the gold bands in her hair the way she’d twisted her palm around his cock. “I felt perfectly at home until my nineteenth birthday.”

“So you lived a normal life? Married? Kids?”

“Not even close.”

He wasn’t a historian, but he’d thought that back in those days, when lifespans were short and girls married young, Idess would have been a rarity. It was probably rude to ask, but it was also rude to chain someone to a bed, so fuck it.

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story.”

He tugged on his chains. “It appears that I have nothing but time.”

Idess shifted, but he had a feeling that no matter how comfortable she got next to him, she wasn’t going to get comfortable with this subject. He’d definitely poked a bruise here.

“At the age of sixteen, I was given as a gift to the son of a nobleman.”

“But wouldn’t you have to be of noble birth or something to marry?”

“It wasn’t to marry.”

Her pained tone set his teeth on edge. “For sex? Like, a prostitute?”

“As a mistress. I was considered very beautiful,” she said, without an ounce of pride. “My virginity was the gift. I was with him for two years, but when he took a wife, I was sent to a cruel friend of his. If I pleased him, I was to become either his mistress, or a toy to share with friends.”

“Your master was a dick.” Man, he wished he could go back in time and kick that guy’s ass. Hard.

She laughed. “Before he could touch me, my brother Rami came for me, and the friend died a suitably horrible death in battle a few years later.”

He purred with approval. “God, I love a bloodthirsty woman.”

“Well, you are an assassin.”

“I wasn’t always.” A note of defensiveness crept into his voice. “I’m more than a killer.” Though, was that true? Even he doubted his own words. He’d been nothing but a killer since the day he got his gift. And when he’d gone to work for Detharu, his killer status had only been secured. He’d even earned the title of First Assassin. How special. Yeah, he was real proud to be so good at offing people that he’d won an award.

He was such a piece of shit.

“How are you more?” There was no condemnation there. Only curiosity, and he couldn’t answer. Her hand came up to his chest, right over his slave mark, and a sweet, balmy heat broke out over his skin. “Your master… he can summon you through this, yes?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. He concentrated on bringing his libido down, concentrated on the odd cooling sensation in her hand. It wasn’t working. “He’s been trying all day.”

Her hand froze, and her nails dug into his skin. The luscious pleasure-pain made his breath catch. “What will happen if you don’t go?”

“The pain will gradually get worse, until I need to go or suffer in agony.”

She sucked in a startled breath. “How long?”

“Depends on how bad he wants to see me. And I’ll tell you right now that he’s got a real burr up his ass about it.”

She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her ponytail slid around, brushing his waist, and man, what he wouldn’t give to free her hair, let it shroud his body in silk as she kissed her way down. “How bad is it? Right now, I mean.”

“It burns,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. He felt like he had a hot iron on his chest. “But your hand… it’s cool. It feels good.”

She lifted her head. “I can get you ice.”

“Doesn’t work.” He covered her hand with his—his right hand, partly because his left was in a precarious position in the loose-fitting cuff, and partly because he could touch her with his dermoire-marked hand as long as it was still braceleted in the Bracken Cuffs. “But this is helping. I don’t know why. Your touch is magic.”

He was supposed to be seducing her. Supposed to be making her believe she was beautiful and perfect and sexy. Supposed to be doing all of that to get the fuck out of here. But suddenly, he wanted to do it because she was all those things. He brought her hand to his mouth. Though his chest began to burn again, it was worth the discomfort to be able to brush his lips across the soft skin of her knuckles. “You make me burn far more than anything my bond can do.”

She made a small surprised sound, just a whisper of air, a catch of her breath. “If you’re trying to seduce me, I told you it won’t work.” And yet, she was breathless, and he could scent her spicy arousal. When she shifted, the neckline of her top gaped, revealing deep cleavage that was at once too much flesh, and not enough.

“Oh, it’ll work,” he drawled. “It just won’t get me free.”

She bristled. “Then what is your plan? You have to have one. I would.”

He rocked his head back against the wall and watched her through half-lidded eyes. “Come closer.”

“So you can try to hurt me? I don’t think so.”

“No,” he murmured. “So I can touch you. Everywhere.”

She stared at him as if his words were a trick, but his incubus senses picked up the sound of her heart beating faster, her breaths coming in a rolling stutter, and he knew she was putting his audio to visual. “You’re a pig,” she said, with a lot less conviction than he knew she was capable of.

“You want me to turn into a raging monster?” Actually, he wasn’t in much danger at the moment, but she wouldn’t know that. He just… wanted her.

“You have plenty of slack in your chains. If you need release, you have a hand…” She cleared her throat. “The bathroom is right over th—”

“I need to touch,” he growled. “I’m an incubus, Idess. I need contact. A female. You. This is torture.” Sure, he was playing on her guilt, but he wasn’t lying. Having her so close and being unable to do anything about it was killing him.

Her chin came up, all haughty. “You ask too much of me.”

“Then, will you…” He took a deep breath. “Will you kiss me?”

Her lids flew up. “What? No. I can’t.”

“Is it against your angel rules?”

She swallowed hard enough for him to hear. “No, but—”

“Then give me that at least.”

“I don’t have much experience with kissing.” Her gaze jerked away, and he felt the odd need to comfort her.

“Neither do I,” he admitted.

“Liar,” Idess whispered.

“Not about this,” he whispered back.

Their gazes locked. Tension bloomed like a Sheoulin rose, dark, beautiful and, potentially, poisonous. And then, with agonizing slowness, she leaned forward and braced herself on his shoulders. The first, fleeting contact of her lips against his sent a buzz of lust through him. The second contact was bolder, lingering, and the buzz grew strong enough to send reverberations all the way to his toes.

She might not know what she was doing, but it didn’t matter, because what she was doing was enough. More than enough. He lifted his face to meet hers, to intensify the kiss that was already building steam. When her tongue flicked timidly across his bottom lip, he jerked as if he’d been goosed and damned near forgot why he’d asked her to kiss him in the first place.

Steeling himself, he eased his wrist out of the cuff. Flexed his fingers. Wished he could touch her, could run with this kiss and see where it would lead.

Instead, he struck.

Ten

The ominous sound of metal clamping around Idess’s wrist reached her ears a split second before Lore flipped her over and slammed her into the mattress.

“Remember when I said I’d get free and make you experience everything I had?” he growled.

“You bastard!” Still dazed from the kiss, she struck out with her free hand, but he caught her fist, tugged it up to his chained hand, and took it prisoner. Effortlessly, he pinned her with his heavy body and drove his fingers into her jeans pocket.

“I’m the bastard? You’re the one who chained me up.”

“You gave me no choice!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled, and she knew he’d found the key to the cuffs. “Killing Kynan is a no-no. Bad Lore, bad.”

Snarling, she rocked her head up to catch him in his lying mouth, desperate to cause any kind of damage she could. If he freed himself… well, she didn’t even want to think about what he could do to her. To Kynan. He reared back, and she caught only a glancing blow to his chin.

“Feisty,” he mused. “I like it. Gimme more.”

“Oh, I’ll give you more.” The Bracken Cuffs prevented her from morphing into her fallen angel father’s form, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She brought her knee up hard, nailing him on the inner thigh. He sucked air and wrestled her leg back down before trapping both her legs between his.

Cursing, he lunged, and she heard the click of the key in the cuff lock. In an instant, he was free, and both her wrists were secured. He rolled off her and yanked on the chains, tugging them taut and pinning her to the bed with her arms stretched above her. She shouted in frustration, but he must have taken it as a cry of pain, because he loosened the chains before looping them around the bedposts, effectively keeping her from getting to her feet.

For the first time, she wished she could still sense his emotions, could use the knowledge to get her out of this. Instead, she’d wasted hours burning off the blood link at a distance, feeling what he felt while safely away from him. She liked to think she was strong, but every time the lust he felt pulsed through her, she’d fallen to her knees and prayed for the willpower to not go to him.

“You’re going to pay for this!” She threw everything she had into an assault on the chains, screaming and pulling until she was sure her arms would pop out of their sockets.

Lore reached for her, but snatched his hand away at the last second. Foul words fell from his lips as he found one glove and his jacket on the floor. He tugged them on, and the next thing she knew, he was on top of her again, settling down as if her body was the most comfortable place in the world to be. His weight acted like a blanket, wrapping around her and calming her like a swaddled infant.

“There, now,” he said softly. “The tables have been turned. The captor is now the captive, and all those other fun movie lines I never thought I’d say.”

Idess’s heart pounded against her rib cage as helplessness and fresh anxiety set in. “Let me go.”

“Like you let me go when I asked?”

She swallowed. “Please. You can’t kill Kynan. He’s important.”

“Yeah. Important to me.”

“To the world.”

“I think the world will survive without one human asshole.”

Actually, it might not, but she’d found that demons rarely cared about the fate of humankind, so she switched tacks. “This isn’t just about the world. I have a personal stake in his life.”

He snorted. “What, you won’t earn your wings if he dies?”

“That’s exactly what will happen.”

He rolled his eyes, but when she just stared, he stiffened. “You’re serious.”

“You can’t even imagine.” Tremors of panic swept from her toes to her scalp. Only a handful of Memitim had never Ascended, were doomed to either guard Primori forever or spend eternity as a human, being born again and again and never making it into Heaven. Some had even been snuffed out of existence. But as terrible as those punishments sounded, they weren’t her primary motivation for not wanting to fail.

If she didn’t succeed in protecting the most important human in existence, the very fate of all mankind, of billions of souls, would be affected when the ultimate battle between good and evil erupted on Earth.

Her betrayal of Rami had weighed on her for twelve hundred years, and every day she’d prayed for a chance to beg forgiveness. But if she betrayed the human race? There would be no absolution.

Something hot and wet dripped down her cheek. A tear. Geez, she hadn’t cried in centuries. Not since the day Rami had Ascended. Before she knew it, the tear turned into a stream and suddenly she wasn’t just sniffling or even crying. She’d gone into a full-on bawl that included great, shuddering sobs and gasps for air.

“Idess… calm down… Idess?” Lore’s hands framed her face. “Hey. It’s okay. Easy, Angel. Easy…”

She cried harder. She couldn’t stop… it was as if she’d been storing tears for all these hundreds of years, and now, like a dormant volcano that had finally erupted, the flow wouldn’t be stemmed.

Then Lore’s lips were on hers, and he was kissing her. His mouth followed the trail of tears across her cheeks as his thumbs, one bare, one leather-clad, swept back and forth across skin that had grown as sensitive as if it were sunburned.

“Shh…” He tenderly kissed her ear. “It’s all right.”

“No,” she moaned, because it was far from all right.

His hands stroked her cheeks, his bare thumb drifting lazily across her bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not used to handling anything like this. I don’t know what to do.”

“I—” She cut off when the tip of his thumb slipped into her mouth. She didn’t think. Didn’t want to.

On impulse, she latched on to it and drew it deeper into her mouth. His eyes darkened and his mouth fell open so his piercing flashed and wow, if she’d thought she’d had power over him before, when he’d been at her mercy, chained, and needing release… it was nothing compared to now. The knowledge that she could affect him while she was restrained was a revelation.

Now she just had to figure out how, exactly, to use what she’d just learned.

Drawing on her very rusty seduction skills, she swirled her tongue around his knuckle and then nipped the pad. When he released a ragged breath, a zing of pure excitement shot through her in a powerful, almost sexual rush. Her breasts grew achy, her belly fluttered, and okay, there was no almost about it. Bringing a male pleasure was an aphrodisiac, for sure.

“I hate how much I want you.” His voice was rough, as though he also hated that he’d made such a confession.

She squeezed her eyes closed. “Is it bad that I’m glad you hate it?”

“I’d think it was weird if you didn’t.” He pulled his thumb from her mouth and slid his hand along the curve of her neck. Her skin tingled under his palm, and her nipples tightened into hard little beads.

Why did he have to be so understanding? She wanted to rail at him, to fight him, but he captured her mouth with his in a surprisingly gentle kiss given how tense his body was, how rapid his breathing. His tongue teased the seam of her lips, tiny, wet flicks. She told herself that he wasn’t affecting her, that she wasn’t loosening up, that opening up to him was about seducing him.

But as she parted her lips, all she could think about was how good it felt to be touched like this, no matter what the circumstances.

With a moan, Lore thrust his tongue into her mouth to tangle with hers. The cool, smooth piercing against her tongue was an erotic contrast to the rough heat of the kiss. He shifted to ease his hand between them to her breast, and lower, his arousal came into contact with her core. Against her will, she arched against him, welcoming the pressure and friction and sudden hot wetness that flooded her.

She had enough play in the chains to thread her fingers through his hair, and the moment she did, he jerked as though he’d felt an electric shock.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured against his lips.

Lifting his head, he blinked down at her. “Just…” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.” She had no idea why she wanted to know so badly, given that he’d just imprisoned her and made her cry.

He also made her burn.

But he said nothing, instead he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder and kissed her there. Again, she arched up, and he began to grind against her, sparking a deep ache.

His hand roved down, between their bodies, and with a flick of his nimble fingers, he ripped open her jeans. Panic flared, and she stiffened.

“Lore… no. I can’t.”

His calloused palm slid into her panties to cup her intimately, and she nearly swallowed her tongue. “Can’t what?”

“H-have sex. Intercourse.”

A soft curse whispered across her skin. But then one finger slid between her folds and his lips caressed her ear as he said, “Can you do this? Let me make you feel good?”

Yes. “No,” she moaned, gasping when his fingertip brushed her clit.

“You’re lying. I can feel it.”

Yes, she was. Sort of. This didn’t have anything to do with her vow of chastity. This was about her, and what being intimate in any way with this man would do to her.

“Don’t,” she said, but her body betrayed her, and she rocked into his touch.

“Don’t what?” One finger slipped inside her core, and she nearly wept with pleasure. “Don’t do this?”

She couldn’t speak anymore. Even breathing had become an effort. Intercourse and self-gratification were forbidden, but what about gratification at the hands of others? Oh, no doubt it was prohibited, but even Rami had admitted that there was a murkiness in the vow, probably intentional, to allow for free will to get you into trouble.

And Lore was definitely trouble.

“Do you want to come?” Another finger joined the first, stretching her sensitive tissue and sending streams of almost overwhelming sensation straight to her brain. “Say it.”

Her teeth were clenched too hard for her to speak. She squirmed, trying to get his thumb to the right place, trying to get it away from the right place—both, neither, because she didn’t know what she wanted at this point.

He didn’t let up, kept making little back-and-forth sweeps across the tip of her clit that drove her out of her mind and to a place where her physical needs were beating down her thoughts.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“No,” she gasped.

“I want to watch.” He dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers. “I want to see you come so badly, Idess. Let me.”

He wanted this. Giving him what he wanted was part of the seduction, right? She was chained and helpless and she couldn’t be blamed if she did whatever it took to get free and protect Kynan. Besides, Lore was Primori, and she couldn’t betray the Memitim/Primori relationship by denying something her charge wanted.

The reasonings were pathetically weak, but it was all she had and she was starving for this and she barked out a desperate, “Yes!”

His smile was one of primal male triumph. His fingers began a furious, deep pumping rhythm, and his thumb circled and swept. It had been so long since she’d experienced this that it all felt new and wondrous, and she was absolutely certain that the best full-on sex she’d had hadn’t been this good.

Lore added another finger, increased the pressure with his thumb, and her body went wild, thrashing as she detonated. Colors swirled behind her eyelids like a kaleidoscope, carrying her through the ecstasy as his hand worked its magic. He brought her down with gradually lighter strokes, until finally she could breathe—and see—again.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. His half-lidded gaze was intent, awed, and so full of hunger that her body instantly sparked to life again. “God, you’re—” He broke off with a wince. Tiny pinpoints of crimson peppered his dark eyes as he glanced at the bathroom.

“I… I have to—” He swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice was so deep and gravelly that she felt it inside, almost as though that tone was meant to prepare a woman for penetration. “Need… privacy.” He shoved to his hands and knees above her.

“No. Please. Stay.” Shockingly, he halted. “I want… I want to watch.” I don’t want to be alone. Alone meant time to think. And regret.

A low growl of approval dredged up from his chest as he unzipped his pants.

* * *

Lore couldn’t believe he was about to do this. He’d never had any sexual hangups—well, other than the fact that sex tended to kill his partners, but still. He’d never jerked off in front of anyone before. And though Idess’s request had been a massive turn-on, his hand was shaking as he undid his fly.

So maybe he did have hangups.

“Shit,” he growled. “I can’t.” He started to climb off the bed.

“Please?” Idess lay there, all sprawled out, relaxed, sated, the scent of sex coming off her and wreaking havoc on his libido.

He wanted to be inside her, not touching himself in a dark bathroom like some sort of pervert, while she was just feet away. But he also had no experience being so… sexual… in front of a female. Oh, he had arrogance in spades and overactive male instincts roaring through him, but he also wasn’t sure stroking himself while a bound female watched was something he could do.

“You’re embarrassed?” The surprise in her voice lashed at his already shredded control.

“I’m not a fucking virgin.”

“You haven’t been with many females, though, have you?”

Now that was just insulting. He’d been with some. He just hadn’t been with any more than once. And those he had been with were all about instant gratification—get in and out with no playtime. No real touching.

No connection.

This… this would be a connection. He didn’t know why or how, but it would. He just felt it. And feeling anything for this woman would be bad. That he did know.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to answer. And you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

The fact that she was being so nice to him, was so concerned about his feelings, pissed him off. He’d just turned the tables on her, chained her up, could do anything he wanted to her… Biting back a nasty curse, he adjusted his erection, even as the pressure built under his skin and in his balls. “Why? Why do you want to watch?”

“Because,” she said in a husky voice, “you’re beautiful, too.”

His heart tripped over her words, and warmth spread through him. No one had ever complimented him like that, with such… reverence.

Ruthlessly shoving his reservations aside, he gripped his shaft with his bare hand. He heard her soft intake of breath, the little hitch that somehow turned him on more than anything ever had. His stomach tightened and he had trouble breathing, and holy shit, having her watch… a total turn-on he hadn’t anticipated. Now that his power was no longer contained by the Bracken Cuffs, all he had to worry about was keeping his right arm away from her when he came.

“See?” Her voice was hoarse. “Not so hard, is it?”

“Oh, it’s hard,” he ground out, and her lips quirked in a smile.

“And big.”

His cock pulsed as though happy with the compliment. Damned thing was too stupid to realize she was doing what he’d done—toss out niceties to get on the captor’s good side. Not that what she’d said wasn’t true.

“You say the nicest things.”

Completely at ease now, he ran his bare hand up and down, loving how altering the speed or the length of the strokes made her eyelids grow heavy, or how, when he changed it up even more and twisted his fist around the head, her mouth would fall all the way open. And Jesus, when he rubbed the cap with the flat of his palm, she actually licked her lips.

Emboldened, he moved closer, teasing her with the sight of his cock. “You like this, don’t you?” Her eyes flew up to his. “Tell me what you want me to do.” When her mouth worked but nothing came out, he smiled and stopped stroking. “What’s the matter? You embarrassed?”

Anger sparked in those amazing rum-colored depths, and along with it, the light of battle. Freaking hot.

“Stroke.” The command might have been more effective if there hadn’t been a slight quaver in her voice, but he did as she’d ordered. Slowly.

“How’s that?”

“Faster.”

Suppressing a groan, he increased the speed, but not by much.

“I said, faster. And… and do that twisty thing you do when your hand is at the top.”

He would have laughed at the cute fierceness in her voice, if he wasn’t too busy holding back his orgasm. Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he clenched his teeth and panted through the growing pressure.

“Stop,” she said, and damn her, he barely had the control to obey. “Slide your hand down. To your… your balls.” Splotches of pink colored her cheeks. She was powerful and sexy, yet the word “balls” made her blush.

Lore loved that.

He let his palm ride slowly down his shaft. By the time he reached his sac, his cock was aching. “Now what?”

“Rub them,” she said breathlessly. “Pretend I—a female was doing it.”

Closing his eyes, he cursed, because it was so easy to pretend it was her warm palm cupping him, rolling his balls gently between her fingers as she’d done before. She made him play for a minute, and just as he was about to beg her to let him do more, she said, “Now. Make yourself come.” Her voice lowered dangerously. Seductively. “On me.”

Surprise shot through him and the climax came on its heels, her words sparking a chain reaction that went nuclear. He barely had time to fall forward to brace himself on his right arm, keeping it well out of the range of her touch as he pumped his seed onto her hard, flat abs. His vision went completely offline as pleasure short-circuited a couple of his senses, including his hearing, because he heard Idess talking but had no idea what she was saying. He just wanted her to keep saying it, because her voice was an aphrodisiac, and his orgasm went on and on…

Finally, as his trembling arm threatened to collapse under his weight, it ended. His head swam and his breath felt like fire in his throat. He opened his eyes and met Idess’s.

“I’m so jealous,” she whispered, and he blinked.

“Of what?”

Her head fell back on the pillow, and she stared up at the ceiling with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. “You’re so alive, Lore. There’s fire in you. A will to live, when all I want is to be done with this life.”

An unfamiliar emotion clogged Lore’s throat, cutting off his breath. A will to live? He couldn’t care less about his own life. What he did care about was Sin, and making sure she never had to be owned again. Until that happened, he had to hang on. She was one of the reasons he’d hoped his brothers didn’t turn out to be total shits, and that she’d get to know them. She needed someone to take care of her. Someone better than Lore.

“Don’t be jealous of me,” he croaked. “There is nothing about me you should envy. I’m a terrible person.”

A smile trembled on her lips. “Your choices are terrible, but a terrible person wouldn’t love your sister the way you do.”

He didn’t buy that, not by a long shot. But strangely, Idess was right about one thing. He was alive—at least, now he was. For the first time since going through the transition that had turned him into a cold killer, he felt a spark. The banter with Idess energized him. Their battles challenged him. The sex excited him. Sure, none of that had happened under ideal conditions, but he had to wonder what things would be like between them if they weren’t going head to head over Kynan.

And if she wasn’t chained up.

He stifled an insane laugh, because all of that was a dream, and he’d never been a dreamer. Besides, once Kynan was dead, Lore figured his brothers—or Idess—would make sure he never dreamed again.

* * *

Who in their right mind built a medical facility for demons? It was a question Rariel had asked since the day he’d heard about Underworld General, and as he searched for the Harrowgate’s UGH symbol, he found he was actually curious about it.

UGH. He had to chuckle at the utter lack of forethought someone had displayed when he’d named the hospital. Moron.

This would be the sixth time he’d been there, though the first five times he hadn’t even stepped out of the Harrowgate. He’d simply opened it up, let Roag out or in, and continued. Apparently, the curse Roag’s brother had saddled him with had left the shriveled demon not only invisible to most, but without the ability to manipulate objects like the Harrowgate or doors, which made travel difficult.

Poor guy. Being betrayed by a sibling was the worst pain one could experience, and Rariel knew that first-hand.

He cast a sympathetic glance at Roag, who appeared to Rariel as a transparent specter, not nearly as solid as spirits were. And, unlike spirits, Roag’s only communication with Rariel came telepathically.

“Are you ready?” Rariel asked.

Yes.

Rariel tapped the hospital glyph with anticipation. This time, he was going to deliver his traveler and hang out. Observe. Plot.

The gate opened, and he stepped out. The emergency room was bustling, but he doubted anyone else could see that.

Most of the people milling around were ghosts, and as Roag entered the hospital, those spirits went mad. Some fled, some cowered, some stood in place and wailed until Rariel wanted to clap his hands over his ears.

Rariel’s invisible friend terrified the ghosts, and even the living beings in the emergency room became suddenly agitated.

A female vamp wearing scrubs approached him. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Rariel said, as Roag literally ripped into one of the screaming ghosts. That was the fun thing about spirits. You could tear them apart, causing unimaginable pain, and yet, they didn’t die. “I’m just here to watch.”

“Suit yourself, creep.” The vampire walked away, and he settled in beneath the Waiting Area sign. Distantly, he heard pitched, angry voices, and in another direction, something screamed. The spirits were still freaking out, wailing and beating the walls.

Nearby, between one plastic-covered couch and a sturdy stone table, two females gathered three infants closer to them. The pretty female with brown hair and striking champagne eyes let out a wolflike growl. The harder-looking female with red hair caressed the hilt of a blade in her hip scabbard, her green warrior’s eyes alert.

The moment Roag spotted them, fury blasted off him in a concussion wave that affected everyone in the emergency department. Staff and patients missed steps, dropped equipment, hugged themselves as though cold.

Roag moved toward the little group, murder in his eyes. Ah, yes… the females were Sem mates, and the triplets were Sem cubs. This was the family of the very brothers Roag wanted destroyed. And interestingly, one of the infants seemed to see him. Roag smiled… at least, the twist of his lips looked like a smile. He shifted form into a big Sem with shoulder-length, dark hair.

The little one reached out his hand toward Roag. Roag circled the family, and the baby watched, squirming in its mother’s arms as it tried to reach for Roag.

“Rade, take it easy,” the female said, hefting the baby tighter against her.

Roag shot Rariel a grin, and Rariel’s stomach twisted. He might be evil, a sick fuck in his own right, but torturing any species’ young was not something he enjoyed.

But as Roag’s thoughts melded with his, he relaxed. He wouldn’t have to torture. Just kill.

Eleven

“Kynan, please. Stay at the hospital with me. You’re safe here.”

Kynan Morgan had a hard time denying his wife anything, but he had been a soldier in the Army and for The Aegis for most of his life, and it wasn’t in his nature to hide from the enemy.

How often, though, was the enemy your best friends’ brother?

He wrapped his arms around Gem, the soft rasp of her purple scrubs against his leather jacket a comforting sound. He loved holding her, couldn’t believe that there had been a time when he’d foolishly wanted nothing to do with her.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmured into her hair. “I was battling demons even before I became all untouchable and immortal.” And before he learned he had an angel in his family tree.

“I don’t care.” She gave a petulant shake of the head and stepped back, hands on hips. “You never had a trained killer after you before.”

“I’ll be surrounded by Guardians, Gem. Tayla will be with me the whole time you’re on shift. Your sister would never let anything happen to me.”

Gem tugged on one violet-streaked braid. “I know. But what if—”

“Shh.” He pressed two fingers to her lips. “I promise I’ll be okay. I have an angel watching over me, too.”

She grasped his hand. “They should all be watching over you. It’s stupid that they can’t.”

He thought so, too. Reaver had explained the situation back when Serena had been keeper of the amulet, Heofon, and even then Kynan had to call bullshit on the whole can’t-interfere-with-human-will crap. At least his Primori status—whatever that was—had gotten around the no-interference rule a little.

He understood Gem’s worry, though—the chain around his neck held the key to unimaginable destruction, and thanks to the events of last month, it wasn’t as secret as it should be. It made him a target, and he couldn’t help but wonder who could have known that Lore was the only non-angel who could kill him. Only a handful of people had been present at Kynan’s resurrection and gifting of the necklace and immortality charm, and there was no way the Sem brothers would have talked, any more than the Guardians would have. Probably. Not everyone in The Aegis was happy about the fact that Tay and Ky were still Guardians, and they were both still dealing with the fallout.

Gem’s green eyes became liquid as she kissed his knuckles. “Just be careful.”

“Always.” He had a baby on the way, one who would be born charmed—the first ever to receive the immortality gift in that manner—and he would make damned sure he was around to raise it. And to make more. Gem wanted a big family, and so did he.

But in order to have his big family, he had to deal with the threat to it.

Lore.

His gut knotted. He owed the Sem brothers big-time. They’d given him a job, a wife, a life. But he’d take out the brother they hadn’t even gotten a chance to know in a heartbeat. Though he hadn’t told Tayla, he had every member of the Sigil using their resources to scour the planet for the demon.

Eidolon had better pray that he found Lore before Kynan did.

* * *

“She’s definitely our sister, Shade.”

Eidolon stared at the DNA report as he spoke into the phone. This was crazy. Unreal. He’d had the test run twice to ensure accuracy and to confirm that no one had tampered with the report, even though in his heart he’d known since yesterday.

Sin sat on the bed in one of the patient rooms, feet swinging while she waited for him. Through the window to the room, she looked small and innocent as she stared at the anatomy posters on the wall. She’d come back as she’d said she would, though Eidolon had no doubt she wouldn’t stay once she got the autopsy report on the warg she’d killed. She had no new helpful information on Lore, except that she’d had a tense confrontation with Idess, and Eidolon was starting to worry.

Making matters worse, he’d had to suspend four staff members for fighting, three for dereliction of duty, a patient had died today when a nurse had accidentally injected a lethal dose of medicine, and now the family of the dead Mamu was threatening bodily harm against all staff members. To top it all off, tension still pulsed between him and his brothers, particularly Shade.

All this time, he’d taken pride in the hospital he and his brothers had built from the ground up, and yeah, UG was an amazing accomplishment. But now its heart—its denizens—were sick, and he couldn’t help but feel that it was his fault, that he’d neglected them somehow. And by suspending workers, he was treating individual symptoms instead of the underlying illness, but at this point, slapping on a bandage was his only option.

“E,” Shade said, his voice drowned out by the sound of the ambulance engine, “this is freaky. Hope dear old dad doesn’t have any more surprises in store for us. Half-goats, dog-boys…”

“I know.” Eidolon glanced at Tayla, who had just joined him. “Look, I gotta go. Runa’s waiting for you. Wraith will be here any second with an exorcist.”

He hoped that getting rid of the ghosts would end the problems plaguing the hospital’s staff, but even if it did, this was an example of his failure to consider all potential problems that might affect his workers. He should have been practicing preventive medicine instead of waiting until an emergency cropped up.

He should have seen this coming a long time ago, though he had to wonder why it was happening now.

“Good. I’ll be there in five.” Shade paused. “I’m bringing in another warg.”

Eidolon’s stomach slid to his feet. “Diseased?”

“Looks like. Same symptoms as the first two.”

The first two. Who were dead. Apparently, the one Sin had diseased had transmitted his mysterious ailment to another, who had come in just hours after the first warg. If Shade’s patient was sick with the same symptoms, they could be looking at a possible outbreak. Eidolon hadn’t told Sin about the second warg, but a few minutes ago he’d taken more blood from her to analyze.

“Tell Runa to go to my office,” Shade said. “I don’t want her and the boys anywhere near this patient.”

“You got it,” E said, but Shade had already hung up.

Eidolon snapped his phone shut, called the triage desk with the message for Runa, and then stared at the DNA report again. “This is so fucked up.”

Tayla stole a peek at the report. “What’s fucked up? The Smurfette?”

“The what?”

“Smurfette.” Tayla rolled her eyes. “You’ve never watched cartoons, have you?”

Wraith came around the corner, his leather duster flapping around his boots. He shot Tay a look drenched with sympathy. “E’s way too starched to watch cartoons. That’s so not happening to Stewie. He’s already digging The Simpsons.”

“He’s three weeks old!” Tayla gaped at Wraith in out-rage.

“Almost four.”

Tayla huffed. “Good God. I can’t believe you are raising a child. Isn’t there some sort of demon equivalent of Child Protective Services?”

“Hey.” Wraith crossed his arms over his chest. “I have as much right to screw up a kid as anyone else. So what’s going on, anyway?”

Eidolon really had no idea, since he’d never seen The Simpsons, and Stewie, Wraith’s son, had been named after some hell child on another cartoon Eidolon hadn’t seen. Fortunately, the kid also had a proper demon name, but Wraith and his mate, Serena, seemed to think he needed time to grow into Talon, so for now, Stewie it was. In any case, this conversation was either way over Eidolon’s head, or way beneath him. He was going to go with the latter.

Tayla cursed under her breath. “I was just explaining to Eidolon that Sin is a Smurfette.”

Wraith swung his big body around to study Sin with blue eyes that were very different from Shade’s, E’s, and Lore’s. Sin’s, too. “Nah. Smurfette is way hotter.”

“What the fuck is a Smurfette?” Eidolon was seriously getting annoyed now.

“There’s this cartoon called The Smurfs,” Tayla explained, slowly, as though Eidolon were the child here. “They’re these little blue people, and they’re all male. But one day a female shows up. She shouldn’t exist, but she does.”

Eidolon considered that for a second. “How did she get there?”

“An evil wizard named Gargamel made her,” Tayla said. “In a lab or something.”

“So you’re suggesting that an evil wizard made Sin?”

“Of course not, silly. I’m just saying she’s a Smurfette. A lone female amongst males.”

Eidolon frowned. “Did the Smurfette mate with the males?”

“Dude.” Wraith grimaced. “It’s a cartoon.”

“Then why are we talking about this?” Eidolon asked, and Wraith and Tayla exchanged looks that said he was a hopeless case. “Wraith, did you find an exorcist?”

Wraith shoved his blond hair back from his face. “Yup. He’s a weird one. Left him in the emergency department to get a feel for things.”

“Good. I’ll have him start work right away. If there’s anything he needs, I want you to get it for him.” As the hospital’s procurer of nontraditional supplies unique to demon medicine, dealing with an exorcist’s needs fell within Wraith’s job description.

“No problem.” Wraith jerked his chin at Sin. “Did she find Lore?”

Sudden tension took root at the mention of Lore’s name. “No.”

“Hope he’s not dead,” Wraith said, startling Eidolon. His brother stuck his hand in a coat pocket, probably feeling up a weapon. “If he needs killing, we should do the honors.”

Okay, yeah. That was more like it. “Wraith—”

“What?” The challenge in Wraith’s voice was what made Eidolon back down. Not that he was afraid of going toe-to-toe with his brother, but that was exactly what Wraith wanted, and Eidolon wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. There had been too much fighting between them lately.

“Nothing. Just make sure Kynan has a lot of backup. If one assassin has been sent after him, there could be more.”

“Kynan hasn’t been left without a Guardian since all this began,” Tayla said. “In fact, it’s my turn to stay with him. I need to go.”

“Be careful.”

“It’s no fun if I do that.” She kissed him and took off, and Eidolon took a much-needed moment to admire her swinging retreat.

Wraith stared after Tayla, but for different reasons. “What does The Aegis think of all this?”

“They don’t know any more than we do,” Eidolon replied, returning his gaze to his brother. “Kynan said they know a hit has been put out on him, so they’re prepared to have to fight fallen angels, but they don’t know who’s behind the hire.”

“You know,” Wraith muttered, “life was a whole lot easier when we hated all humans and didn’t give a shit what happened to the lot of them.” He laughed. “Okay, I couldn’t say that with a straight face. I still don’t give a shit.”

That wasn’t entirely true—Wraith considered Kynan a friend and brother, and then there was the fact that he’d fallen in love with Serena while she was still human. And he had a human father-in-law who also happened to be a member of The Aegis’s Sigil. Wraith wheeled around. “I’m going to see if Exorcist Dude needs anything, and then I’m going home to Serena and the hellspawn.”

He jogged off, nearly colliding with Shade as their brother took a corner.

“Where’s the fire?” Shade shouted after him, but Wraith kept going. Shaking his head, Shade stopped in front of Eidolon. “What’s going on?”

“Sun’s up.”

Shade nodded in understanding. As a vampire now, Wraith’s mate was all but trapped in their home during daylight hours, and Wraith didn’t like leaving her unprotected. Not that she was completely helpless. He’d had an underground tunnel built from their cellar that led into a maze of caverns with exits near Harrowgates, and within a month, one would lead directly to the hospital.

“How’s the warg?” E asked.

“Not good. Shakvhan is working on him, but he’ll be lucky to make it another five minutes.”

“Damn.” Eidolon shoved his hand through his hair. “I’m going to set up an isolation room in case we get any more. And until further notice, I want all warg staff to avoid the emergency department and all warg patients.”

“And I’ll inform my warg medics that they’re banned from responding to any calls that involve werewolves.” Shadows came alive in Shade’s nearly black eyes, writhing angrily. “This was the last thing we needed right now.”

“The ghost problem should be fixed soon, so that’ll be one thing off the plate.”

“Good. This morning both ambulances had flat tires.”

Eidolon growled in frustration. “And we nearly lost another patient because his respirator had been turned off.”

“I hate ghosts—” Shade broke off at the sight of Sin, still sitting on the bed, now pawing through a medical text. He swallowed, and the shadows in his eyes settled. “Is that… her?”

Eidolon inclined his head. “She’s been waiting a while. I need to grab her paperwork.”

“Guess I should go say hi.”

“Does this mean you’re willing to give Lore a break?”

Shade glared. “I’ll do what I have to do to protect Ky, whether you get that or not.”

“Gods, Shade! It’s not that I don’t get it—”

Shade cut him off with a dismissive flick of his hand and started toward the room where Sin waited. E stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

“Shade. She’s not… she’s not what you’re used to.”

For a moment, Shade looked perplexed, but gradually, his expression shuttered. “She’s not Skulk, you mean.”

Shade had been extremely attached to all his Umber sisters, but as the only survivor of a slaughter that had killed the others, Skulk had been special to him. Now there was a hole inside Shade that E was afraid he’d try to fill with this new female, and Sin didn’t seem to want anything to do with her newfound brothers.

“Just don’t expect much.”

Twelve

Sin swung her feet back and forth over the edge of the bed like a little kid waiting for her parents in the principal’s office. Not that she knew what that felt like. She and Lore had been educated at home by grandparents who placed more emphasis on physical labor than the three Rs.

And what the hell was taking Eidolon so long? She’d come in for the autopsy stuff, and he’d made her wait for—she glanced at her watch—a freaking hour. She practically had the entire volume of Medical Parasitology memorized, and… eww.

She didn’t have time for this. She had a plan, and she needed to put it into action.

Deth still felt Lore’s life force, which meant Idess hadn’t been lying. Lore was alive. So instead of trying to injure the angel with the Gargantua dagger, she was going to mark her with an assassin’s secret weapon. A tracer grenade, once detonated, contaminated everything within twenty yards with a substance that left an easily followed trail. There were limitations and catches that made them unstable, dangerous, and often unreliable in untrained hands, but Sin was an expert, and nothing had ever gone wrong with one of her grenades. No, the greatest challenge was locating the ingredients and assembling the thing.

After she finished, she’d have to cool her heels until the devil’s hour, which was easier said than done. Unlike Lore, Sin had never been patient. Her brother would make a good sniper, could wait for days to get the one perfect, surgical shot; Sin would rather charge into a situation with all guns blazing, mow everyone down, and let God and Satan sort out the souls.

Tired of waiting, she hopped off the bed. She’d hunt Eidolon down if she had to. The door opened before she reached it, and a Seminus wearing a black paramedic uniform walked in. With his dark hair, stern expression, and broad shoulders, he looked like a cross between Eidolon and Lore.

“You must be another brother,” she muttered.

“Shade.”

“Great. Nice to meet you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go.”

He seemed a little taken aback, but his expression closed off as he blocked the door. “Eidolon will be here in a minute. He went to grab the report you’re waiting for.”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve been waiting for an hour already.”

“He’s had some emergencies to deal with, but he’s going to get it now. Really.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

He stared back.

“Well?” she snapped. “You gonna stand there all day? Don’t you have somewhere you have to be?”

“I just got off duty.” He dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. “I figured we should meet.”

Sin gestured to the door. “’Kay. We’ve met. Buh-bye.” Shade looked completely at a loss. “Why aren’t you gone yet?”

“Why are you being like this?”

God, what was it with these guys? “Because I just want to be left alone, okay? Is that so difficult to understand?”

He cocked a brow. “No, actually. But maybe if you got to know us—”

“I don’t want to!” She shoved him out of the way and swung open the door, needing to get away from the crushing pressure of sudden family. “Just stay away from me. I’ve lived over a hundred years without you, and I certainly don’t need you now.”

She didn’t need anyone. She’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t rely on anyone but herself. Not even Lore. He’d left her when she’d needed him the most, and though she understood why he’d done it and she knew he was trying to make it up to her, some part of her just couldn’t fully lower her defensive shields and let him back in all the way.

Trust, as her old master used to say, was evil and insidious. And he’d know. He’d taken her off the streets when she was vulnerable, made her trust him, and then he’d forced her to do… things. He’d taken advantage of her ability to kill and her need for sex, and he’d used them until her soul had shriveled.

Even before he’d come along, trust had made her believe that her mother would love her. She hadn’t. It had made Sin think her grandparents would always be there for her. They’d died. It had made her believe Lore would take care of her. He’d abandoned her.

No one would abandon her ever again.

Except, that really wasn’t true anymore, was it? She’d come close to letting Lore back in, closer than she’d thought possible. And now he was gone. Sure, it wasn’t logical to blame him this time, any more than she should blame her grandparents for dying. But logic had never been her strong suit.

She stalked away from Shade, heart pounding and hoping he wouldn’t chase her down. Problem was, she didn’t know where she was going. She’d come via the Harrowgate, but she didn’t remember the way and when she was freaked, her senses dulled. She couldn’t sense the gate at all.

An exit loomed ahead, double sliding doors. Quickly, she slipped through them and found herself in an underground parking lot that didn’t appear to have a way out. Didn’t that just figure. After wandering around for a few minutes, she gave up, but there was no way she was going back inside the hospital. Not yet. She just needed a few minutes of peace and quiet, with no annoying brothers watching her every move.

The last two days’ events had taken a toll on her, and although she could use a quart of Lore’s homemade rotgut and a week-long nap, she figured the best she was going to get right now was a few minutes of hiding herself away. Exhausted, she sank down onto the pavement next to a black ambulance.

She wasn’t there for more than thirty seconds when she heard footsteps. Groaning, she buried her head in her hands.

“Fuck off, Shade—”

“Not Shade. Conall.”

Startled, she snapped her head up, and no, the guy standing there was definitely not her brother. It was the extremely hot vampire paramedic she’d seen wheel in the warg she’d killed. The one with the funky silver eyes and sandy blond hair. Mr. Personality.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Ah… yeah.”

“Then why are you skulking around my ambulance?”

“I wasn’t skulking. I was resting.”

“In a parking lot.” He gave her a dry look. “On the ground.”

She shoved to her feet. “Do all medical personnel take classes on how to be obnoxious? Because I thought maybe it was a brother thing, but I’m starting to think it’s a medical thing.”

“You’ve got one hell of a chip on your shoulder, don’t you?” The vampire opened the back of the ambulance and tossed a nylon bag inside.

Sin frowned. “You don’t even know me.”

“And let me guess,” he said, sounding utterly bored. “That’s the way you like it.”

“What, are you psychic or something?”

He laughed, a deep, melodious sound that rang through her. “I’m over a thousand years old. I’ve seen it all. You, sweetcheeks, are nothing new.” At what must have been an outraged expression on her face, he laughed again. “Come on. Surely you can’t think you are the only female out there who’s had a rough life, had her heart walked on, been kept in a dungeon for three centuries, blah, blah, pick your trauma, and are now stomping around with all this pent-up anger you spill like acid on everyone who tries to get to know you.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “How close am I?”

Sin’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. She finally snapped it shut to avoid looking like a fish gasping on the bank of a river.

“That’s what I thought.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Now, run along and go be caustic with someone who cares. Oh, wait, no one cares, do they? Because you won’t let them—”

She struck out, wanting to break that perfect nose. He caught her wrist when her knuckles were half an inch from his face. He didn’t blink, and the only part of his body that had moved—like lightning—had been his arm. Baring his fangs, he bent over her so their noses nearly touched. “Do not ever strike me. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

“Ditto, dickwad.” She should fire up her gift and give him some horrible vampire disease. Vamps might be dead, but that meant they succumbed even more quickly. She wasn’t sure how that worked, but it did. Except… his hand was warm. His body was warm. He wasn’t a vampire. At least, he wasn’t a dead vampire.

“Go away.” He released her with a shove. “I have better things to do than spar with a little girl in need of a good spanking.”

Oh, she’d show him who was going to get spanked. As he turned away, dismissing her with nothing more than a curt shake of his head, she swept her leg out, catching him in the knees, and as he lost his balance, she spun, striking him in the back with her other foot. He went down, but she didn’t even have time to smile at her victory, because he was up in a flash, and suddenly she was pinned to the side of the ambulance. Conall’s face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes glazed over with frost. “With those markings, I’m guessing you’re here on some business related to the Sem brothers, so that’s why I’m not going to drain you right here, right now. But fuck with me again, and I’m going to get my first taste of Seminus blood.” His forearm was across her throat, his other hand trapping her arm against her side, and his six-foot-six body was holding her so she couldn’t move.

But she couldn’t help but notice the long, lush lashes that framed his feral, intelligent eyes. And the harsh, masculine slope of his jaw. Then there was the promise of raw sex that oozed from every pore, a promise she had no doubt he could deliver on.

Something in her gut began to throb, moving lower the longer she stared at him. Shit. Her hormones were acting up, right on schedule. If she didn’t get a daily dose of sex, she became extremely ill. It was possible, even, that she could die. She’d just never gone long enough to know whether that was actually the case.

This morning she’d been either too distracted or in too much of a hurry to climb into bed with one of the assassins she bunked with, and she was paying for that now, as her raging hormones were quite happy to let her know. But one thing she’d learned over the years was that her hormones didn’t just affect her. They were also good for attracting males… and getting herself out of bad situations with them.

“You want to taste me?” she purred, and his head snapped back. Well, well.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at?”

“Me?” she asked innocently. “Nothing.”

His gaze swept her face before dropping lower, to her exposed throat. The hunger in his expression kicked her pulse into doubletime. And when he pushed back from her, just enough to let his gaze travel lower, to her breasts, her pulse rate tripled.

She wasn’t sure what might have happened next, and she’d never know, because she heard heavy footsteps. When she turned her head, there was another huge male in a paramedic uniform standing near the rear of the truck. His expression was as black as his shaggy hair.

“Conall, man, what are you doing? Shift hasn’t even started and you’re already humping the females. E warned us about sex in public. Take it into the rig.”

Sin snorted. “What makes you think there is going to be sex? I was about to kick this guy’s ass.” Conall had loosened his grip, allowing her to tear free and shove him away. His snort followed her as she pushed past the dark-haired medic and headed for the entrance to the hospital.

She might not want to see her brothers, but better them than a vampire with questionable life signs who, for some reason, made her feel alive when all she wanted was to remain dead.

* * *

Conall watched the female take off, her ass swaying temptingly in tight, well-worn jeans. A strategically placed rip pinched and gaped at the crease where her leg and her left ass cheek met, drawing his eyes like a magnet.

Luc watched too, his gaze hot. “She’s…”

“Yeah.”

Luc arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there were female Sems.”

“Me either. Think she’s here for business? Like a Council member? Or do you think she’s related to the brothers? Maybe she’s their queen or something.”

“Dunno.” The hundred-year-old warg never said much, and when he did, he mostly grunted. “Ever done a succubus?”

“A couple.” Conall generally avoided succubi, though. You never knew what they were after. Your seed, your soul, your life. Con kind of liked hanging on to the second two.

Luc crossed his arms over his chest and braced one shoulder against the ambulance. “Dare you to do her.”

Conall’s cock stirred. Well, it stirred more. “I’ve never done a Seminus demon.” Conall was all about doing things he’d never done. And in a thousand years of life, he’d done a lot.

“I hope to hell not,” Luc said. “Since until today you thought they were all males.”

Con laughed, even though Luc wasn’t trying to be funny. He liked the warg, which was a miracle considering he’d met Luc in a bar fight—had fought Luc in the bar fight. They’d both ended up in the demon-run hospital Con hadn’t even known existed, and he’d been impressed—and bored—enough to sign on to become a medic. Now he and Luc sometimes worked together. Partners. Not friends—friendly rivals was more like it.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you nail her.”

Con shot him a fuck-you look. “Five.”

“Five hundred?” Luc snorted. “For a succubus? She’ll probably jump you.”

“If she’s related to the Sem brothers, I’m not risking my balls for a hundred bucks.” Luc nodded. “Good point. Five hundred. With proof.” “Done.” Con grinned. This was going to be the easiest money he’d ever made.

* * *

Heat still flooding her body, Sin burst through the emergency room doors—and ran into Shade. God, these guys were like fucking Terminators. Or Borg. Resistance is futile and all that shit. It was clear she wasn’t going to shake the Brothers From Hell, so she might as well get what she could from them. “Where’s Eidolon?”

“Probably in his office,” Shade said.

“I want what he promised me. Now. I’m tired of his stall tactics.”

“Why would he stall?”

“Gee, I wonder. Maybe so I’d be forced to hang out here and get to know you guys?”

He sighed, as if she were a child to be humored. “Come on. I’ll take you to his office.”

“About time,” she muttered. She followed him to an administrative area, where they walked through a maze of offices, some separated by cubicles where various male and female demons sat, and some more private—full rooms with doors and hall windows with blinds.

Eidolon was at his desk, and he stood when she and Shade entered his office. He held out a file, as though he’d been expecting her. “Here’s your proof of death. If your boss has any questions, tell him to contact me.”

“Took you long enough.”

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly.

Shade turned to her. “What now?”

“I’m going to turn this in.”

“Are you coming back?”

“I doubt it.” She smiled. “Nice knowing you. Buh-bye.”

“Leaving so soon?” The deep voice came from behind her, startling her. She spun, coming face-to-chest with a tall, blond male she assumed was the one brother she hadn’t met. Wraith.

“Soon?” She stepped back so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. “I’ve been stuck here for way too long.”

“I thought you went home,” Shade said.

“Forgot my iPod in my office.” His blue eyes flashed at Sin. “Where’s Lore?”

“If I knew, he wouldn’t be missing.”

“He’s probably dead.” Wraith’s tone was matter-of-fact, utterly cool, and Sin wanted to punch him.

“Wraith…” Eidolon’s voice was quiet.

“It’s okay, Eidolon,” she said, still glaring at Wraith. “I can handle anything this guy can dish out.” She started forward. “Get out of my way.”

Wraith’s broad shoulders filled the doorway… and he didn’t move. “Easy there, Smurfette.”

Smurfette? “Move.”

“No.”

She hit him. Put her knuckles right in his perfect nose. He didn’t even flinch, and she got the impression he could have stopped her if he’d wanted to. Instead, he grinned, those wicked fangs gleaming. “You hit like a girl.”

She gasped in outrage. “I. Said. Move. I’m going to find my brother.”

He snorted. “If I can’t find him, you don’t stand a margarita’s chance at an AA meeting.”

“Y-you arrogant ass,” she sputtered.

“It’s not arrogance if you can back it up.”

She was going to kill him. She really was. “You don’t care, do you? You don’t give a shit that the angel chick could be hurting him, doing horrible things to him.” She spun to Shade and looked from him to Eidolon. “See? This is why I didn’t want to get to know you, even though Lore kept saying we should give you a chance.”

“Why would he say that?” Shade asked.

“I have no idea,” she snapped.

Eidolon steepled his long fingers in front of him. “I think you do.”

“And I think you can guess,” she shot back. “How would you like to spend your life alone, stuck in some backwoods North Carolina hovel, thinking you didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone?” She glared at each of them in turn. “When he found out about you, he thought that finally someone might get us. We might get some answers about what we are. But then—” But then I told him to stay away from them.

Oh, God. She’d been so freaked out, so concerned about herself that she’d kept him from the one chance he had to maybe relieve a little of his loneliness. And because of her, his brothers didn’t know him, and they wouldn’t be as willing to cut him some slack over the Kynan thing.

If any of these guys hurt Lore, it would be all her fault.

Nausea washed over her, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Shade frowned and reached for her. Her chest tightened with a claustrophobic sensation. “Hey, why don’t you take a seat.”

She wheeled away, swaying a little. “I have to go.”

Wraith casually braced his shoulder against the door-jamb. “Not happening.”

“I have to find Lore!” Sin slammed her palms into Wraith’s chest. “Move!” Again. “I have to save him.” Again, harder. The guy was a solid wall of muscle. “You have no idea what it’s like to be held captive, tortured—”

His hands circled her wrists. He didn’t hurt her, but his fingers might as well have been iron shackles for all they yielded to her struggles. “I know more about that than you can imagine.” His voice was calm and quiet.

“Let her go, Wraith.” That from Eidolon.

Wraith’s gaze flickered to Shade, who must have nodded, because he released her and stepped aside. As she darted through the doorway, Eidolon called out, “If you find Lore, let us know.”

“I’ll do that,” she called back. When hell freezes over.

* * *

Shade took off the moment Sin was gone, without so much as a good-bye. Wraith did the same, and Eidolon wondered when and if this was ever going to end.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a killer headache, he headed to the emergency department. A male of undetermined species who looked mostly human except for the stubby set of black horns at his temples stood near the triage desk, head bowed and fingers clutching a long rope of beads… some sort of demonic religious artifact, probably.

That would be the exorcist.

Eidolon approached him. “How quickly can you have the hospital cleansed?”

The demon looked up, his hazel eyes swirling with what Eidolon would swear was fear. “It can’t be cleansed.”

“What do you mean, it can’t be cleansed? Why not?”

The demon looked around wildly and lowered his voice as though afraid of being overheard. “Great evil has a hold on the spirits who are trapped here. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Perfect. A chickenshit exorcist. “What is this great evil? Is it another spirit?”

“No. That’s why I can’t perform an exorcism. Whatever is controlling the spirits is a demon, but I cannot tell you who.”

“So who can track down this demon?”

“I know not. But it will not be me.” He shivered. “Great evil. Hatred such as I’ve never felt.” He scurried toward the Harrowgate. “I’ll send you my bill.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Eidolon muttered.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and he turned to find Runa. Shade and the children were nowhere to be seen, and Runa must have anticipated his question, because she cocked her head toward the ER doors.

“Shade is putting the kids in the car.” She shifted her weight and chewed her lower lip before blurting, “I hate what’s happening between you guys.”

“So do I, Runa. Shade is being impossible—”

Her fierce growl cut him off. “Don’t blame all of this on him.”

His headache was now a sledgehammer against his skull. “I’m trying to keep everyone safe. I’m not choosing Lore over Kynan, no matter what Shade thinks or what he’s told you.”

“What if it comes down to a choice?” Gem’s voice came at him from behind, and he swore silently. Nothing like an ambush to make a shitty day even shittier.

“It won’t. We will find a way to keep Lore from having to kill Ky.”

“I understand how hard this is for you.” Gem’s voice was strained, which given the circumstances, was completely understandable. “You have a new brother and sister you want to protect. But I’m telling you now that if anything happens to Kynan, not even Tayla can protect you from my wrath.”

Thirteen

Lore didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed a shower more. Granted, he hadn’t been chained up for all that long, but he generally showered twice or more a day, and going without made him grumpy.

At least he couldn’t hear Idess yelling at him anymore.

He’d cleaned her up and then beelined for the shower, ignoring her curses and threats and demands to let her go. She’d quieted down for a little while, but about half an hour into his shower she’d started up again, loud enough that he could hear her shouts of “Lore, damn you!” even over the thunder of water.

“I’ll be right with you, Angel Food,” he called out, and braced himself for her furious response.

She didn’t disappoint, and though he couldn’t hear exactly what she said, the tone made it pretty clear that it wasn’t complimentary. She said something else, something that sounded like, “Heave a rock,” and that actually made him laugh. No doubt she’d like to heave a rock right at his head.

And she probably would after he took out Kynan.

The thought sobered him. Sin’s life was at stake, but so was Idess’s future. He shouldn’t care. Caring for her could lead to bad things. Like accidentally killing her, now that he wasn’t wearing Bracken Cuffs. Or like considering not whacking Kynan.

Fuck. The not killing Kynan thing was already tripping through his brain. Not that he wouldn’t do it. He would. But maybe he could put it off while Idess tried to find out who had ordered the hit.

Putting it off would be stupid. Procrastination always resulted in shit going wrong at the last minute. Always. But maybe he could—

Always.

But—

Always.

Dammit! Spewing the most vile curses he could think of, he shut off the water and toweled off. Sucked to have to dress in the same clothes, but it was better than nothing, and as he fastened his pants, Idess made an odd noise.

“Idess?” For a second, nothing. But in that second, her shower-washed words filtered through his head. “Heave a rock.” He glanced at his watch. Three o’clock New York time.

Three o’clock. Not heave a rock.

Fuck!

“Lore!” Her pained shout drilled into his brain as he blew through the bathroom door so fast the thing tore off its hinges. The nightmare that greeted him drew him to a halt more effectively than if he’d hit a wall.

Idess… on the bed… a Gargantua dagger buried in her shoulder. Sin was standing in the bedroom doorway, preparing to let a throwing knife fly.

“No!” He dove to cover Idess. An instant, searing pain ripped into his neck, and he dropped like a stone onto the bed, twisting to avoid crushing her. Blood splattered down around him, and he lifted a shaking hand to his throat. He knew what he’d find.

Sin’s throwing knife.

Her scream overtook the sudden pounding of his pulse in his ears. Sin wasn’t a screamer. This was not good. His vision swam and his hearing faded in and out and the next thing he knew his sister was right there, tears streaming down her face.

She wasn’t a crier, either.

This was way worse than not good.

“I’m sorry, Lore, oh, my God, I’m so sorry!”

“Hospital… Idess… too,” he gasped, but his words drowned in a stream of blood.

“Okay. Okay. Just hold still.” The fact that Sin so readily agreed meant that this was worse than he thought.

“Release me!” Idess’s tone was a command that should have ruffled Sin’s feathers. “I can flash him there.”

Sin didn’t hesitate. He heard the clank of chains, and then the next thing he knew, he was lying on the asphalt of Underworld General’s parking lot.

Idess was crouched beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “I can’t flash into the building,” she said, with a tremor in her voice, “and you’re too heavy to carry. I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t have the strength to answer. The life she’d said he had was draining onto the asphalt. He probably shouldn’t have cared all that much, but while he didn’t deserve for his brothers to save him, he really hoped they would.

* * *

Idess ran toward the sliding ER doors so fast that she stumbled over her own feet twice. The pain in her shoulder was nothing compared to the agony that streaked up her arm from Lore’s heraldi. He was dying.

Crying out, she held the dagger jutting from her shoulder as she ran. Blood seeped between her fingers and dripped to the ground, but she didn’t care. She burst into the hospital, and instantly, medical staff rushed toward her, but she gestured wildly toward the parking lot.

“Outside. It’s Eidolon’s brother. Get him. Hurry!” She didn’t allow anyone near her until Lore was wheeled in on a stretcher, a flurry of activity surrounding him. She didn’t understand much of the jargon the staff was using, but their tones and short sentences told her it was bad.

Then again, all she needed to do was look at Lore’s ashen skin and glazed eyes as he was wheeled into a trauma room to know that.

“We’ve paged Eidolon and Shade.” A female nurse guided Idess toward another room with a furry hand on her elbow. “And his arm is wrapped to prevent any accidents.”

“Good. Is… wait.” Idess halted. “Accidents? With his arm?”

“As I said, we’ve wrapped it. There’s no need to worry. The entire staff has been made aware of his condition.”

“And what condition is that?”

“You don’t know?” The nurse’s bushy eyebrows dove into a deep frown. “Anyone who comes into contact with his right arm dies instantly.”

Idess remembered his telling her not to touch his arm when she’d been cleaning him… was that why?

“Now, let’s take care of you. That knife isn’t going to come out on its own.”

“No.” Idess backed away from the Slogthu nurse whose underbite and patchy fur made her look like a scrawny bulldog. “I have to make sure Lore is going to be all right.”

“He’d better be.” Sin stepped out of the Harrowgate and marched toward her. “This is your fault.”

“Your blade is in his throat,” Idess pointed out. “Not mine. And I did bring him here for help.”

Sin’s fists curled into balls at her sides. “Just pray Lore makes it.”

Sin sank down in a chair and stared blankly into the room where staff was frantically working on Lore. He lay motionless on the gurney, blood pooling on the floor beneath him. A technician was squeezing the contents of an IV bag into him through a line in his left arm. Another was forcing air into his lungs through a mask and bag.

Please, God, let him live. A useless prayer, no doubt, given that he was a demon, but helplessness and terror had her desperate to try anything. Please don’t let me lose another Primori. Because that was her major concern. He was Primori, and if she lost him, she would never get into Heaven and earn her wings.

She was concerned only because he was her Primori.

The lie sat on her chest like an elephant, especially when one of the doctors stepped back to grab some sort of metal tool and she saw Lore’s hand dangling over the edge of the gurney. It was the same one he’d used to touch her. To pleasure her. And now it hung limp and lifeless, streaked with blood.

Idess’s chest constricted. Please don’t die.

His heraldi screamed with pain, as if someone was trying to scoop it out with a dull spoon. The excruciating pangs made her own knife impalement seem like nothing more than an insect sting.

Don’t die! She reached deep for the gift she shouldn’t use, the one that had the power to heal—or kill—and she never knew which it would do. But Lore was going to die anyway, so she could try it and hope for a positive outcome—

Eidolon exploded out of the Harrowgate. Thank God. If anyone could save Lore, it would be him. His hair was mussed and his shirt untucked and only half-buttoned, and he barely glanced her way as he raced into the room. Immediately, his dermoire lit up, and he was barking out orders and calling for an operating room.

Eidolon wheeled Lore out of the room, slowing just long enough to say to Sin, “I’ll keep you posted.”

Fourteen

Sin couldn’t wait. Couldn’t sit around and do nothing but snarl at hospital staff while her brother lay dying on an operating table.

Bile backed up in Sin’s throat, bitter and caustic, because what had happened to Lore wasn’t entirely Idess’s fault. But right now, Sin wasn’t prepared to take any of the blame on herself. Now? Try never, if Lore died.

Venomous pricks of anger stung her skin. She didn’t rage out like Lore did when he didn’t have enough orgasms in a day, but she did get irritable and ill if she didn’t take care of herself, and she had a tendency to fly off the handle with very little provocation. That certainly wouldn’t help her brother, and could possibly make things worse if she pissed off the wrong staff member.

The warning signs were creeping up on her, from her stinging skin to muscles that felt stretched to the point of snapping if she didn’t do something to loosen them up. She could fuck something or kill something, and either way she’d get the release she needed.

She eyed Idess. Killing her would definitely trip Sin’s relief valve. Too bad she couldn’t do it, and not because of the Haven spell. Lore had taken a blade for the wench for some reason, and until Sin found out why, Idess got to keep her head.

So as Idess finally allowed doctors to treat her knife wound, Sin fled, trying to outrun her rage, her fear, her thoughts. She didn’t know where she was going, but anywhere was better than being alone in her own head.

Maybe the hospital had a gym, where she could beat the hell out of a punching bag. Or a pub, where she could beat the hell out of her liver.

She ran faster. Blindly. She had to go somewhere.

Before she got there, she ran into Conall. Literally. He collided with her when he stepped out of a room that, when she peered inside, looked like a dentist’s office. And sure enough, the sign on the door confirmed it. Demon dentists? Her brothers thought of everything, didn’t they?

“Hey.” Conall took her elbow and brought her to a halt. “You okay?”

“Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop it! I don’t need their concern or yours or anyone’s.”

“Whoa.” Conall held up his hands and stepped back. “Bite my head off.”

She tried to dredge up a kernel of guilt for snapping at him, but she’d trained herself too well to feel that emotion. Well, that wasn’t true. She felt it, but it mostly manifested as physical pain in her killing arm. And this guy was not worth a scar.

Under any other circumstance, however, he’d be worth a healthy leer. Men in uniforms had never done it for her, but something about the way he filled out his paramedic BDUs did it for her far too well. From the black turtleneck beneath the black uniform shirt, to the well-fitting, multipocketed pants and huge combat boots, he was a solid wall of yum. Something told her he was as good at his job as he was at… everything.

“Why are you here?” she asked, not bothering to temper her irritation at all.

Conall cocked a brow. “I work here.”

Well, duh. But he wasn’t exactly upset to see her, as he’d been in the parking lot. “And?”

A sheepish grin lit his face, exposing sexy fangs. “And maybe I was hoping to find you.”

She snarled. “I knew it. Eidolon probably asked you to keep an eye on me. Or get to know me or some shit.” She jabbed him in his very muscular chest with a finger. “Well, fuck you and fuck him. And Shade. And Wraith. I don’t want anything to do with you or them or this hospital, and I sure as hell don’t want to get to know any of you.”

“I don’t want to get to know you.” Conall’s hand closed around hers, and an instant shock of lust sparked at the contact. “I want to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Oh. Well, that was more like it. Her blood heated, but at this point, that wouldn’t take much. She was jonesing for sex, and the more she looked at Conall, the more antsy she became. This might just be the distraction she needed from her thoughts and fears about everything that could go wrong in an operating room. But Sin narrowed her eyes at him, because nothing around here seemed that simple. “You promise that’s all you want?”

His gaze seared her as he boldly dragged it up and down her body. “I swear I want only to get into your pants.”

What a relief. Finally, someone in this damned hospital who didn’t want to get to know her or get into her heart or head. “Well, in that case…” She grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall, figuring she could find a suitable room, but he yanked her to a halt outside a supply closet door.

“In here,” he said, tugging her inside with him. “No one ever looks in here.”

In a heartbeat he had her backed up to the wall, his mouth on hers and his thigh between her legs. His lips were soft but his kiss hard, and he tasted like brandy and exotic, dark coffee. Kissing was not her favorite act, but Conall wielded his tongue and fangs like erotic weapons that penetrated her defenses with remarkable ease.

He palmed her breast, and a moan escaped her. God, she never moaned, had always been silent in her passions. Her sexual needs controlled her, but she refused to give any of that control over to the males she slept with. Determined to take charge, she dropped her hand to Conall’s fly and cupped his erection. Oh, my. This was going to be good.

Wetness flooded her sex as her blood heated even more. Conall was only making it worse by dragging his lips down her neck, nibbling and kissing as he kneaded her breasts and rocked his leg against her core.

“I’ve never done it in a storeroom.” Her voice was rough and low, throbbing with the same arousal that was now working its way between her legs.

His smile tickled her collarbone. “These rooms see a lot of action. Though not so much now that the Sem brothers are mated.” He froze. His gaze snapped up at her. “Wait.

Who are they to you? Cousins? Friends?”

“Assholes.”

“Yes, but how do you know them?”

She bucked in frustration. “They’re my brothers. Can we get back to it?”

“Brothers?” He cursed. Backed up. “We’re not doing this.”

Sin’s entire body cramped at the lost contact. Getting this worked up and breaking it off led to pain and misery, and no way was she letting this jerk tease her and leave her. “We are doing this.” She fisted his collar and forced him back to her.

His hands came up to peel hers away. “No. We aren’t. Those guys are hyperprotective. Once, an orderly tried to seduce Shade’s sister, Skulk, and… let’s just say that the guy still walks with a limp. I’m pretty sure he’s missing his tongue, too. Don’t know, because he doesn’t talk anymore.”

“Dammit.” Sin tore off her top and ripped open her jeans. “They don’t know me, don’t like me, and they have no say in what I do.” She shoved down her pants and thong and stepped out of them, loving the way Conall’s eyes darkened from sterling silver to wrought iron despite his sudden paranoia.

Conall swallowed. A couple of times. “No.”

At least the conviction had gone from his voice. Still, he backed toward the door. “Don’t do it, vampire,” she warned. “Or whatever you are.”

“I have to.” His hand came down on the doorknob.

“Open it, and I’ll tell them you tried to rape me.”

He hissed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Her body was aching. Hot. So hot she couldn’t even feel bad about the threat she’d just delivered. Foul curses fell from Con’s made-to-please mouth. “You bitch.”

“Hey, you approached me. Got me all worked up. You need to work on your follow-through.”

“Oh,” he began, in a husky tone, “I have no problem with follow-through. What I have a problem with is your brothers and what they’ll do to my balls if they find out I fucked you like an animal in a damned closet.”

“An animal?” The images of him taking her rough and hard filled her head and actually made her sweat a little. “Really?” She was proud of the way she didn’t sound hopeful.

“What? You’re the tender loving type?” He snorted. “Not buying it.”

She’d never had tender, loving sex, so no, she wasn’t that type. Even the nicest of her masters had never been overly gentle, and the sex partners she chose for herself never hurt her, but neither did they pretend that she was anything but a screw. And she didn’t want them to, because they were nothing but a screw to her either.

“I’m definitely not that type,” she said. “So let’s do the animal thing. Or are you too chicken?”

A decidedly wolflike growl erupted in his chest. “Don’t test me, female.”

Her chin came up, and she said clearly and distinctly, “Chicken.”

The growl intensified. “You are very lucky the moon tide hasn’t stirred my blood yet.”

“Bawk. Bawk.”

His control snapped like a two-hundred-pound mastiff tethered by kite string. He let out a howl and surged toward her, and oh, wow… the truth hit her just before his body did. Moon tide. Wolfy growl. Bloodsucking fangs, but warm-blooded.

He was a vampire, but he was also a warg. He was a dhampire, a rare cross between a vampire and a werewolf. So rare, in fact, that their existence was thought by many to be a myth.

Conall caught her by the shoulders, spun her, and put her against the wall so his chest was hot against her back and his erection was hard against the seam of her butt.

“I warned you,” he rasped into her ear. “Know this; I’m not going to have sex with you because you taunted me with childish name-calling.” She heard the unmistakable, soft rasp of a zipper, and then felt the searing heat of his cock on the bare skin of her ass. “I’m going to fuck you because you need a sound thrashing.”

She gasped in outrage, and then gasped in pleasure as he sheathed himself inside her. Her core clenched around him, and she clenched her teeth. She wouldn’t make another sound, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he could affect her in any way.

Again, habit. Habit born of humiliation, of the knowledge that she was a disgusting, horrible, evil creature that climaxed only when her partner did. Any partner. Under any circumstances. And if that wasn’t the most fucked-up thing ever, she didn’t know what was.

Conall’s breath fanned her ear as he thrust into her, his rhythm wild and raw. Even his grip on her hips was fierce as his fingers dug in.

“Bite me.” The command slipped out before she could take it back. She’d never allowed her vampire partners to bite her, but by the time she could gather the words to stop him, it was too late.

His fangs penetrated her throat, and sweet, blissful pain and ecstasy coursed through her. Conall let out an appreciative moan, and his thrusts became deeper, harder, bringing her to the brink of ecstasy she couldn’t tip over until he came.

“Please,” she whispered. “Now.”

He disengaged his fangs and tongued the bite before saying in a voice thick with lust, “I want to satisfy you before I come.” His hand reached around her, and he rasped one finger over her swollen clit.

“Can’t… can’t… until…” Oh, God, this was good. “Until you do.”

His hand clamped down tighter on her hip. “Semen is a trigger for you?”

When she nodded, because the ability to speak had deserted her, he began a new, frenzied pumping that accompanied a roar of release. His hot seed splashed inside her, the fuel her fire required, and she joined him in a ferocious climax.

They collapsed together against the wall, his weight on hers just short of crushing. But it was a good weight, the kind she’d never taken the time to enjoy. She could only stand being touched like this for so long.

As soon as she caught her breath, she reached her threshold for intimate contact. “Get off me.”

“Your gratitude astounds me,” he said flatly, but he pushed away.

“I should be grateful that you fucked me?”

“You’re a succubus, aren’t you? You need it, right?

Some sort of biological imperative.” He tucked his semi-hard cock back in his pants.

“Ah. So you lowered yourself to service me out of the goodness of your heart. How nice. Then yes, thank you for performing this distasteful deed. I will forever be in your debt.”

He laughed. “I didn’t say I didn’t get anything out of it.”

Asshole. “You got an orgasm and blood. I’d say you got more than I did.”

“You got that right.” He winked, and suspicion bloomed. She had a sudden feeling he’d gotten even more than a moment of pleasure and sustenance. “This remains between us, right?”

“As long as you don’t piss me off,” she said as she tugged on her pants. “You gonna piss me off?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “Every chance I get.” With that, he was gone, and once again, she was alone with her thoughts, and crazily, she felt more alone than ever.

* * *

Conall found Luc at the open rear of their rig, sitting on the step and chowing down on a very rare roast beef sandwich. So rare that blood dripped to the pavement. Con was tempted to look around for the cow it had come from, because surely it had to be close.

“Did Shade catch up with you?” Luc asked.

Shit. Did the Sem know Con had hooked up with his sister already? “No. Why?”

“Another warg was brought in on Medic Two’s last run.”

Medic Two was Shade’s ambulance with his partner, a False Angel named Blaspheme. “Same as the other two?”

“Yep. Shade wants all warg medics to stand down from calls to all warg emergencies.”

Conall swore. He hoped these cases were isolated, but he’d better inform the Warg Council as soon as possible. As a member of the Council, the lone representative for dhampires and the only councilmember employed by UG, he was duty-bound to alert them to potential trouble. Not that they’d pay heed to anything he said. In warg hierarchy, dhampires barely rated above turned wargs, and that was only because there were so few dhampires that they were no threat in any way to born wargs.

“So? What happened with Sin?” Luc cocked an eyebrow, and then the other when Conall pulled Sin’s thong from his pocket and twirled it on one finger. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You nailed her.”

For some reason, the way Luc spoke so casually, as if Sin was some swan Conall had picked up at a vampire bar, grated on him. Probably because he respected the Sem brothers, and he couldn’t quite dismiss their sister as a cheap suck-and-fuck, even though that was how he’d treated her.

“Yeah,” he ground out, “I nailed her.”

“Where?” Luc always wanted the dirty details.

“Stockroom.” He held out his hand. “Pay up.”

Luc snorted and reached for his wallet. “I really got taken on this one, didn’t I?” He handed over four hundreds and five twenties.

“Yeah, well, you can have the last laugh once the Sem brothers catch up with me.” Con ran his thumb over the bills. “Seems she’s their sister.”

“Dude.” Luc stretched out the word and then whistled, low and long. “Nice knowing you.”

Con could take care of himself, wasn’t too worried despite what he’d said to Sin about keeping his balls, but he did like this job and didn’t want to lose it. At least, not until he got bored with it. And he would. He always did. In a thousand years he hadn’t not gotten bored with anything.

Or anyone.

“So,” Luc said, “will it at least have been worth it? Being gutted by Shade, I mean. Was she good?”

His body heated as though remembering. And wanting again.

“Of course I was.”

Fuck. Con spun around to find Sin standing there, hands on hips and fury in her expression. Like a kid caught stealing candy, he whipped the money behind his back.

She looked at him as if he was an idiot and grabbed his arm, bringing it around.

“It’s not what you think,” he said lamely, because it was exactly what she thought.

“Really? So that big asshole behind you didn’t bet you five hundred bucks that you couldn’t fuck me?”

“Ah…”

“That’s what I thought. You dick. How stupid do you think I am? Your name really fits you, Con.” She snatched the money from him, took two hundreds and three twenties, and thrust the remaining two hundred and forty dollars back into his hand. Then, smiling broadly, she punched him in the shoulder. “Next time you make a bet like that, don’t cheat me out of my half. I owe you a ten.”

She winked and left him, jaw-dropped and gaping, as she sauntered away.

Luc made a strangled sound. “Did that just happen? She wasn’t mad because you made the bet—she was mad because you didn’t give her half the money?”

“Yeah.” Con grinned. “Yeah, it did. I think I may be in love.”

“Man, don’t even joke about that. Females like her are a piss-bucket full of trouble.”

True. But females like that were also the kind that made life a challenge, and it had been a long time since Con had last been challenged.

Fifteen

Eidolon lost Lore twice on the operating table. And the most fucked-up thing about it was that both instances could have been prevented.

Someone or some thing had turned off the respirator, and then later, the lights at a crucial moment. These weren’t equipment failures. Eidolon had seen the respirator switch flip to the off position with his own eyes. Wraith needed to get a new exorcist and fast.

He put the finishing touches on Lore’s healing and told a nurse to have him taken to a recovery room. He’d be fine, but only because Eidolon had arrived when he had. Two minutes later, and Lore would have bled out right there in the emergency department.

After stripping off his bloodied gloves and gown, he stepped into the hall and was immediately enveloped by a crushing sense of hatred. The force of the animosity was so powerful that he staggered, and then he drew a sharp breath when he saw Shade leaning against the wall, expression as black and threatening as a storm cloud.

“Did he make it?”

“Don’t sound so excited.” Eidolon forced his watery legs to take him toward the waiting room.

“You’d better hope you made the right decision.”

Eidolon swung around. He inhaled deeply, seeking composure, but the hate swirling in the air like a toxin filled his lungs and spread through his body. The poison affected him at the cellular level, tapping into his inner demon and bringing his temper to the surface.

“I know you aren’t implying that I should have let Lore die. Because I’ve had it with this discussion, Shade. I’m done. He’s our brother, and we don’t let our brothers die.”

“You’re done? Yeah, okay. Me, too. You’ve made your choice, and so have I. So I guess there’s nothing left to say.” His voice degenerated into a rasp, and his eyes glistened. “Ever.”

Shade’s words, as sharp as a scalpel blade, sliced Eidolon in the heart, and his anger drained out of the laceration.

Gods, this had truly happened. Something had broken them. Crushing pain radiated outward from the center of Eidolon’s chest with almost the same intensity as when a brother died, severing the connection that allowed all purebred Seminus brothers to sense each other’s health and location. He was too stunned, too freaked out to speak. Even when Shade spun around and stalked off, Eidolon couldn’t drum up words as the canyon between them widened.

And as Shade disappeared around a corner, E swore he heard the cackle of laughter.

* * *

Idess slipped out of the shadows cast by a gargoyle statue in one of UG’s double-wide halls. Shade had just strode away, and Eidolon had gone in the opposite direction after slamming his fist into the wall. Neither one of them had seen her in the dark corner, where she’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. Her spying hadn’t been intentional; she’d been restless waiting for news about Lore, and she’d tried to burn off her nervous energy by pacing the halls.

She was glad she had. It looked as if Shade had become a true danger to Lore, and that was a development she’d have to keep an eye on.

There was another danger lurking nearby, as well. A hooded figure had watched the two brothers argue, and though he’d stood right next to them, they hadn’t noticed. But then, they wouldn’t, if they weren’t capable of seeing ghosts. Except that if the hooded creature was a ghost, he was the most unusual one Idess had ever come across. His form had been transparent rather than solid, appearing to her the way ghosts appeared to humans.

The evil in him was off the scale, his sinister vibe so malignant that she could feel it as prickles on her skin, and the closer he’d gotten to Shade and Eidolon, the redder their eyes got and the more vicious they’d been to each other.

After the brothers separated, the creature swiveled his head around to nail her with a bone-chilling stare. But there was no itch between her shoulder blades, and it occurred to her that she’d never experienced the demon-warning sensation in the hospital.

Or with Lore—the mansion incident could have been caused by other demons. Or with Sin. Or their brothers. And what did that mean?

Who are you?

“My name is Idess,” she said, still a little shaky over the failure of her evil sensor.

The thing smiled, a hideous baring of teeth that stretched shiny, scarred lips. Help me.

She’d assist the human spirits however she could, but this thing… she shuddered. “I cannot.”

Please. I was burned alive and cursed by my own family. I need only a small favor. There is something that can ease my suffering. Can you take me from this hospital?

Idess closed her eyes. This creature was evil, but he’d been hurt. By family. Her gut wrenched at that. Maybe what he was wasn’t his fault. In any case, getting him away from the hospital could only be a good thing.

“Where do you want to go?”

A peaceful park.

Well, that didn’t sound too bad. “We need to go through the parking lot.” She led the demon ghost-thing outside the ER, gripped his shoulder, which, under her touch, was solid. He told her where to go, and she materialized with him in a residential neighborhood.

“This isn’t a park—”

The creature laughed gleefully and darted away, disappearing into a copse of trees behind several houses.

Hoping she hadn’t made a huge error in judgment, she returned to the parking lot and slipped back into the waiting room, where she’d spent most of the three hours Lore had been in surgery. The first hour had been the worst—staff had repaired her shoulder, but her arm, his heraldi, had been constantly on fire, twice with such intensity that she’d cried out and fallen to her knees.

Now she sank into a chair near Sin and sat in tense silence. After much fidgeting, Sin kicked her feet up on a chair and leaned back. “If Lore dies, I’ll kill you.”

“Maybe you didn’t notice that I tried to save his life.”

“If you hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to.”

“Did it escape your notice that I was the one chained up when you arrived?”

Grinning, Sin folded her hands over her abs. “He got one over on you, didn’t he? Must have pissed you the hell off.”

It had. Up until the point where he’d given her the most intense orgasm of her life. “Of course not. I let him restrain me.”

“Right.” Sin raked her gaze over Idess. “You so look like you’re into bondage.”

“How else do you explain his trying to keep you from killing me?”

Sin narrowed her eyes. “Cut the shit. What was going on? I know you’re protecting Kynan, so why not just kill Lore?”

“That’s a good question.” Eidolon strode into the room, and Sin leaped to her feet. Idess fought the urge to do the same, even though she knew Lore was out of danger. “He’s going to be fine, Sin.” He sounded better than he had when he was with Shade, but he looked worse. From his wildly grooved hair that spoke of a lot of fingers raking through it, to the dark circles under his eyes and his rumpled clothes, he was a mess. “And you,” he said to Idess. “What’s going on?”

There was no point in lying. Lore knew the truth, and maybe if she got on Sin and Eidolon’s good sides—assuming Sin had a good side—she’d get some help. Earn some trust.

“I have to protect him,” she said, meeting Eidolon’s gaze levelly. “He’s Primori like Kynan.”

“I don’t understand this Primori thing,” Sin said. “But right now, I don’t care. I need to see him.” She started past Eidolon, but he caught her by the arm, and Idess wondered if Sin’s Seminus power killed as the nurse had said Lore’s did.

“Out of the question. He’s recovering and needs rest.”

“Fuck you.” Sin jerked out of his grip. “I’m going to see him.”

“Sin.” Eidolon’s voice cracked like thunder in the small room. “You can’t.”

Idess’s heart stuttered. “This isn’t about his recovery, is it?”

“What’s she talking about?” Sin demanded.

“They’re going to keep him here,” Idess said, speaking to Sin but not taking her gaze off Eidolon. “Restrained. And you can’t see him because he’s afraid you’ll set him free. Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Sin settled into a fighting stance, fists clenched, body leaning aggressively forward. “You bastard.”

“I don’t have a choice, Sin.” Eidolon rubbed his eyes with one hand, working his fingers and thumb so hard Idess expected to see blood. “We’ll work something out. Just give me a day to talk to him. Think this through. We’ll come up with a plan that works for all of us.”

Idess stood. “Let’s give him twenty-four hours.” She squeezed Sin’s shoulder and hoped she’d get the message. Humor him.

“Fine,” Sin growled. “But at the end of the day, you had better set him free.” She wrenched away from Idess and slammed out of the room, leaving Idess alone with Eidolon, who stared at the door.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” he muttered.

“You feel like you’ve betrayed your brothers.”

He swung around to her. “I haven’t betrayed anyone.”

“That’s not how Shade sees it.” Out of nowhere, Idess pictured Rami and wondered if he knew what she’d done. Did he understand, or was he as furious as Shade?

“What do you know about that?”

“I overheard you arguing in the hall.”

Eidolon’s vile curse accompanied a violent adjustment of the stethoscope around his neck. “Shade doesn’t get it. No one has to die.”

“But you’ve still lost a brother.” Emotion made her voice rough, and she recognized that same misery in the demon doctor’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to fight to keep a brother, and then lose him anyway.”

“Then you know why I have to keep Lore safe. Now more than ever.”

Yes, she did. If Wraith sided with Shade, Lore would be all Eidolon had left. Losing him meant he’d gone through all this hell with his other brothers for nothing.

“Shade could come around,” she said in a quiet voice. “There’s still hope. What’s the saying… time heals all wounds?”

Eidolon laughed bitterly. “Doctors heal wounds. Time? All that does is allow wounds to fester.”

As he walked away, all Idess could do was pray he wasn’t right, because if he was, she could only imagine what five hundred years of festering could have done to Rami.

* * *

Hangovers sucked.

Lore couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. He healed fast, which meant he rarely got them unless he’d overdone the drinking to the point of near-death. But he always remembered his binges, and as he peeled his eyes open he found that he had absolutely no memory of slamming shots or downing beers.

He jerked as one memory pierced his brain like a dull needle. Idess. Sin. Shit! With a panicked shout, he levered into a sit. He was at the hospital. But where—

“Hey.”

He snapped his head around to Idess, who was standing at his bedside, looking as if she hadn’t had a Gargantua-bone dagger impaled in her shoulder. “You’re okay.” His relief didn’t even seem strange. They should be enemies, but something had changed, and unlike Sin, he knew when to stop fighting and roll with it.

“I’m fine. And you are, too. But it was close.”

He swallowed, remembering the blade that had lodged in his throat. “Sin?”

“Eidolon won’t allow her inside. I’m only allowed in because he thinks I’ll behave.” She smiled, but it was forced. Something was wrong. And when he lifted his hand and discovered he was secured to the bed, he knew what it was.

“Eidolon intends to keep me from going after Kynan, doesn’t he?” From one set of chains into another. Unbelievable. “And that’s why Sin can’t see me, isn’t it? He’s afraid she’ll free me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I think he’s right to be concerned.”

“Sin can be a handful,” Lore muttered.

Idess raised a delicate eyebrow. “That’s one way to put it.”

Lore reached for her, only to be jerked short by the chain. “I’m sorry, angel.” He blinked. Had he just used “angel” as a term of endearment and not a snarky insult? He blinked again. Yes. Yes, he had. Huh. “I shouldn’t have left you alone in the bedroom. I didn’t think—”

She shut him up with a kiss. It was just a peck, but it was enough to derail his thoughts and wreck his emotions. His sister had nearly killed her, but here she was, smiling warmly and kissing him and being just way too good to be true.

“Took a page from your book,” she said, as she straightened. “It’s an interesting maneuver, kissing someone to shut them up or calm them down.” She paused. “I think I like it.”

A weird possessive instinct made his gut burn, and he wanted to tell her not to use that particular trick with anyone else. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Something’s off here. Sin wouldn’t stand for being shut out. She’d have found a way in here.”

“She’s not raising a stink… because I swore to release you myself.”

All kinds of red flags went up. “Why? So you can take me home and chain me to your bed again?”

She flushed, and damn it, he felt things below his waist start to stir because as much as it bit dick to be chained up, there were worse things than being chained to Idess’s bed. Better her bed than a hospital one.

“Not unless you force me to.”

“So you’re saying you’re just going to let me run around loose? Aren’t you worried about your precious Kynan?”

“I am,” she admitted. “But this hospital is a very dangerous place for you to be.”

“Ah… it’s a hospital.”

“Full of brothers who want you dead.”

Okay, so he knew they wouldn’t be happy with his plan to kill their buddy, but dead? “If that were true, why did they save me?”

“Eidolon is the one who wants to keep you alive. He thinks that if you’re contained, the other two will be placated enough to not kill you.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

She let out a long breath, as though dragging it out would put off whatever she was clearly reluctant to say. “I saw murder in Shade’s eyes.”

“I can handle Shade,” he said. “But why are you willing to take a chance on releasing me?”

“Because I think it’s time we started working together. Started trusting each other.”

He laughed, but quickly sobered. “Good God, you’re serious.”

She nodded. “I have to protect Kynan, but I also have to protect you. It’s clear that someone is trying to mess with my Primori. You and your sister are the keys. You help me get to the bottom of it, Kynan lives, and your brothers won’t be a threat to you anymore. We’re all winners.”

Sure, it made sense to combine resources, but it also shoved them together when the last thing he needed was to be distracted by her. Because he doubted they’d find the contract holder, which meant he’d have to kill Kynan, and the closer he got to Idess, the harder that would be.

But if her plan worked, big if, Idess would earn her wings and Sin would live. And so would Kynan, the rat bastard.

“Okay, so what do you need from me, right this minute, to get these shackles off?”

“I need you to take me to your master.”

“No can do. Unless you’re branded, you can’t get past the guards and into the den.” Lore could kill the guards, but he wasn’t about to risk Deth’s wrath until Sin was safe. “Which means that the only way to get to Detharu is through the Guild, and trust me, you do not want to do that.”

She drifted closer to him, and in painfully slow motion, she covered his slave-mark with her hand. Her touch was like a punch to the soul, and he had to clench his teeth and his fists to keep from trembling. “Why not?”

It was a full thirty seconds before he could answer without sounding as if he’d lost his testicles in an industrial accident. “Because they won’t tell you anything. It doesn’t matter how much you pay them or what you threaten them with. The only way they’d reveal something like that is if you made it very worthwhile, and even then… I wouldn’t trust the information they give you. Assassins have a reputation for keeping secrets. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be in business.”

Though she lost a little color in her face, she managed a smile. “Well, then, I guess I’ll give them something worthwhile. We’re going, and you’re going to take me.” He would have protested, but she unsnapped the cuff on his left wrist, and he’d promise to take her all the way to Mars if she’d release the other arm, too. “Oh, and you might have mentioned your little death glitch.”

“Death glitch?”

She gestured to his right arm, which was wrapped in thick layers of gauze and tape from his fingertips to his shoulder. “You know, how you could possibly kill me with a touch.”

Busted. “Ah, yeah. That. Minor detail. And if you’ll remember, I did tell you not to touch.”

“Yes, but you said it was because your arm is sensitive.”

“It is.”

“We’ll have to chat about it. Later.” She handed him his Gargantua-bone dagger. “Right now we have to get you out of this hospital. Alive.”

Sixteen

Getting Lore out of the hospital wasn’t a problem. His room had been close to the emergency department, and while Sin created a very loud and obnoxious distraction near the Harrowgate, Idess and Lore had made a mad dash to the parking lot, where Idess flashed them out of there.

But contacting the Assassins’ Guild was going to be a lot more difficult. Its headquarters was located in Sheoul, an extremely dangerous place for angels—especially pre-Ascended ones who were easier to kill and more vulnerable to corruption.

Making matters more hazardous, as a not-quite-angel, Idess couldn’t flash into or out of Sheoul. She could only get there if her Primori was in mortal danger, forcing her to flash in, or if she traveled via Harrowgate. But naturally, there was a catch to that, too; she could only use a Harrowgate if she was with a demon, because no divine being could operate the controls.

So Lore would take her, but if he was killed or rendered unconscious while they were there, she couldn’t get out. And if the Guild was under a maltranseo treaty, no divine being short of God himself could enter.

Idess and Lore had gone to his house first, so he could shower and change, and then, outfitted in black leather from head to toe—including his hands—he’d taken her through the Harrowgate to a wet, cavernous region of Sheoul, where the spongy ground growled and bled with every step. Some sort of pale light illuminated the place, but as far as she could tell, there was no source. All she knew for certain was that the light affected their shadows, making them move when Idess and Lore were standing still, or making them motionless when Idess or Lore moved.

Ignoring the mild itch in her shoulder blades, Idess summoned a scythe and held it tight as they picked their way between boulders and thorny vines that curled around their ankles if they came too near.

“You sure you want to do this?” Lore spoke loudly so she could hear over the sounds of the furious earth. “There isn’t a being in Sheoul that wouldn’t like to put an angel head on their mantel. Down here, you stand out like, well, an angel in hell. You’re sort of… glowing with goodness. All you need now is a fucking halo to make sure even the dumbest demons know what you are.”

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

He waggled his brows. “I can take care of you better.”

Oh, she knew firsthand how well he could take care of her. Her body warmed up at the unwanted memory of his magic fingers working between her legs. She cleared her throat. “Tell me what to expect at the Guild.”

“You’ll have to make a blood sacrifice.” He tensed, the only warning before something scaly, with massive rows of teeth and about the size of a raccoon sprang at them from a rocky ledge. Lore caught it easily out of midair, narrowly avoiding its snapping jaws… and the thing fell dead to the ground.

Impressive. And a little scary.

“How did you do that?”

He flexed his hand, answering her without ever taking his watchful gaze off their surroundings. “It works even through the leather if I force it to.”

“Oh.” She stepped over the still-twitching dead creature, a little shaken to have seen Lore’s power firsthand. She hadn’t expected it to be so… fast. “So, uh… were you born with this issue?”

“Nope.” He kept walking, his eyes constantly scanning for danger. “Came with my dermoire when I was twenty. First person I touched was Sin, and it didn’t affect her. Second person dropped dead. I thought it was a heart attack or something. Not that I cared. I was crazed at the time.”

“Crazed?”

He paused, head up, black eyes scanning, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. “Along with the dermoire came an uncontrollable lust and that fun rage.” He started moving again, as if he’d never stopped.

“It all happened suddenly?”

“Yeah.” His voice was gruff. “Sin and I shared our grandparents’ house for a year after they died. One morning we both were struck with this massive pain. Went on for hours. When it was over we had new tats, and I was a raging monster.” He kicked at a steaming, softball-sized stone. “I scared her pretty bad. Tore up the house. I guess I took off, was gone for days. I don’t remember much of it, except bits and pieces I wish I didn’t remember.”

She started to reach for him, but dropped her hand to her side at the last second, unsure if he’d appreciate a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. It was a long time ago.”

Maybe, but it was obviously still painful. “What happened to Sin? I mean, if you went nuts, did she?”

“I don’t know.” He launched a morning star in a smooth motion that barely registered until a winged demon fell out of the air in front of them, the blade bull’s-eyed in the center of its third eye. This place was going to give her a heart attack. He, on the other hand, was acting as if they were strolling through a park. “We’ve never talked about it.”

Never talked about it? Idess and Rami had discussed everything. Nothing was off-limits for them. Granted, they’d spent centuries together, and Sin and Lore had only a fraction of that, but it still seemed odd, given how protective they were of each other.

She watched him fetch his weapon and wipe it clean on the creature’s leathery skin. “What did she say when you finally went home?”

Tucking the star into a leather hip housing, he picked up the pace. “We’re almost there.”

“Lore,” she said, catching up to him, “what did she say?”

He patted down his jacket and cursed. “I forgot my claw darts.” Silence stretched as he kept walking. Finally, a long, drawn-out sigh came from him. “I betrayed and abandoned her. It’s ugly, and I don’t like going back there.”

She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. “Tell me you’ve apologized.”

He frowned down at her. “What’s it matter to you?”

“It’s just… if you don’t, you might never get the chance. And you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“You sound like you know something about that,” he murmured, but somehow she heard him over the growling earth and bone-chilling shrieks that came at them from all sides.

“I do.”

His eyes were in constant motion, alert and seeking out potential threats, but he also seemed to be making a conscious effort to not look at her. “She knows I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure about that?”

His frown deepened. “I’m paying for what I did every day of my life.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Trust me, it is.” Something screeched nearby, making her jump. “She knows.”

“How?”

“God, you’re persistent,” he muttered. She crossed her arms over her chest and started to tap her foot, but when the ground protested with a bark, she froze and decided she might make Lore carry her the rest of the way. “I’m an assassin because of her, okay? She got herself into trouble with Detharu thirty years ago, and she came to me. We hadn’t seen each other in about seventy-five years, which should tell you how desperate she was. He was planning to sell her into service at a blood gallery.”

Idess’s stomach turned over. Oh, sweet Jesus. She’d never been to what was a demon version of an opium denslash-whorehouse, but she’d heard enough about them to understand Sin’s fear. Some humans and demons participated willingly, but others were forced. They would be given drugs and then turned into the “pits,” where blood-feeders like vampires could drink and get high while using the humans for sex. Each gallery had different rules governing the treatment of the humans, but even in the strict establishments, accidents and overdoses happened. In the worst places, the humans were disposable, rarely surviving more than a day, or even beyond one customer.

“What did you do?” she asked hoarsely.

“Tried to find a way out of the assassin bond. When we couldn’t, I went to him and offered myself as an assassin in trade for her life. And now her life is on the line again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s why I have to knock off Kynan.” His voice became so deep and ominous that it vibrated. “If I do it, we both go free. If I don’t, she dies.”

Idess’s hands went white-knuckled on her weapon and somehow she managed to speak past the swelling lump of panic in her throat. “Lore? If your master wasn’t holding Sin’s life over you, would you still want to kill Kynan?”

“Want to? Yeah.” He laughed bitterly. “But would I? No.”

“Why not?”

He looked off into the distance, his gaze going somewhere she couldn’t follow. “Because my brothers might be assholes, but they’ll be good for Sin. And I kinda hoped… I mean, they’re immune to my touch… but whatever. Killing Kynan is going to polarize everyone. It already has.”

Emotion joined the lump of panic that clogged Idess’s throat, as he started walking again. Lore had wanted some kind of relationship with his brothers, and he might have had a chance if he hadn’t been set against them… she stumbled to a halt. Lore turned around.

“What now? I’ve already told you more than I should have.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “Listen… all along I’ve believed that the hits put out on my Primori were about me. But what if this isn’t about me at all? What if it’s about you?”

“Ah… why would it be about me?”

“Well, you or your brothers. I mean, what are the odds that you were chosen to kill Kynan? Don’t you think it’s quite the coincidence that he happens to be related by marriage to your brother? And look what the job is doing to you and them. It’s tearing everyone apart. So what if this is about getting to you guys?”

Lore whistled through his teeth. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I was originally hired to kill them by our own brother. But why sic Sin on one of your other Primori? The warg didn’t have anything to do with me or my brothers.”

“That is the one kink in my theory.” She shook her head. “And wait, did you say you were hired to kill your brothers? By your brother?”

“Yup.” He ran his gloved hand down his face. “Sick bastard wanted revenge on them so badly that he arranged for their deaths even in the event of his own death.”

Idess considered that. “So he’s dead then? He couldn’t be the one who is behind this?”

“According to Shade, the guy is as good as dead.” They started walking again.

She blew out a breath. “Okay, so there has to be another answer. Your involvement in something that’s putting your brothers at odds is just too convenient.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. The summoning area is just ahead.”

“Wait.” A screaming itch flared up between her shoulder blades. She wasn’t sure if she should be happy that her evil-detection system was working, or worried because it was. “Something’s wrong.”

Lightning quick, Lore’s hands were gripping blades. “The ground is silent.”

“Angel flesh is sweeeeet.”

Idess whirled around to see two demons of unknown species peel away from the stone ledges. Dark gray and about eight feet tall, they were thin, spindly, with pitted, crocodilelike snouts and sharp, pointed scales covering their bodies.

She heard a whisper of air, and then Lore’s blade punched through one of the demon’s chests. The thing laughed. The other one ripped a scale off its arm and launched it like a Frisbee. Idess threw herself to the ground, her breath hissing out of her at the sting as it grazed her cheek.

“Stay down!” Lore shouted, but if he thought she was going to cower while he fought, he was crazy.

Heart pounding, she leaped to her feet. Lore ducked a swipe from one of the creatures, its claws catching air. The second strike hit him in the face, and he catapulted backward, slamming into a rock ledge.

Enraged, Idess attacked, swinging her scythe at the closest creature and catching it by surprise. The blade lopped off its arm. Black sludge spewed from the wound and splatted on the shrieking ground. She swung again, but the second demon attacked, its jaws clamping down on Idess’s shoulder. Pain surged, and as her concentration broke, the summoned weapon shimmered out of existence.

The demon released her with a screech and crumpled to the ground. Lore stood behind it, his eyes swirling gold and crimson, his gloved hand flexing. That death thing he did was beyond frightening.

“Down!” he shouted, and Idess ducked, narrowly avoiding a Frisbee scale as she summoned another scythe. Two more scales whistled through the air, and she heard a grunt as Lore took one.

A clawed hand came out of nowhere and knocked her feet out from under her. The air whooshed from her lungs and her ears rang as she fought to reorient herself. Another demon, a newcomer, lunged at her. She rolled, swept her weapon up in a violent arc. Flesh ripped as she split the thing in half from its crotch to its neck. Entrails and blood poured down in a gruesome rain.

Idess scrambled to her feet to avoid being crushed by the dying demon as it fell. Lore, bleeding from a nasty gash in his chest, was engaged with the armless creature, his blade swiping at it as he tried to get closer. The demon had caught on, and it moved in blurs of motion as it avoided Lore’s killing arm.

Idess swung her scythe, but the blade struck only empty air. The thing danced around them, an odd, scratchy noise emanating from its chest.

“It’s calling more,” Lore panted. “We have to kill it. Now.”

Idess lunged, but once again, her scythe caught wind. Forcing herself to calm, she breathed deeply, studied her opponent the way Rami had taught her to do. Study the landscape. The air. Anything that could be used to her advantage.

The shadows… Idess frowned, and though she scarcely had time to pause, she watched the shadows form and fade… and, yes! Their sequence made sense now—they moved before the demon did.

The demon’s shadow flickered in range of her weapon. She swung with all her strength, and the creature’s head plopped to the ground.

Panting, Lore bent over, braced his hands on his knees, but he looked up at Idess, a grin splitting his handsome face. “You’re awesome, babe.” He straightened and grabbed her hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here before more of those things come for us.”

“You’re injured—”

“So are you. Our injuries will be gone in a minute. Hurry.”

She didn’t understand, but now wasn’t the time for twenty questions. They ran until they rounded a corner that opened up into a flat, steaming plain.

“This is the summoning area. It’s called the killbox.” He gestured to two brimstone pillars, around which opossumlike, eyeless creatures skittered. “Those are guardians. Anyone with deceptive thoughts is ripped apart. There’s the altar. You’ll need to offer your blood.”

Gingerly, Idess picked up the dagger lying atop a blood-stained, flat stone. She put the sharp edge to her skin, but he gripped her wrist.

“I would do it myself if I could.”

His stare was intense, full of a masculine promise that took her breath and made her heart race. And then, as though he hadn’t just sworn to endure the pain for her when he had every reason to wish her harm, he released her and stood back, a silent sentinel, all power and muscle and confidence. Idess was more than capable of taking care of herself, but for the first time since Rami had left her, someone had her back, and it felt good. Lore was ready to protect her, even if it meant risking himself.

He’d been so wrong when he said he was a terrible person.

Her hand shook as she drew the blade across her wrist and let her blood drip onto the stone. Once a pool the size of a coffee cup rim had formed, a ring of light flashed all around the wet puddle.

“It’s done.” Gently, Lore put pressure against the cut with the palm of his hand. “I wish I had Eidolon’s gift. I wish I could heal you.”

“I wish you could, too.” Only she wasn’t talking about a mere cut. Her heart and soul hurt, and the only cure could be found in Heaven.

A wet slurping noise preceded a dark-skinned, humanoid female who emerged from the sleek archway like toothpaste from a tube. Suppressing a shudder, Idess pulled away from Lore. She hated Sheoul… the smells, the sounds, the denizens. Everything here was warped.

Steam swirled around the female’s feet as she stopped before Idess. “Are you inquiring about a single killing? A mass killing? Is the victim human or demon? A quick death, or a painful one?”

Nice. “None of the above. I must meet with the Guild.”

The demon’s jaw dropped, revealing a forked, gray tongue. “You are either joking or are very, very stupid.”

“I will see the Guild.”

“That is not possible.”

“Then you bring the wrath of Azagoth down on your heads,” Idess said with a shrug.

The demon’s skin went ashen. The name Azagoth was only whispered among demonkind. When a name was synonymous with death, no one spoke it out loud. “You lie.”

Idess had been prepared for this. Taking a deep breath, she summoned every ounce of fury she’d ever felt, let it condense and build until she felt like a shaken bottle of champagne. When the pressure became an unbearable pounding behind her eyes, she let it out in a painful release.

All around her, the black-streaked ground trembled as her skin split and her body doubled in size, morphed, and erupted in glowing light. The demon wheeled away in terror and the things guarding the archway cowered. Within seconds, Idess was a winged, skeletal creature that no one, demon or human, could look upon without thinking of Death incarnate.

She was, in fact, a perfect cross between Azagoth’s true form and an angel.

“You represent the Guild, and I represent Death.” Her voice was a dark, deep rumble that put fissures in the sheer rock faces on either side of her. “Take me.”

The female bowed, making the bone beads in her hair clatter. “I’ll deliver your message.” She disappeared into the gate, squeezing through once more. Idess returned to her preferred form, and turned to find Lore gaping at her. Oops.

“Ah… is there something you want to tell me?”

“Not really,” she muttered, and amused herself by hissing at the creepy things milling around the arch and making them skitter away in terror.

“Idess? Who is Azagoth?”

Oh, hell. “You’ve never heard of him?”

“I’ve heard the name, but I figured he was some regional baddie warlord in Sheoul.”

She snorted. “Hardly. He was once an angel. Back before there was such a thing as death.” She hissed at the creepy things again when they inched too close. “But then that idiot, Cain, killed Abel, and because humans could die, demons had to lose their immortality as well. Some species, anyway. So after that, human and demon souls were running around all willy-nilly and wreaking havoc. Angels were assigned to escort human souls to Heaven, but someone needed to be in charge of the other souls.”

“So, what… this Azagoth guy volunteered?”

“Apparently,” she replied, keeping an eye on the Crest Gel Archway. “Better an angel than a demon to handle the work. So, according to legend, Azagoth willingly fell. He created the holding tank, Sheoul-gra, and all the while, he tried to maintain his goodness, but eventually, he was corrupted. Maybe because he started feeding on demons, or maybe because dealing with demon souls and seeing everything they’d done in their lives chipped away his purity. In any case, he presides over souls his griminions escort to Sheoul-gra.”

“Griminions? As in, the Grim Reaper’s little helpers? Those griminions?”

“Yes. Azagoth is the being humans know as the Grim Reaper.” She glanced at the portal, which began to shimmer. “He’s also my father.”

Lore made a strangled sound, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything, because a seven-foot-tall male Neethul squeezed through the gate and came straight at them.

The Neethulum were a beautiful race, elven in appearance, which made them all the more terrifying. They were proof that evil was not always ugly. This one had emerald eyes and long white hair, with several jagged facial scars that marred his perfection.

“If you are lying about who you are,” he said pleasantly, “you will be skinned and disemboweled while still alive and hung from the rafters until you die.”

Lore casually peeled off his glove, exposing his killing hand, and his cold smile matched the Neethul’s. Except that on Lore, it was sexy. Sexier than it should be, but she was rapidly realizing that Lore was a lot of things he shouldn’t be.

“Follow. And know that you cannot summon weapons inside the Guild Hall.” The Neethul led them to the portal, kicking one of the slithering demon things on his way through.

The gate flashed them to something that resembled a small, underground medieval village. Spiny hellrats scurried under the feet of various species of demons, some of whom appeared to be there against their will. Actual balls and chains dragged behind them, and near a hovel next to a black, steaming pool, an imp in stocks was being whipped.

“See?” Lore whispered. “We’re healed.”

Sure enough, Lore’s injuries no longer bled, and when she touched her cheek, where the scale had sliced it, her skin wasn’t even tender. Neat. But her back itched like crazy.

Lore took her hand in his left one and followed the Neethul into the largest of the buildings, a keeplike structure made of bone-colored stone that bled a black substance. Inside, everything was gray, from the hard-baked clay floor to the ceiling, from which hundreds of heads hung, some fresh, some so old they’d rotted to nothing but yellowed skulls.

Idess’s stomach lurched as the Neethul led them through rooms that seemed to have no purpose except to display the heads and a few other choice body parts, until they reached a long, dark hallway. At the end, a rolling vertical door opened into the largest room yet. In the center was a crude wooden trestle table, at which at least a hundred demons sat, some drinking from ale tankards, and others gnawing on bloody hunks of meat. The Neethul took a chair near the middle.

A lizardlike demon of unknown species stood at the far end. “Why do you request this audience?” he asked, his voice booming with an unnatural resonance, a trick of the room’s architecture, Idess was sure.

“I come for information about one of your clients. I must speak with the master known as Detharu.”

There was an explosion of talk, and the lizard-man gestured for silence. “Your request is ridiculous. You will therefore be killed.”

“I will speak with Detharu, or you will face my father’s wrath.” She locked gazes with the demon.

Lizard-man’s ominous growl vibrated the air. “I do not think you understand. No master can reveal the name of the one who entered into a contract with him.”

“I didn’t say I wanted a name.” At this point, even a sketchy description would be better than nothing.

Conversation ensued, and finally, the demon turned back to her. “The price for even the smallest kernel of information will be great.”

“And that price would be?” she ground out.

“You will become an assassin.”

They couldn’t be serious. The way Lore went taut beside her said they were. “I will not.”

One eyeless male stood up, his pasty skin reminding her of a grub. Or a maggot. His hands were encased in metal, with spikes at the knuckles. “One kill. Whoever we command. Just one. Agree or leave.”

“Don’t do it, Idess,” Lore growled in a voice so low she doubted the others could hear.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins in a stinging rush. She couldn’t do it. To kill like that… it would eliminate her as a candidate for Ascension. But she’d be eliminated if she lost Kynan, too.

“I cannot kill,” she said. “But I could serve in some other way.”

“Idess!” Lore squeezed her elbow. “Don’t.”

They all looked to the white-skinned one. “Agreed.”

Oh, God, what had she done?

He moved toward her, peeling off one of the gauntlets as he approached. When he was in front of her he smiled, a baring of tiny, sharp teeth. “For six months you will be mine.”

A seismic rumble rolled up from Lore’s chest. “Oh, no she won’t.” His arm hooked around her throat as he yanked her backward, and then there was an incredible pressure on her throat, and then… nothing.

The world went black.

* * *

Shit, shit, shit. Lore had really stepped in it this time. He sprinted through the Guild Hall, Idess in his arms, after knocking her cold with a modified sleeper hold. Deth’s furious shouts followed him. The demon was going to torture the ever-living fuck out of him for this.

Spurred by footfalls behind him, he kicked the outer door so hard it splintered, vaulted through it, and hit the portal at a run. When he emerged in what felt like slow motion into the killbox, he didn’t pause. And when his slave-bond lit up as if it was on fire, he breathed through the agony and ran harder, until he was safely shut into a Harrowgate. Panting and cursing, he tapped out the map until he arrived at the gate closest to his house.

Idess began to stir, and shit, she was going to kick his ass, too.

Freaking Grim Reaper’s daughter.

Leave it to him to get messed up with Death’s little girl. Fuck.

He exploded out of the Harrowgate and didn’t stop until he reached his front door. It was unlocked, as always, and fortunately, Sin wasn’t there waiting for him. The last thing he needed right now was her concern, lectures, or drama fits.

He laid Idess on the couch, but she’d awakened enough to squirm into a sit. “What… what happened?” She blinked up at him, her gaze a little glassy.

“I saved you from making a monster of a mistake.”

She blinked again, and then came to her feet so fast he had to take a step back. “You what?”

“I take it you remember?”

“They were going to tell me who is trying to kill my Primori!” she shouted.

He held up his hands. “You wake up grumpy. You’re not a morning person, are you?”

She gaped in outrage. “You… you—”

He palmed the nape of her neck, tugged her close, and kissed her. His assault tactics didn’t work. Her squeal of outrage and fists against his shoulders were his first clue that this might not be the best approach to the situation. The knee to the groin was the second.

He’d been prepared for that, though, and he’d stepped back and twisted, avoiding what would have been a painful blow.

“You son of a bitch!”

“What?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were mad.”

“I wasn’t talking about the kiss.”

He grinned. “Does that mean I can do it again?”

She stomped her foot. Actually stomped her foot in indignant fury. It probably shouldn’t have been cute, but it was. “Lore, this is serious!”

“I seriously saved you from Detharu’s service.” Rubbing his seared chest, he moved toward the kitchen and had to bite down on a smile at her huff of frustration.

“I didn’t need to be saved,” Idess said, following him into the tiny kitchen space.

“Yeah, you did. You were in way over your pretty little angel head.”

“I’m two thousand years old. I’ve been around the block, you know.”

He laughed. “Really? Do you have any idea what he would have used you for? Go ahead and picture him naked. Because he uses his assassins for more than just killing.”

“Oh… good Lord.” Her hand flew up to her throat. “Has he… does he…”

“I’ve been lucky.” He dug a glass out of a cupboard. “I think he’s afraid of me. None of his assassins can harm him with intent, but because just touching my arm can kill… he’s not taking any chances.”

She looked down at her jeans and brushed away some invisible lint. “Still, I would have worked out specifics with him—”

“He was going to brand you. When he reached for you, that’s what he was going to do. You would have had a handprint on your chest to match mine and it would have been too late to negotiate.”

Her mouth worked soundlessly. “Oh.”

“A thank-you would be nice,” he drawled, as he grabbed a jug of his rotgut out of the fridge. It wasn’t even cold. Damned fridge had shit the bed again. But then, he’d had the Kelvinator since 1940, just like the oven he never used.

“You couldn’t have warned me? You had to kidnap me instead?”

He laughed. “That, coming from you?” He splashed liquor into a glass and took a swig. “Want one?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Thanks, no.”

“You hungry? I have sandwich makings. I think. If you like peanut butter. And bologna.”

“As appetizing as that sounds, I’ll have to pass. Thank you, I’m fine.” She dragged her hand through her hair, tugging strands out of the ponytail, and sank back down on his couch. “Now what? I’m running out of ideas.”

“I have one, but it’s going to require Wraith. I need to contact the guys anyway, let them know that what’s going on could be about them instead of you.”

Lore’s plan for Wraith would be a longshot, though—he had no idea how effective Wraith’s mind-invasion thing would be on a being like Deth… assuming Lore could get the two of them together. And assuming Wraith didn’t kill Lore before that could happen. First, though, he was going to have to go to Detharu and take his punishment for stealing Idess. His chest was burning like a mother, and the pain was only hours away from holy-shit-I’m- going-to-die-debilitating.

In rapid succession, he slammed four more shots of alcohol to numb himself. He’d have to take his other edge off, too, the sexual one, so he’d be less likely to rage out during his torture. “Look, I have to take off. I’m just going to, ah, shower up and head out.”

“Where?”

“I need to see Sin,” he lied.

“I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Idess let out an aggravated breath. “I’m not going to let you go alone.”

“You’re afraid I’ll hunt Kynan.” Guilt put shadows in her eyes, and he cursed. “I said I wouldn’t.” An unusually powerful blast of heat in his chest made him grit his teeth. “You don’t trust me?”

“I want to, Lore. But this is important.”

“You can’t go. I’m going to the assassin den.”

“No need.” Sin’s singsongy voice came through the screen door. “I’m here for a friendly visit.”

Shit. “Now’s not a good time, Sin.”

She ignored him to plop down in the recliner. She was dressed like a street thug, in baggy pants with chains, a black hoodie, and sneakers. Even her hair was tucked up under a backward Yankees ballcap. “So. How’d it go at the Guild?”

“It didn’t,” Idess said. “Your brother felt the need to rescue me.”

Sin cocked an eyebrow. “Rescue her?”

Lore slammed another shot. “Let’s drop it, ’kay?”

“What did you do?” He should have known better than to expect Sin to leave anything alone.

“He knocked me out and threw me over his shoulder like some sort of caveman,” Idess said, and yeah, that was pretty true. “He claims that if he hadn’t, I’d have been branded like you two.”

Sin’s eyes widened, because she knew exactly what saving Idess had cost him. “Fuck,” she muttered, and gestured to his bottle. “Gimme.”

He passed it to her, and she swigged right from it. Dainty, his sister was not.

“I’m going to shower and go,” he muttered, and started toward the bathroom.

“But Sin is here,” Idess pointed out. “You have no reason to go to the den.”

Black eyes sparking, Sin planted the jug between her thighs. “Oh, he didn’t tell you?”

“Sin…”

She ignored his warning tone, but then, he didn’t expect anything else. “He seriously pissed off Deth by taking you away like that. He’s going to be tortured.”

* * *

Idess felt sick to her stomach as Lore ushered Sin out the door with instructions to bring Wraith back to Lore’s place. When he turned around, she stood, though not without effort. His couch must be a hundred years old, and if it had springs, they were dead. He truly didn’t care about his comfort. Or maybe he couldn’t afford nice things.

Or personal things, she noted with a frown. The walls were achingly bare. He had no knicknacks. Nothing that revealed anything about him—except what the lack of personal effects revealed about him; the house was set up so an intruder would learn nothing crucial about him or his sister. He could leave forever in a matter of minutes.

“Lore? Tell me what Sin said about you being tortured wasn’t true.”

He didn’t look at her as he moved toward the bathroom. “It wasn’t true.”

“You’re lying.”

“You told me to.”

“Damn you!” she snapped. “Stop!”

He halted, but he still didn’t look at her. “It’s all right, Idess. It’s not like Deth hasn’t done it before.”

The way he said it, as if it was no big deal because he was used to it, broke her heart. How many beatings did it take before one grew numb to it? Way too many, she suspected.

“I won’t let him do this.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “I’ll go to my father. I’ll—”

“Stop.” Lore rounded on her, but he didn’t look angry. If she had to pick a look, she’d say he seemed startled by her vow to help him. “I have to do this. I knew what I was getting into, and I’ll deal with it.”

“But why? Why did you do it? After what I’ve done to you, you should enjoy seeing me enslaved.”

“You really believe that?” He took a step toward her. “I’m risking Sin’s life by putting off what I have to do to Kynan. I’m doing that for you. Not for Kynan or my brothers. I took a knife for you. I’ve kissed you over and over when I never kiss anyone. So why the hell would I want to see you suffer?”

Her mouth dropped open in shock, and her stomach fluttered. Some idiotic feminine instinct she didn’t even know she had went tail-wagging stupid at his admission. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know.” He swiped the jug of liquor off the coffee table, where Sin had left it. “Fuck. I have no idea. Forget I said anything.”

Fat chance of that. She moved closer to him, not wanting to miss even the slightest nuances in his expression when she hit him with her sudden suspicion. “You don’t kiss anyone because you’re afraid of killing them, aren’t you? Same with sex, right?”

He turned away again, and she grabbed his arm—the right one, protected by his thick leather coat. “Lore? Tell me.”

“Yeah, okay? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch your partner drop dead because you got off? No,” he said nastily, “I’m guessing you don’t.”

“But if you wear a sleeve and glove—”

“When I climax, my power punches right through it.”

She thought about how he’d stroked himself to completion over her and realized that he’d pinned her legs between his and held himself away from her—to keep her from thrashing and accidentally touching his arm when he came.

“Have you ever been with a woman safely?”

He swallowed, and now probably wasn’t the time to notice how sexy his throat was as the muscles worked beneath his tan skin, but whoa. “Just once. A long time ago.”

“Did you love her?”

He snorted. “I didn’t know her name. She blew me in an alley while I braced my arms above my head against a building.”

“Oh.” She could have gone all day without knowing that.

“You disgusted now? Because I am. Not because I paid some whore for sex, but because I was so fucking lonely that I risked killing her. I told you, I’m a selfish piece of shit.”

It broke her heart to hear him say that, because she’d seen a lot of evidence to the contrary. “A selfish person wouldn’t have signed up to be a slave to save his sister. A selfish person wouldn’t have locked himself away from society in order to protect them. You’re not selfish. You’ve slipped, like everyone else.”

He threw the jug across the room, shattering it against the wall. “My slips kill people, Idess!”

She looked down at his scuffed hardwood floor, at the wetness spreading across it like spilled blood. “Have you ever loved anyone? Besides your sister, I mean.” Say no.

“Why the hell are we talking about this?”

“I’m curious.”

“Because this is such great pretorture talk.”

The reminder dropped a bowling ball right into the pit of her stomach. “Please,” she begged. “I have to do something to stop it. I’ll go to my father and see if Deth can be given a heart attack or something.”

“Seriously?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “That’s what your father does?”

“Sort of. I don’t know how much pull I have with him. I haven’t seen him in centuries.”

She’d lived in Azagoth’s realm for a hundred years, right after she was pulled from her human life. She’d been Rami’s apprentice, learning the ways of the Memitim, how to flash and use her innate skills, learning the bazillions of rules. But once she was given Primori, she left the realm and hadn’t been back.

Lore reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. The gentle gesture was a lover’s touch, and it triggered an ache deep inside. “I told you,” he said quietly. “I knew what I was getting into.”

Flecks of gold pierced the black of his irises, moving fluidly, like sunlight on a stream. “Why do your eyes do that?” She went on her toes to get closer, amazed by the beauty. “They were red when you were enraged, but they’re gold now.”

“They do that when I’m mildly annoyed.” His gaze intensified, somehow growing both darker and more golden, and his earthy male scent filled her nostrils. “Or aroused.”

“Which are you now?” she croaked. No sooner had the question passed her lips than her body answered with a warm, wet rush between her legs.

“Guess.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and he spun around and headed for the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m about to be tortured,” he said, without looking back, “which will probably send me into a rage. If I don’t let off some steam before I go… it could be bad.”

“I can help,” she blurted. Part of her longed to experience the intimacy again, and part of her just wanted to do something for him. To be useful. To make up for chaining him and nearly getting him killed.

He ground to a halt at the doorway. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. In fact, it’s a terrible idea.”

“But you want it, don’t you? You want me to be the one to ease you.”

His big body shuddered. “God, yes.” And there was that penetrating rumble that made her heart quiver in her chest. “It’s better with you.”

“Better how?” It was stupid to keep pressing, because the more she knew, the closer she got to him. Yet, some dark, wild side of her wanted that. Wanted to walk the line between love and hate and see which way she tipped.

“Are you asking to feed your ego, or are you genuinely curious about how you affect me?”

“Both, I think,” she said honestly.

The long, deep breath he took told her she’d given him the right answer. “My release is more powerful. It’s not that it feels better… I mean, it does… but I get more relief, more time before I need it again. Fuck, Idess… I can’t.”

“You didn’t have a problem letting me help you before,” she pointed out, though she did so breathlessly.

“I was chained with Bracken Cuffs the first time. I didn’t need to worry about touching you. The second time, you were restrained, so I was in control.” He rolled his broad shoulders, and the leather of his jacket strained at the seams. “I can’t risk it.”

“Not much can kill me.” She walked around him so she could look him in the eyes. “I’m not worried.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Maintaining eye contact, she slid her palm down his arm to his gloved hand. His fingers curled around hers.

“Idess, this is stupid.” But he stepped into her, so close she could feel the heat coming off him.

Haltingly, she placed her other hand on his waist, felt the very slight tensing in his body. “I know.”

Seventeen

Idess’s words ricocheted through Lore, sucker punching him right in the soul.

You’re not selfish. You’ve slipped. Slipped. A slip could cost Idess her life.

Panic became shrink-wrap around his chest, and he released her. “No,” he croaked. “No. I can’t do this. Accidents happen.”

And no way was Idess going to be an accident. Just a few days ago, he might not have cared. But now he cared way too much.

“Lore—”

“No!” Before she could argue, he shut himself in his room. To his surprise, she didn’t barge in or even knock. She respected his privacy, and for some reason, her consideration sucker-punched him again.

Chest screaming with bond-pain and groin tight with the need she’d stirred, he paced, practically ran laps around his bedroom. He was hard and achy, but when he palmed his cock, God help him, it felt numb. His last couple of shower sessions had taken forever, but now? No matter how fast or hard he stroked, how hot the fantasy about Idess, he couldn’t get there.

Just like a purebred Seminus. Fuck.

He had no idea what was going to happen once the torture began.

As if his body was trying to prepare him, a lightning bolt of pain struck him, spreading from the bond and into every extremity. Cursing, doubled over in agony, he slipped out his window and headed to the Harrowgate.

Lore hated leaving Idess, but he had a demon to face. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Idess couldn’t flash into Sheoul. No way did he want her getting messed up in this.

The moment Lore entered the den, his bond-pain eased to a dull ache. Detharu was waiting in his chamber, looking really fucking pissed off. The foul stench of someone’s terror soured the air, so thick Lore could taste it on the back of his tongue.

“Lore,” Deth snarled. “My patience with you is at an end.”

“I can see you aren’t in the best of moods,” Lore said, reversing course. “I’ll come back later.”

Deth’s guards blocked the doorway, and Lore turned back, carefully schooling his expression to hide the fact that he knew he was in for a world of hurt.

“Where is the female?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re ugly. What’s your point?”

Deth shot out of his seat. “You will bring her to me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I am going to make you suffer,” Deth snarled.

“Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Oh, yes.” Anticipation glinted in the male’s eyes as Deth shambled toward him. “Have you killed your mark yet?”

“I still have time.” Lore studied his nails. “I’ll get to it.”

“Getting to it will be difficult, if you’re locked in my pit for a month.”

“You can’t do that.” Lore crossed his arms over his chest, still playing nonchalant. “I’m on a deadline.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you spirited away the female.”

A shiver of dread skittered up Lore’s spine. “Look,” he said calmly, even though inside he was sweating bullets, “I swear, as soon as I have Kynan’s head, I’ll submit myself for your punishment. Whatever you want.”

Deth’s steel-gloved fist nailed Lore in the jaw. Pain spiderwebbed up his face, into his skull, but he refused to show any reaction.

“You will not negotiate with me!” Deth roared. “I am going to punish you for taking the female. Right now.”

Lore snorted. “Pussy stuff.” Antagonizing Deth wasn’t the smartest move, but pain was coming no matter what, so Lore might as well get in a few jabs of his own.

This time, Deth’s blow struck him in the chest, those knuckle spikes puncturing, clawing like an eagle’s talons and snatching the breath right out of Lore’s lungs. Lore staggered back, but he managed a smile and a raspy, “Love the foreplay.”

Deth snarled, blasting Lore with his fetid breath. “Does Sin also love it?”

The demon wanted to see fear, but Lore would never give him that satisfaction. “Dunno. Probably.”

Deth got right in his face. Again with the rotten breath. “I cannot wait for you to fail your mission. I will make you watch as Sin is slaughtered. Her screams will be the music that fills this den for weeks.”

Lore’s skin grew tight, his muscles twitchy, and he was on the verge of erupting. A growl escaped as though through a relief valve. “I will kill you someday. I swear it.”

Deth laughed. Flickering flames from the fire in the hearth and torches on the walls played with the shadows on his face, twisting his expression into something even more hideous. “How many times have I heard that?” He shoved his fist into Lore’s gut and twisted so the spikes gored him viciously, ripping and tearing. “Now, will you bring the female to me?”

Pain wrenched through Lore, not all of it physical. He would never bring Idess here, and he would save Sin. Somehow, he’d protect them both.

“Fuck you,” he spat, even as he fought to stay on his feet.

Deth hissed, and the trapdoor beneath Lore gave way. After a twenty-foot drop, he made a bone-breaking landing on the wet, cold floor in the dungeon. A Nightlash female stood next to a wall of torture implements, smiling at Lore as if he were a gift.

Foreplay was over. It was time for the main event.

* * *

The sound of torture was like the sound of someone coughing during a movie. Rariel found both to be extremely irritating.

“Add an extra lash for me,” he said to Deth. Lore had seriously screwed up something Rariel would have paid to see; Idess as an assassin slave. “And make sure his life will not be endangered by this.”

Having Idess show up to protect Lore, now that he was Primori—and hadn’t that been a nasty surprise—would definitely be a bad thing. She couldn’t flash in here under normal circumstances, but Rariel didn’t want to test her ability to do so if her Primori was facing death. Though it might be worth it to see her forced into slavery as an assassin…

Deth gave an indignant snort. “My torturer is a master, trained in all arts and all species’ weaknesses. She would never accidentally kill one of her victims.”

Like Rariel hadn’t heard that before. “Just be careful. And I want his dagger. I have a special use for it.”

Deth signaled a sentry, who disappeared.

“You will have him healed after this is over?”

“I don’t like it,” Deth growled, “but since he is on a deadline for your contract, I’ll use my newly acquired Sem assassin to heal him.”

“Good.” Rariel smiled as the guard returned with Lore’s Gargantua-bone dagger.

Now, it was time to fulfill an obligation to Roag and ruin—and end—some innocent lives.

* * *

By the time Idess flashed into UG’s parking lot, she was in a full-blown panic. Lore had gotten away from her, and touching his heraldi didn’t flash her to him. Which meant he was in Sheoul. Probably being tortured. Or maybe hiding out from her down there.

At the back of an ambulance, Eidolon was loading a stretcher. When he saw her, he slammed the doors shut so hard they bounced open again. “Where is he?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s at the assassin den.”

“Pretty sure? Are you kidding me? You helped him escape, and now you’ve fucking lost him?”

“I just need help finding the den. Is Sin here?”

“Do I look like her keeper?” Eidolon dug his cell from his pocket and dialed. “Ky? Where are you? Yeah, okay. But you should know that Lore is unaccounted for—”

“He’s not unaccounted for,” Idess interrupted. “He’s at the den.” Being tortured.

Eidolon told Kynan to stay safe and flipped his phone closed. “Why can’t you find him? He’s your Primori, right? Shouldn’t you have some sort of line to him?”

“Yes, but if he’s in Sheoul, he’s invisible to me.”

“Is there any other way he’d be invisible?” When she didn’t answer, his tone plummeted right into Sheoul with Lore. “Idess?”

She huffed. “It’s possible that he could find someone to cast a shield spell on him. It’s why we don’t ever tell Primori what they are.” She’d only broken about a million rules by now, but sometimes you had to cheat to win.

Rami would slap her if he heard that particular thought. He’d always been about playing by the book. She’d always been more concerned with winning, and when it came down to a battle between good and evil, rules went out the window.

Eidolon’s curses blistered her ears.

“You know,” she snapped, “I wouldn’t force you to listen to a Bible reading, so I’d appreciate it if you’d show me the same courtesy and not curse me and my kind to hell.”

Eidolon glared, but at least he didn’t cuss at her anymore. “Idess,” he said with very forced calm, “I’ve had a really bad day, and I just watched a warg infant die of a disease I can’t cure. So excuse me if I’m a little on edge because you lost the brother I swore I’d keep from killing one of my best friends.”

“I get it,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry. I needed Lore to help me get into the Assassins’ Guild. If I can find out who hired him—”

“Did you?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I had a thought. Is it possible that all of this is about you instead of me or Kynan?”

“What, you think Lore was hired to kill Kynan just so my family would be torn apart?”

“Sounds a little thin, I realize. But it’s one heck of a coincidence. Do you have any enemies who might want that to happen?”

“We’re sex demons,” he said wryly. “We pissed off a lot of males before we took mates. And Wraith has made a career out of making enemies.”

That wasn’t very helpful. “Lore mentioned another brother. One who hired him to kill you.”

“Roag. He’s gone.”

“Gone? How?”

Eidolon shrugged. “Maluncoeur curse. He’s doomed to an invisible existence, starving, thirsty, in pain… nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

Idess shuddered. Talk about eternal torment. Wait… “He’s invisible? But he’s still around?”

“I guess. But he can’t hurt anyone.”

But he could still lurk. Watch anything going on around him. Oh… oh, no. “Is it possible he’s here?”

Eidolon’s shoulders bunched with tension. “We left him in Scotland, but he could have hitched rides in the Harrowgate with other demons.”

“I think…” She inhaled a ragged breath. “I think he did exactly that. You know how I can see spirits? I’ve also seen a figure who appears transparent to me. He’s sort of…”

“Burned?”

“Yes.”

“Roag.” Eidolon’s eyes went crimson, and he buried his fist in the side of the ambulance, leaving a grapefruit-sized dent. “Son of a bitch!”

“Eidolon!” She grabbed his arm, and when he would have snatched it away from her, she jerked him around. “I took the creature out of the hospital. He’s not here right now, unless he found a way back.”

He went as still as a lamp post. “Where did you take him?”

“Phillips Court… some sort of apartment and housing complex—”

“Shade’s old place. But why would he go there?” Eidolon was talking to himself rather than her, which was good, because she didn’t know the answer. She did feel incredibly guilty, however. Finally, he shook his head. “I’ll figure it out. You need to find Lore. I’ll find Shade.”

* * *

Sin so did not want to go back to the hospital. Her brothers were asses, and the whole place gave her the creeps.

The only positive thing that had happened lately was sex with Conall and outing him for making that bet. The two-sixty she’d gotten out of it would buy her a new pair of Fae-crafted stun darts.

Except… she wouldn’t need them, would she? She was almost done with Deth, and then she could… what?

Something splashed painfully in her stomach, as if a stone had been skipped across a lake of acid. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Since the age of twenty, she’d never been free, unowned, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do with herself if she suddenly had no orders.

She stepped out of the Harrowgate and into the emergency department… and right into chaos. Shade and Eidolon were rolling around on the ground, throwing punches and, as far as she could tell, not holding anything back.

Conall and Luc were watching, each holding a handful of bills. Another bet. Wonder how I can get in on that one. Conall’s molten silver gaze locked with hers, and she took a sudden, hot breath. He was every woman’s fantasy, from his perfect body to his remarkable eyes to his dangerous masculinity. Nice girls would tremble before him, even as they entertained wicked, private fantasies. Bad girls would make those fantasies reality any time, anyplace.

Sin was a bad girl.

And her inner bad girl—well, her inner demon—was itching to do anything that might get in her brothers’ faces.

Fucking one of their paramedics might just be the ticket. Plus, as she’d already learned, sex with Conall wasn’t exactly a hardship.

The battle raged as she crunched all the delicious possibilities in her mind, until suddenly, Shade rolled away from Eidolon, clutching his stomach, his mouth open in a silent gasp. Sin instinctively stepped forward to help, and was surprised when Eidolon did the same. They’d been fighting as though they hated each other, were bloody and bruised, but the fear in Eidolon’s expression left no doubt that they were not enemies.

“Shade?” Eidolon was on his knees next to his brother, his dermoire glowing. “What is it? Dammit, Shade, talk to me!”

Shade shoved to his knees. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Runa. She’s… she’s… in trouble.” He struggled to his feet and lurched toward the Harrowgate. “E. Send Tay to my place. The house. Fucking hurry!”

Eidolon wasted no time in fishing his cell phone from his pocket as Shade disappeared into the gate.

Sin had no idea what had just happened, but a sinking feeling told her this was just the beginning of something horrible.

Eighteen

The female named Runa sprawled in a rapidly spreading pool of blood, Lore’s knife impaled in her gut. She’d tried shifting into a warg, but Rariel had been prepared, and he’d jabbed her in the neck with a silver pin.

Don’t kill her, Roag said. I want her to live. To suffer for the rest of her life, forever hearing her children’s screams and knowing they died in excruciating pain.

Rariel had to hand it to the demon—he was sneaky as shit, tricking Idess into flashing him to Shade’s old apartment. From there, he’d hoofed it over here and slipped inside when Runa opened the door.

Rariel kneeled next to her and adjusted the ski mask he wore to conceal his identity. The bitch had wrenched it askew in her struggles. “I’m going to kill your cubs now.”

He gently smoothed his knuckles over her face in an odd, impulsive need to comfort her despite what he was saying. He despised that about himself, the little glints of goodness that hadn’t yet been corrupted by the evil surrounding him. Fortunately, they didn’t last long or happen often.

“You’ll hear their cries,” he continued, “but you can do nothing about it. I’ll take one of them, and you will tell Shade that I will trade him for Kynan. If you don’t hand over the human within twenty-four hours… use your imagination.”

She let out an agonized cry and tried to claw her way toward the stairs. He admired her pluck, for all the good it would do her.

Leaving her to bleed, Rariel followed the sound of wailing babies. They were at the top of the stairs, three of them, in a nursery decorated in deep blues and greens. Though toys littered the floor and animal murals covered the walls, the room was in no way set up like a frilly human nursery. Still, from the two rocking chairs to the daybed where it was obvious one or both parents had lain with the infants, the room was a testament to the love Runa and Shade shared for their offspring.

Regret turned Rariel’s stomach inside out, but after a single, shaky breath, he got over himself and lifted the loudest child out of his crib.

The thing bit him. Maybe wringing his little neck wouldn’t be so hard after all.

“Runa!” Shade’s shout carried up the stairs, and so did the pounding of feet. Shit.

Go, Roag said. I’ll slip into the Harrowgate with them. I want to watch Shade’s misery.

“Have fun.” Rariel cast one last glance at the two infants in the cribs, and flashed out of there with the third.

So he hadn’t killed the babies, but he’d still get what he wanted: Kynan. Dead. Amulet. In hand.

Idess. Disgraced.

Victory was so close he could taste it. As he materialized in his central Sheoul hideout, he smiled down at the glaring baby, and thought maybe he’d allow Deth a taste, too.

Of the child.

* * *

Needing to stretch her legs and feeling the itch of helplessness, Sin went to grab some coffee. Not that she knew where the cafeteria was. Funny how she found the very closet where she’d knocked boots with Conall, though.

Warmth flooded her body at the memory, and she actually trailed her fingers over the door as she passed.

Idiot.

And where the hell was the cafeteria? Lost in the maze of hospital halls, she followed the signs back to the emergency department, where the staff was concentrated around one curtained cubicle.

Craning her neck, Sin could make out the top of Eidolon’s head. Nimbly, she climbed up on one of the waiting-area chairs so she could get a better view. And then she wished she couldn’t see a damned thing.

Shade and Eidolon were in the tiny room, where a bloody female lay motionless on the bed. Shade looked as if he was going to break down at any second. The female must be Runa, his mate.

Eidolon and Shade were both channeling power into her, Eidolon cursing and Shade pleading. Twice Shade’s dermoire flared so bright Sin had to squint. Both times, Eidolon reached across Runa to lay a hand on his brother.

“Easy, bro,” Eidolon murmured the second time. “Downshift a gear. You’re going to burn yourself out.”

Shade trembled as his markings dimmed, though they still glowed brighter than Eidolon’s.

“Please, Runa.” Shade’s voice broke. “Come back to me, baby.”

Sin stood frozen, unable to look away from the female fighting for her life and the two males who were so fiercely trying to make it happen.

“Yo, Sin.”

She spun around to the owner of the voice, nearly falling off the chair. A red-haired female who bore the Seminus mate marks on her left hand stood next to her, but Sin couldn’t tell to which of the other brothers she belonged, given that her leather jacket and high collar covered the rest of the dermoire. But she held a squirming infant in each arm, and as Sin stepped down from the chair, the other female shoved a baby at her.

“Here. Hold your nephew.”

Too startled to refuse, Sin held out her hands, and the next thing she knew, her hands were full of rugrat. She sniffed it. Didn’t smell like baby powder or crap. Bonus.

“Are you Tayla?” Sin vaguely remembered Lore mentioning that Eidolon’s mate was a Guardian, and this woman was wearing a weapons harness beneath her jacket and a scabbard at her hip. Sin totally respected that.

“Yeah.” Tayla absently rocked the infant in her arms as she watched Shade and Eidolon work on Runa. Some of the staff had dispersed to handle an incoming trauma, leaving the scene open for Sin and Tayla to see everything going on.

Sin emulated the Guardian’s rocking motion. Tried to, anyway. For some reason her baby jiggled a lot more than Tayla’s did. “What happened to Runa?”

“I don’t know,” Tayla said. “I got to Shade’s place right after he did. Runa was unconscious and Rade was gone.”

“Rade?”

Fury turned Tayla’s green eyes into a forest on fire. “One of the triplets.”

Sin peered down at the squirming baby she held, unable to imagine someone stealing something so small and innocent. “Do you know who did it? Or why?”

“No. But if anything happens to him…” She trailed off, and Sin filled in the blanks. The kidnapper was so dead. Probably was whether or not the child was hurt.

“Sh-Shade?” Runa’s voice was reedy and weak, but both Eidolon and Shade appeared relieved to have heard it at all.

“Thank gods,” Shade whispered. “What is it, lirsha?” He gently stroked her cheek with his fingertips. His throat worked repeatedly on hard swallows, and Sin got the impression he was trying to hold back tears.

Runa blinked, her gaze unfocused, but Sin saw the moment everything came back to her with horrifying clarity. Shade’s mate screamed and levered up so fast no one had a chance to push her back down.

“Rade! Where is he?”

“Runa, calm down—”

“Where?” She fisted Shade’s shirt and dragged him down to her. “He has him. Oh, my God, he has him! Have to find him…” Sobbing, Runa struggled to get out of bed, but Eidolon injected something into her IV line. Almost instantly, she grew dazed, her eyes unfocused, and Shade was able to ease her back onto the bed.

“Runa? What happened? Who has our son?”

“I can feel him… but he’s so far away…”

“He’s alive then. Thank gods.” Shade squeezed her shoulder gently. “Runa, tell me what happened.”

“I tried to fight… so hard…” Tears streamed down her face as she lay there, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “He said… he said we have to hand over Kynan within twenty-four hours. Or… or…”

Shade gathered her against him and used his big body to buffer her powerful sobs. In Sin’s arms, the baby sobbed.

* * *

Misery like Shade had never known tore through him, his own considerable pain magnified by Runa’s. She was strong, and her physical pain was bearable, but her emotional agony was a hot blade through the soul.

We have to hand over Kynan within twenty-four hours. Or else.

Only one person wanted Kynan that badly. The weird sense of malevolence that had overtaken the hospital lately seemed to seep inside Shade through the laceration in his soul, adding fuel to the rage and hatred that bubbled like molten metal in his heart. Gently, he lowered Runa, now knocked out from whatever E had dosed her with. He barely held himself together as he snatched up the dagger that had been impaled in his mate’s body and stalked toward Sin.

She held her ground as he approached, even though he knew his eyes had gone red and she could probably feel the anger radiating off of him.

“Shade—” E palmed his shoulder, but Shade shrugged him off and planted himself in front of Sin. Wraith burst out of the Harrowgate.

Hilt-first, Shade thrust the dagger at his sister. “Who does this belong to?”

Sin drew a startled breath. “Where did you get it?”

“Answer the question.”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance, but she smelled of anxiety.

“Sin!” His bark made her jump and made little Stryke stop crying.

“It’s Lore’s.” Somehow, she made her answer sound like a challenge.

He might have respected that, had this been any other situation. As it was, a dark, icy void formed in his chest. Despite everything that had happened, most of the time he hadn’t truly hoped for Lore’s death. For some reason, when he was away from the hospital and Eidolon, he could actually settle down and think rationally. And ironically, Runa had championed Lore. It wasn’t that she wanted Kynan to die; she just wanted Shade to not give up on any of his brothers.

It was too late for that.

“Where is he?”

Stepping back, Sin actually tucked Stryke closer to her chest, as though Shade might be a danger to his own son. “You can’t think he had anything to do with your mate’s injuries or your son’s disappearance.”

“Where. Is. He?”

“Listen to me—”

“Where?”

“He’s being tortured right now, okay?” She met his gaze levelly and with defiance. “He couldn’t have done it because he’s being tortured.”

“Did you witness it?”

“No, but, he wouldn’t have done this,” she snapped. “And there’s no way in hell he’d have left the dagger behind.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I gave it to him. He’d never have given it up willingly. Never.”

Shade didn’t give a shit about sentimental value, and right now, he didn’t give a shit what Sin thought she knew about her brother, either. “Go to him,” Shade growled. “Go to him and tell him I want to see him. Now.”

Sin handed over Stryke. “I will. And I’ll expect you to grovel at his feet and ask forgiveness when I prove you wrong.” She glanced at Wraith as though she had something to say to him, but after a brief shake of the head, she took off, disappearing into the Harrowgate.

The moment she was gone, Shade hugged Stryke close and rounded on E, whose face was sallow, his gaze haunted.

“This is your fault,” he snarled. “You son of a bitch, that bastard nearly killed Runa, and he has my son because you refused to do what was necessary.” Shade’s hands shook with the need to strike out, but instead he tightened his grip on his son. “If I didn’t need you to take care of Runa, I’d tear you apart right now.”

“You need to back off, Shade,” Tayla said, her voice low and calm, so as not to frighten the babies, but the underlying warning was clear. “Before you say something you’ll regret.”

“There are a lot of things I regret,” he said, never taking his eyes off Eidolon, “but trust me, nothing I say here will be one of them.” He turned to Wraith, who looked as pissed as if his own child had been taken. “I can’t leave Runa or the babies, and I don’t trust Sin to do anything but tell Lore to run. Find him, Wraith. Find him, kill him, and bring back my son.”

Nineteen

Sin sprinted down the assassin den’s narrow halls, her weapons clanking against her hip, her breasts, the small of her back. She had to find Lore. Had to see for herself that he wasn’t responsible for what had happened to Runa and the baby.

Not that she had any doubt. Lore would never harm a child. He’d been hired or ordered to kill them before, and refused… actions that had resulted in days of bleeding at the hands of Deth’s special torturers. The ones he called Peelers.

Sin shuddered and silently cursed Deth and his unholy minions.

But what if Lore had taken the child as leverage, with no plans to harm it—just to frighten Shade into giving up Kynan? She couldn’t imagine his being so ruthless as to hurt Runa like that, and he certainly wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave his dagger behind, but…

Oh, God.

Her sprint turned into an uncontrolled mad dash. She ran wildly through the den, bouncing off walls and knocking over Sunil, a tiger shifter with an unusually docile nature. He didn’t even curse at her when she sent him sprawling. Lycus, however, did. The male warg had always despised her, and his nasty promise of retribution clocked hang time in the icy air as she ran.

Ahead, the door to Deth’s chamber opened, and in the pale orange light streaming from the opening, a dark figure threw a large shadow. Encased in black robes, he swept down the hall, away from Sin, but not before she caught a glimpse of something squirming in his hands.

A tiny, pale foot draped over the crook of his arm. “Rade,” she whispered.

Heart pounding, she sprinted toward the demon. “Hey! Stop!” The male cast her a hateful glare over his shoulder, picked up his pace, rounded a corner… and vanished.

Shit! Furious, and on the verge of freaking out, she hauled ass to Detharu’s chamber, where her master was near the hearth, naked and observing as a new female Drekevac assassin was being held down by two guards and forcibly fitted for a tongue piercing. Deth’s eyes were bright, his cock swollen, and Sin knew the female on her knees was in for a rude introduction to the world of the Detharu brotherhood.

“Yo. Deth. Where’s Lore?”

“Below. He’s free to go.”

She blinked. “Can he be moved?”

“He will be healed.”

Thank God. She cleared her throat. “The male who just left. Who is he?”

“Rariel?” Deth reached out to stroke the female’s spiny head as her jaw was forced open. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.” He cut a sharp wave of his hand. “Be gone.”

His tone left no room for argument—he’d already been much more helpful than she’d expected, probably because he was distracted by his new acquisition. That, and all his blood had run south and left him stupid.

“Just one more thing… the infant. Was it his?”

Deth’s head swiveled around as if it was on a ball bearing, and she knew she’d gone too far. “One more word, and you will join Ystla on her knees.”

The female cried out as the piercing punched through her tongue. Sin had escaped that fate years ago, thanks to a loophole in her contract—a loophole Deth had since found a way around. Sin definitely didn’t want him to take advantage of his underhanded maneuverings now.

“And remind your brother that time is running out for him to deliver the human’s head.”

She nodded just deeply enough to satisfy his need for bowing and scraping, and headed for the staircase that would lead to the dungeon below.

* * *

“Lore?”

Lore groaned at the sound of Sin’s voice, groaned more as she cut him down from the beam he’d been hanging from. “Where’s Idess?” he croaked. His throat was as raw as if he’d been screaming for days, and his jaws ached from avoiding doing just that. “Where?”

“Where you left her, I’d assume.” Sin eased him to his knees in the pool of his own blood and held a cup of water to his parched lips.

Yes… that’s right. He’d left her at his house. She’d wanted to be with him, and he’d turned her down. He’d risked rage instead of stripping her to the skin and taking her as he should have.

Can’t have her. She’ll die.

But he needed her. The rage was running through his blood like motor oil, thickening and becoming more and more contaminated the longer it kept circulating.

“She’s going to be pissed at me.” He fell forward to his hands and knees as the room spun. His thoughts spun, too, all running together until he wasn’t sure what were memories and what were fantasies. “She’s how I got through this, Sin. I kept thinking about her. I can’t have her, but I kept thinking about her and I know she’s mad and fuck I’m babbling.”

“Little bit.” She nudged his lips with the cup. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’re leaving.”

“Deth’s not finished with me.” The torturer hadn’t worked her way to Lore’s front side yet, and there was still an entire rack of tools that hadn’t been used. Nope, Lore had several hours of pliers-in-fun-places still to come.

“Deth said you can go.”

“Why?” He gulped the cool water gratefully, but spat out a mouthful when a horrible thought came to him. “What kind of deal did you make with him?”

“None.”

Pain made him grumpy, and he swatted the cup away to get her attention. “What are you not telling me?”

The fact that Sin didn’t scold him for his uncharacteristic display of temper told him that this was going to be bad. Suddenly every one of the lacerations on his back felt as if it had its very own heartbeat.

“Shade’s mate was nearly killed, and his son taken.” Sin’s voice was grave. “You’ve been framed for it.”

“Dammit.” The rage in his blood turned to sludge, and his muscles started to twitch as though wanting to punch through his skin. “Goddammit!” Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and wondered how he was going to get out of this mess. “Did you tell Wraith I need to talk to him? If he can get inside Deth’s head—”

“Uh… did you miss how I said you were framed? I’m thinking you should avoid your brothers right now. At least until we get proof that you aren’t responsible.”

“I need them more than ever, Sin.” And wow, he never thought he’d say that.

“No, you don’t. I think I know who did it.”

Lore whipped his head around to stare at his sister. “Who?”

“Dude named Rariel. I saw him come out of Deth’s chamber with Rade.”

“Long black hair? Robes?”

“Yep.”

Son of a bitch. He’d known that asshole had been up to something. “You need to tell our brothers.”

“They won’t believe me. They’ll think I’m lying to save you.”

She was probably right. “Do you think you can find him?” His sister was one of the best trackers in the den.

“You bet. I’ll meet you at your place in an hour. I should have a lead by then.” She smiled grimly. “In the meantime, sharpen your weapons.”

His muscles rippled hotly again, and he gnashed his teeth, breathed through them as he held back the darkness that wanted to get out and swallow a whole lot of people.

The door to the pit creaked open, and an unfamiliar blond Seminus entered. “I’m Tavin. Detharu sent me to heal you.”

This was a first, but Lore wasn’t going to complain. “Just don’t touch my dermoire,” he said to the Sem. He didn’t know if it would kill the guy or not—Lore’s brothers and sister were immune, but he didn’t know if it was because they were siblings or because they were Seminus demons, and he didn’t want to test that right now.

“If you can knock me out while you’re healing me, do,” Lore gritted out. “Otherwise, we’re looking at a shitload of trouble.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Sin asked quietly, and Lore nodded.

Tavin cocked a blond eyebrow. “What’s he close to?”

“Gutting you with his teeth. And that’s just for starters.” Sin stood. “Put him out, or you won’t have a chance to wish you had.”

* * *

Lore woke, completely healed and lying on the ground outside the Harrowgate near his house. Someone had even cleaned him off and dressed him. Probably Sin. She’d nursed him through a lot of beatings.

The rage still burned in him, but whatever Tavin had done during the healing had eased it a little. The fact that he was no longer in pain helped a lot, too.

He hoped he could keep a handle on his Incredible Hulk until he talked to Idess to figure out who the hell would have framed him, and why. Her theory that this whole thing was about him and not her was starting to seem more plausible.

He had to find this Rariel guy and get Rade back. Crazily enough, it wasn’t even because the kid was his nephew. It was just the right thing to do. He laughed at that as he approached his house. Idess was rubbing off on him, infecting him with her do-gooder angel vibes or something.

He entered his shack through the back door, and before he’d made it five steps, Idess was in his face. “Damn you! How dare you sneak away like that! I’ve been looking all over for you. And—” She paused in her tirade to look him over. “You didn’t get tortured. You’re okay.” She flew into his arms, startling the hell out of him and knocking him back a step. “Thank the Lord, you’re okay. The guilt was killing me.”

“Yeah,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice that he’d had to speak around a lump in his throat. Or that he now had a raging boner. “I’m okay.”

She pulled back. “So where did you go?”

“To the den.” Gently, he set her away from him and eased around her. He’d grossly underestimated his body’s response to her, and even now it vibrated with the need to throw her down and take her hard and fast. It was partly about the rage, and partly about the fact that it was just… Idess. He wanted her, and there was no denying it. Wanted her so badly that when he’d been strung up in Deth’s torture chamber, he’d entertained crazy ideas while in the haze of pain.

He wanted to bond with her so she’d be his forever. He wanted to come inside her over and over, so that his semen would act like a drug, becoming something she craved as her orgasms became stronger and longer-lasting. But he wasn’t a purebred Sem, so could any of that happen?

Even if it could, she was an angel. They couldn’t be together. Not permanently. No doubt the big guy upstairs frowned on demon-angel relationships, and even if not, she’d be Ascending soon. Leaving him.

But all of that was a moot point anyway. His stupid death gift ruled out a relationship of any kind, and if that wasn’t enough, they had the elephant named Kynan in the room.

Grinding his molars in frustration, he made a beeline for his booze, and stopped short at the layout on the table. Pasta with chicken and an olive-packed red sauce. Garlic bread twists. Colorful steamed vegetables. His stomach growled like a south Sheoul tar pit.

“I thought you might be hungry when you got back.” Her hands came down gently on his shoulders, and the lump in his throat grew bigger. “Because if you were tortured…”

His heart clenched. She’d been worried about him, and she’d worked off her nervous energy by cooking. Her fingers began a deep massage into his shoulders as he bit into a bread stick and groaned. And she was a fantastic cook, too. He could barely make a sandwich.

She was mate material, pure and simple. The fantasies that had kept him sane during the torture came back to him in stark detail, and the rage that had been building inside him was replaced by a primal urge to mate. To make her his.

“An angel who cooks.” His voice was rough with the effort he was expending to not jump on her. “Who knew you had it in you?”

She moved away from him to turn off the TV, which was blaring news about the neverending trouble in the Middle East. “I’ve never really cooked for anyone but myself, but I think I do okay.”

That was the understatement of the century, and the bread turned to lead in his gut. She was so perfect, so decent, and so wrong for him, and while it was nice to fantasize about having her, these little slices of a white-picket-fence life were temporary.

“Hey,” Idess’s voice was a soft prompt from the living room. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.” He swore. “I mean, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You did everything right, damn you. “Cookie, we have a huge new problem.” Food forgotten, bodily urges temporarily overridden, he turned to her. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, watching him with concern. He wished she’d stop doing that, because he didn’t want it, didn’t deserve it.

“What now?” She’d changed clothes at some point while he was gone, was now wearing a pair of khaki BDU pants, combat boots, and a black, button-down blouse tied just below her breasts, revealing that flat belly he wanted to kiss every time he saw it.

She looked sweet and sexy and once again, he threw wood like a teenager who’d just picked up his first nudie mag.

He casually adjusted his erection and got back on track. “Shade’s mate was attacked, and one of his sons kidnapped. Rade’s being held as ransom for Kynan.”

Every drop of color drained from her face. “Shade’s mate? Where?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

She hooked her thumbs in her pockets and looked down at the floor. “First… do you know who attacked her and took the child?”

“Sin saw Rade with some demon named Rariel.”

Frowning, Idess looked up again. “Rariel?”

Hope sparked. “Do you know him?”

“No… but that sounds like an angel name. He might be fallen.”

It was Lore’s turn to frown. “If he’s a fallen angel, why wouldn’t he go after Kynan himself?”

“I don’t know,” Idess said, “but the reason I asked about Shade is that I may have another piece of the puzzle. Your brother, Roag, haunts the hospital.”

Lore froze. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen him. Angels are capable of seeing those who exist in dimensions your limited eyesight can’t pick up. I helped him out of the hospital,” she said thickly. “I didn’t know who he was, and apparently, I took him to Shade’s old apartment. I searched for him after Eidolon told me, but…” She shook her head. “What if he had something to do with the attack?”

Shock made Lore’s mind sluggish as it played back the last few days from the beginning. The Rariel guy had been hanging with Deth… and he had Rade, wanting to trade for Ky. But if he was a fallen angel, why would he set up Lore to take the fall? Wait…

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Not you.” Lore smiled a little at that, but sobered quickly. “Bear with me, here. I met Rariel when Roag hired me. They know each other. If Rariel is a fallen angel—”

“He could see Roag like I can,” she breathed.

“Exactly. What if they’re working together so Roag can get his revenge on our brothers? Rariel could have contracted me to kill Kynan as well as set me up as Rade’s kidnapper. Roag gets what he wants, and Rariel gets Kynan’s special necklace.” He frowned. “What’s with that, anyway?”

“Necklace? I don’t know.” She was lying, and she changed the subject before he could call her on it. “But why would Rariel also hire Sin to kill my other Primori?”

Yeah, that was still a missing piece of puzzle, but right now, his primary concern was getting Rade back.

“Sin’s trying to get a bead on Rariel. She’ll be here in an hour. But if he hurts that child…” It would be Lore’s fault. Idess squeezed his hand, and fire shot up his arm. He hissed and backed away so fast he bumped into the wall. “Don’t!”

She followed him, worry putting delicate lines in her forehead. “Lore? Hey, are you okay?”

“No,” he ground out. “I’m not okay.”

Something dark and primal vibrated through Lore, as though all of the lust that had built up over the last couple of days was tired of waiting. It wanted out. And it wanted Idess.

She reached for him. “I want to help you—”

He moved without thinking, his body heading down the backstretch before his brain even got out of the gate, and the next thing he knew, he was on her, sandwiching her between the wall and his body. He gripped her hip with his bare hand and the nape of her neck with his gloved one as he dipped his head so his lips brushed her ear.

“Help me? You know what would help me? Stripping you naked so I can dive between your legs and lick you until you scream.”

“Oh, Lore.” She brought her hands up to his waist and whispered against his cheek, “I wouldn’t fight you.”

It was totally the wrong thing to say. A groan rattled in his chest as he ground his erection against her. “You need to fight me, angel. Because I wouldn’t stop there.” He inhaled deeply, taking in her naturally spicy scent that was now mingled with an even more savory scent of arousal. “Before you caught your breath, I’d be inside you, fucking you until I filled you with so much of me that you’d feel me for weeks.”

Her whimper of need put a crack in his restraint. Some deep, elemental urge came over him, and he sank his teeth into the gentle curve between her shoulder and neck to hold her as he thrust against her, wishing they were skin on skin. Idess cried out, but she arched into him to meet each roll of his hips.

“Lore…” Her breasts rubbed against his chest and her fingers bit into his waist and he was going to tear off her clothes with his teeth.

Mindless with need, he skimmed his gloved hand up her rib cage. Her heat practically melted the leather, and then he found her breasts, and… and dammit, he couldn’t do this.

With a roar, he tore away from her. His cock throbbed and his balls ached, and in his veins, lava flowed instead of blood. She reached for him, and he rounded on her with a demonic growl. “Touch me, and the last of my control will shatter, Idess. I will have you. And angel or not, you won’t survive it.”

Inside, the demon half of him howled with pain and grief. It wanted Idess like it had never wanted anyone else. It demanded her. The human half screamed at him to run.

The part of him that was wholly male wanted to mark her as his and never let her go. The thought made him break out in an icy sweat, because if he didn’t get away from her, the only thing he’d be marking would be her grave.

Twenty

Every cell in Idess’s body was on fire. It was as if they were rubbing together, the friction creating maddening heat that nearly had her flashing home just so she could take a cold shower. Which was what she was pretty sure Lore was doing.

Either that, or he was…

The images of what he might be doing assaulted her brain and added to the inferno burning in her body. She saw him stroking himself the way he had when she’d been chained to her bed, and she went utterly wet between her legs.

Before you caught your breath, I’d be inside you, fucking you until I filled you with so much of me that you’d feel me for weeks.

More images. More heat. More liquid arousal.

She couldn’t have intercourse, but she could join him in the shower. Right now. Replace his hand with hers. His hand with her mouth. And he’d let her. He’d been on the brink, but his fear of what might happen if she touched his dermoire had driven him back. But she knew his touch wouldn’t kill her. Few demons could. Fallen angels, though… that was another story.

The thud of something hitting the living room window yanked her out of her thoughts. When she peeked outside, her heart stuttered. A mourning dove lay on the deck, his little wings fluttering and legs kicking.

“Hey, little one,” she murmured, as she gently scooped it into her hands. Blood bubbled from one nostril, and its beak opened and closed on silent gasps. Its aura wasn’t gray yet—she still had time.

Closing her eyes, Idess summoned her mother’s powers, tapping deep into her well of healing and life. Power filled her, and though she didn’t open her eyes, she knew her body was glowing with a vibrant, white light. In her hand, the bird trembled.

So did she. She had no way of knowing if she’d be healing the bird or killing it, but either way, its pain would end.

She opened her eyes. The blood was gone from the bird’s beak, and it cocked its head to look at her with what she swore was gratitude. And then it flew away, disappearing into the canopy of trees.

“That was amazing.” Lore’s voice was impossibly deep, raw, and right behind her.

Startled, Idess whirled around. He stood just outside the doorway, the towel slung low around his hips doing nothing to hide the enormous erection beneath. His ripped fighter’s body gleamed in the sunlight, and water dripped off the hard planes of his face and streamed over the slabs of chest muscle, leaving glistening tracks on his tanned skin. She had the strangest urge to lap up every drop, working her way up from his toes.

“It was nothing,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice how winded she sounded.

“It wasn’t nothing to that bird.” He shifted his weight, and the towel slipped a fraction of an inch lower. Another centimeter and he could probably be arrested in this state for indecent exposure. Or decent exposure. “Can all Memitim do that?”

She jerked her gaze up to his, and she nearly bit her tongue at the desperation haunting his eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t done what she’d thought he’d done in the shower. “Lore? Are you okay?”

“Answer!” he barked. His hands flexed at his sides, and his dermoire writhed angrily.

She should be furious at his command, but she suspected that at this point, his control over his behavior was tentative, at best. “It depends on what kind of angel our mother is. My mother is vivificus, a restorer of life.”

He ran a trembling hand through his wet hair, leaving deep grooves. “I want to know more. But…”

She took a step toward him, but a warning growl froze her in place. “You’re on edge.”

Strikes of gold lightning splashed down in the black pools of his eyes. “I’m being set up so my brothers will slaughter me, I have to kill Kynan or my sister will die, but if I do kill him, you lose your wings, some evil asshole is doing God knows what to my nephew, and I’m in agony and on the verge of rage because of you. So yeah, I’m a little on edge.”

Agony? Rage? “Because of me?”

His chest heaved with the force of his panting breaths—the kind of breaths one took when one was trying to control pain or anger. He’d done the same before, while in the throes of rage, and even now, glints of red joined the gold in his eyes.

“Why—” she licked her suddenly dry lips, and his laser gaze fixed on them “—why aren’t you taking care of yourself?”

“I… can’t.” His cheeks flushed, as though he were ashamed. “I need you.”

“I don’t understand. You said—”

“You did something to me.” He stalked closer, and it became a struggle to breathe, not because she was afraid, but because alongside the fury in his gaze, there was a smoky possessiveness that was aimed directly at her. “You made me need you. Crave you.” He reached out with his right hand. At the last second, he snatched it back, and cursing nastily, he stumbled backward.

“Lore!” She caught his left wrist. His entire body jerked. “You won’t hurt me. Just let me touch it—”

“What?” He leaped backward so fast he hit the side of the house. “Stay away from me!”

“And then what?” she shouted. “You rage out because you’re too stubborn to let me touch you?”

“I’ll kill you!” he roared back. “Don’t you get it? I will put you in the fucking ground, and I can’t live with that!”

She threw up her arms in frustration. “Then what do you want from me? You want me to get on my knees and blow you while you do a repeat of the incident with the prostitute whose name you didn’t even know? Is that what you want?” God help her, she’d do it, wanted to put her mouth on him and taste his passion, but not until he got an earful. “Because I can invest in a quality set of knee pads. We’ll probably be doing that for years, since I’m your Memitim and I have to keep you alive, so let’s get to it, okay?” She patted the side of the house, her palm making a sound as hollow as his voice against the wood. “How do you want it? Hands here? Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Please… I’m sorry.” A sound of anguish bubbled up from deep in his chest. His entire body was trembling, and his clenched teeth were bared. His panting breaths hissed through them, and she had a feeling he was beyond being able to speak anymore. But then, somehow, he managed a raspy, “Chain… me.”

Her heart bled. She didn’t understand why or how his condition had changed so he couldn’t take care of his needs himself, but he didn’t understand it, either, and he was the one who was suffering. She was only making it worse.

“I’ll chain you,” she lied. “Just stay there, okay?” Casually, she moved to his left, so as not to spook him… and then she flashed to the other side and grabbed his arm, right over the odd swirl on his wrist that looked like a twisted sundial.

“No!” Lore threw himself away from her, but she held on, nearly getting her shoulder dislocated. He bucked and spun like a rodeo bull.

“Lore!” Her teeth clanged together so hard her skull vibrated. “Stop!”

The fact that she was touching him and not dead sank in, and he froze as suddenly as he’d exploded into action.

“See?” She could barely hear her voice through the ringing in her ears. “Nothing happened.” Except that something was happening. A strange energy buzzed beneath her palm. It focused and moved up her arm, tracing lines from her fingers to her shoulder, and she drew a sharp breath when she realized that the energy was settling into her skin in the same pattern as his dermoire.

Seductive power filled her entire body, a heady, sexual force that sent tingles into all her erogenous zones. It was as though every inch of skin was an erogenous zone, and she wanted to rub on Lore like a big, purring cat.

“Idess,” he croaked.

She melted against him, needing to feel his body on hers. His arm came around her, and oh, it felt good to be held like that. “I told you it wouldn’t kill me.”

His voice scraped gravel. “It did something to you.”

“Mmm. I can feel your dermoire on my skin. Like it’s mine.”

He studied her arm, but there was nothing there. “When I was chained, you touched my arm. Did it feel like this?”

“Sort of.” She nuzzled his chest, loving how his smooth skin felt against her cheek. “But a lot milder.”

“Because of the Bracken Cuffs.” His voice was low and rough, but much less so than before.

“You’re affected, too.”

“Your touch took the edge off, but…”

He pulled back just enough to reveal that the towel had fallen off at some point, and his thick, full erection was still demanding attention. The earthy male scent she associated with him swirled in the air, and with every breath, her body reacted and primed. Her nipples grew tight, her sex hot and wet, her breasts swollen and sensitive.

“Touch me,” she whispered. “No holding back anymore.”

He hesitated until she took his right hand and centered it on her chest. For a long, desperate moment, he did nothing. And then, in a very tentative motion, he cupped her cheek, the pressure so feather-light she barely felt it. His fingers, the same ones that were capable of killing, were gentle as he stroked her skin, and his gaze was soft, full of wonder.

“I’ve never—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve never felt a woman like this.”

“I’ve never been touched like this.” It was an admission she shouldn’t have made, one that left her vulnerable, but right now she couldn’t care.

Once she was sure he wouldn’t bolt, she covered his hand with hers and guided it down her throat, over her collarbone, and to her breast.

When the heel of his palm skimmed her nipple, they both groaned.

Through her shirt, he rolled the sensitive bud between two fingers, once, twice. His heated gaze snapped up to capture hers, and that fast, the smolder was over and the flames burst out of control. In a mighty surge, he ripped off her shirt and backed her up against the side of the house, his erection prodding the bare skin of her belly.

He nuzzled her throat, nipping and kissing. “Now,” he said against her skin. “I’m going to have you now.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “No. Not all the way.”

Stiffening, he pulled back, and the sorrow in his eyes nearly brought tears to hers. “I scare you. I’m so sorry, angel.”

She pressed two fingers to his lips. “It’s not that. I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

His eyebrows shot up, and then a very naughty smile turned up his mouth. “I’m dying to be inside you,” he said, “but we can make do with our hands.” He licked a hot path along the length of her jugular. “And our tongues.”

* * *

Lore couldn’t freaking believe this. He was touching Idess in a way he’d never touched any female. Even better, when she’d put her hand on him, she’d somehow drained some of the raging need out of him. Oh, he still needed her, but the rage had been diluted, allowing him a measure of control.

God, this was unreal. Surreal. And altogether too real. His bare hand was on her skin, caressing her breast. And her palm was rubbing up and down his arm, leaving incredible tingling wakes on his dermoire.

More. He needed more of this miracle named Idess.

With no finesse whatsoever, he tore open her pants and yanked them down, along with her silky white panties. He helped her step out of them… and then he stayed there. On his knees.

Oh, damn. The junction between her legs… beautiful. Breathtaking. Bare. His mouth actually watered as his palms drifted upward, from her ankles to her thighs. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he leaned in to kiss the sweet, satin skin on her inner thigh. Her yelp drifted down to him, and she jerked, but he sank his teeth into her leg, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold her where she was.

This was the second time he’d bitten her. He had no idea where the urge was coming from, but it was powerful, animalistic, and he was running with it.

“Lore,” she gasped. “I’ve never… maybe we should just… you know, use our hands…”

Hell, no. Now that he had her like this, the way he’d been fantasizing, he was so going to eat her up. He slipped his tongue between his teeth and made wet circles on her skin. She trembled, and he knew how she felt, because inside he was shaking like a leaf.

Gently, he released his bite hold, but before she could escape, he kissed her soft skin and then dragged his tongue up her inner thigh. He stopped just short of home, kissing, licking, rubbing his cheek on her.

As he played, she got into it more and more, thrusting her fingers through his hair and gently guiding him. Not that he let her. He was going to tease the hell out of this, for as long as they could both stand it.

He nuzzled the outer hills of her flawless sex, and her musky arousal went straight to his cock. His hips rocked upward as though trying to reach her and that tight place he craved. Down, boy.

He gently nipped her inner thigh and settled down on his hip. “Straddle me, angel. Get closer. I need to taste you.” His experience doing this was… well, he didn’t have any. But he was half sex demon, and those instincts were roaring to the surface, giving him a desire and a confidence he couldn’t explain.

She hesitated only for as long as it took her to exhale before she spread her legs more and moved in so that beautiful slit was at mouth level. Tilting his face up, he closed his lips over her. Her breath hitched, and he heard the slap of her palms against the house as she braced herself.

Lore wanted this like he’d wanted very little before, but he didn’t rush. He let his tongue sweep back and forth lightly over her swollen sex, savoring her growing anticipation.

“You’re a tease,” she said, angling her hips to bring her even closer, but he turned away, not giving her what she wanted.

This was his show. She’d ruined him for self-gratification, and though the implications of that were troubling, right now wasn’t the time to worry about it. He was going to torture her a little and make her beg.

Though he was definitely getting the better deal out of this situation. Didn’t matter how good her orgasm would be, he would be the one to find satisfaction.

He rubbed his face on her thighs, sometimes brushing his lips over her core. Each time, she jerked, and each time, he made her sweat. Finally, when his heart started knocking on his rib cage as though urging him on, he touched his mouth to her naked, hot flesh.

More slowly than he thought he would ever be capable of, he slipped his tongue into her slick valley. She whimpered at the contact, and then went silent as he speared her core. Easing his fingers upward, he penetrated her while he sucked and licked every inch of her pink flesh. Working with a ruthless singlemindedness, he learned her responses and targeted every erogenous zone.

He gave, but he also took, and as his tongue delved in her cream, he swallowed her like a decadent dessert. She was soft and smooth and rich, and fuck, he could do this for days straight.

“Oh, yes,” she moaned. “Right… there.”

She was close. So he stopped what he’d been doing and dragged his tongue through her cleft. Her cry of frustration made him smile. While she came down off the ledge, he kissed her lightly, always shifting sensation so she couldn’t catch it for too long where she needed it.

He wanted to hear her cry his name in her passion. Wanted to know that he’d gotten to her and that she knew he was the engineer of her pleasure.

The slow dance of his tongue drove her crazy, had her shifting her hips to chase the pleasure. “Lore, make me come.”

“Beg.”

“Damn you.” The words were harsh but the tone was one of extreme arousal and delicious agony.

“Spread yourself for me, Idess.”

With a small sound of relief, she slid her palm down her belly and parted her hot flesh. He blew a stream of air over her, and she shuddered. He flicked the tip of his tongue over her clit, and her shudders turned to convulsions of ecstasy. Just as she began to peak, he drew back once more.

“Beg.”

“Lore,” she sobbed. “Please, Lore. Please!”

Victory swept through him. He captured her core with his lips and sucked gently, swirling his tongue at the same time. Her release hit her with so much force that her pleasure actually rocked through him as though they were connected. Her scream—his name—vibrated the patio and her legs shook, and then she was sliding down to her knees in front of him as though they would no longer support her weight.

* * *

It took an eternity for Idess to catch her breath. She felt boneless, weak, yet at the same time, a new energy churned inside her. She couldn’t describe it, but it came with butterflies in her stomach and warmth in her veins.

The rasp of Lore’s breathing filled her ears as she clung to him. Satiation shifted as a different instinct took over, and she took his hard length in her hand. She squeezed gently as she pushed herself away from his chest. He was watching her with curiosity, but at the same time, need flickered in those dark eyes, a reminder that this wasn’t entirely about orgasms just for fun. His very life depended on what she could give him.

Anticipation made her heart race as she began to stroke. His hiss of pleasure joined the rustle of leaves and calls of the birds in the trees.

“Idess,” he croaked, “I’m not… not going to last long. I need it too badly.” Closing his eyes, he sucked in a ragged breath and threw his head back. “In fact… ah, fuck…”

The sun caressed his face as he began to jerk, his big body surging and straining. His come splashed on her hand, and she used it as lubrication to speed up her strokes. A dark rumble of approval issued from his throat, then he was in the throes of orgasm again, this time eyes open and fixed on her with possessive hunger. He growled something that sounded like mine, before throwing back his head again and riding out the series of intense spasms.

“Now that was amazing,” she murmured, when he finally gripped her wrist—with his left hand, she noticed—to stop her.

“Amazing? Try embarrassing. I lasted all of two seconds.”

She laughed. “Not as embarrassing as things will be if we get caught by your sister out here.”

“True.” He reached for the towel, and as he was wrapping it around his waist, the dove cooed. “Did that thing watch us the whole time? The little pervert.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t watching,” she said, as she tugged on her pants. “He’s just grateful.”

Still, Lore glared up at the trees. “So if you and other angels can save lives, why is it that people die?”

“Dying is the natural order of things.”

“Okay… but I mean, you hear stories of miracles, of angels saving lives. Why just those few people? Why are they deserving and others aren’t? Why does the drunk driver live and the innocent victims die?”

Idess watched the sunlight caress his handsome, angular features like a lover, as though not even nature could resist the temptation of a demon made for sex. “What makes you think that being saved from death means one is deserving?”

“Yeah,” he drawled, as he cocked one knee up and draped his arm over it, “that’s a crazy question.”

She loved it when he got playful, even if his playful was pretty much just sarcasm. “The drunk driver is not given a gift by surviving. He’s given more hell on Earth. He’s either being punished, or his soul has something more to learn while earthbound. He might even be Primori whose actions lead to new laws or to activism that ultimately saves more lives. But the victims? Their souls are already perfected and ready for their reward.”

“At the risk of sounding like a moron… huh?”

She laughed. “Life on Earth truly means little to angels, because we’re concerned with the soul, not the body. The soul is the true essence of a person or animal. Life on the other side, in Heaven, is the true existence. In fact, those in Heaven see those who are earthbound as the ghosts. The way humans see spirits, as transparent beings, is how those in Heaven see us from there.” She waved her hand. “All of this? It’s hell in comparison. But humans don’t know that until they ‘die.’ What you call dying is, to us, birth.”

“Then why would angels rescue anyone in those miraculous saves? Why not just let everyone die and go to Heaven?”

Idess had asked those same questions many centuries ago, and though Rami had tried to explain, it took centuries to truly understand. “Because there is a purpose to life on earth. Most of the ‘miracles’ you hear about are Primori who were saved by their Memitim. A child falls from a twenty-story building and survives without a scratch. A woman is found alive beneath the rubble of a building two weeks after hope was lost. A man is hanged and his rope breaks before he is strangled. All Memitim saves. Mine, actually.”

Idly, he reached out with his right hand and drew circles on her knee, hesitantly at first, but he smiled at what most wouldn’t consider even a simple pleasure. “But is that always the case? You saved the dove. What if he was supposed to die?”

“Then nothing I could have done would have made a difference. When I channel my power into a human or animal, either they are healed or their soul is released. It’s kind of like draining them. I drain the life out of them, or I drain the death out of them. Either way, I prevent suffering and restore life… on the earthly plane or in the heavenly one.”

“So why didn’t you do that with me when I had a knife impaled in my throat?”

“Because I never know which result I’ll get. I could have used it on you, only to send your soul away. I couldn’t risk it.” His loss could have cost her Ascension, but more than that, she would have lost him. If his soul was demon, he’d have been gone forever.

Her stomach turned inside out, but strangely, it wasn’t because his soul might not be human. No, what had just sickened her was the reality that she’d come to care for him so much that she’d do anything to not lose him. She wanted him to stay with her.

Those same feelings had led to her betrayal of Rami.

Lore seemed to sense her anxiety, and she could have kissed him when he changed the subject. “You’ve never really talked about your mother. Have you met her?”

“We have no contact until we Ascend, and even then… I don’t know.” Didn’t really matter, she supposed. To Idess, her mother was the human who had raised her with as much love as she had to give.

A breeze kicked up, rustling the leaves, and Lore turned his face into it, closing his eyes as he spoke. “So… how is it that the Grim Reaper and an angel get it on? Is there some sort of pickup bar where they meet and flirt and get drunk and take each other home, or what?”

Idess laughed at that particular image. “I’m not sure about the details, but Rami told me that a handful of angels volunteered to be birth mothers, just as Azagoth volunteered to fall for the good of the world. He can’t leave his realm, though, so they go to him.”

“How many baby mamas are there?”

“According to Rami, there are seventy-two. He was a scholar of human religions, and he was always convinced that many traditions and beliefs are loosely based in fact.”

“Like the seventy-two-virgin thing for Muslim martyrs?”

“Exactly. That number came from somewhere, and Rami believes it is based on Memitim mothers. He also believes that ‘virgin’ is actually a mistranslation and should read ‘angels.’ ” She snorted. “As if any man would get seventy-two angels as a reward.”

“How about one angel?” Lore’s voice was husky and thick, a caress that made her shiver with appreciation.

“I’m not technically an angel yet,” she said, “so I don’t think I count.”

He touched her face. “You’re looking forward to going, aren’t you?”

The question dove right to her gut and stirred it up even more, because for the first time since learning what she was and what her reward for good service would be, she was actually wavering.

“I can’t wait to get out of here.” Really. She couldn’t. As she’d told Lore, Earth was hell. There was suffering and pain and cruelty.

And hot men like Lore.

Hurt flashed in his eyes, and he shoved to his feet. “Yeah, sucks here. Nothing worth wanting to hang around for.”

“Lore, I didn’t mean—”

“S’okay. We’d better get ready to go hunting. Sin will be here any minute.”

She stood and reached for him. “Lore.”

Ignoring her, he strode into the house, leaving her feeling more wretched than she’d been since the day she betrayed Rami.

* * *

By the time Lore dressed and outfitted himself with weapons, it was time for Sin to show. And Idess was back. She’d flashed from his deck after he’d left her out there, obviously to go home and change, because now she was wearing jeans, sexy, calf-high boots, and a funky, multi-color Versace sweatshirt.

Let’s see you wear that in Heaven. Yeah, he was a little bitter, though he had no idea why. What had he expected when he’d asked her a question he didn’t want the answer to? A declaration of everlasting love and a willingness to give up everything to stay with him? Just because they’d masturbated each other a couple of times? Just because she was the only female on the planet not related to him who could touch his arm and not keel over?

Geez, Idess could have at least made it sound like leaving him on earth would mean a minute or two of sniffles.

Right, because she’ll be so upset to say good-bye to a demon who practically demanded that she get on her knees and be a whore for him.

Fuck. With an extra-firm shove of his trench knife into its belt sheath, he made the mental slide into assassin mode. He couldn’t afford emo whining when he was hunting.

But he really did feel like a piece of shit for how he’d treated her earlier, so he downshifted just a little. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a lover of designer fashion,” he said gruffly.

“I’m not. But I try to buy local when I can.” She lifted one leg to show off her boot. “Italian leather. Love it.”

He did, too. The way it hugged her calves. Made her legs go on forever. He let out an appreciative whistle as he dragged his gaze up. “Where do you get your money, anyway?”

She shrugged. “I think about it, and it’s there.”

“Must be nice.” Nice to not have to kill people for it. So much for assassin mode. God, Idess was hell on his discipline.

She nodded vehemently. “It is.”

The front door crashed open. Whirling, Lore put himself in front of Idess, a dagger in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Hey, there, brother,” Wraith said, in a deceptively calm drawl. Deceptive, because the demon’s body language—his clenched fists, coiled body, and red-flecked gold eyes—said he was ready to cause some damage. And oh, great, Kynan was with him, looking even more pissed off than Wraith.

Instantly, Idess came around to put herself between Lore and Kynan. Not happening. All of Lore’s protective instincts came to bear, and with a snarl, he pushed her behind him again. She might not want to stay with him, but until she got her damned wings, she was his, and no one was going to fuck with her.

She poofed right back to where she’d been, damn her.

“Kynan, you shouldn’t be here,” she said, standing in the middle of the living room, hands on hips.

“No?” He glared at Lore. “I’m what he wants, right? So here I am. Give Wraith the baby.”

“I don’t have Shade’s kid.”

Wraith bared his fangs. “You’d better, because if you’ve left him with anyone other than Mary fucking Poppins, there won’t be enough left of you to fill a juice glass.”

“You deaf? I don’t have him.” Lore holstered his weapons before he killed his brother. Sure, he wanted to kill Kynan, but he’d do that with his bare hand.

“He’s telling the truth.” Not backing down at all, Idess folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve been with him.”

Wraith snarled. “Even when he was being tortured? Because he looks pretty damned good for a tortured man.”

“I was healed, you idiot.”

“Call me that again.” Grinning, Wraith flexed his fingers. “Seriously.”

Lore stepped forward. “Idiot.”

Kynan came at him. Lore angled his right side away, not ready to kill the bastard yet, and the move cost him. Cost him a fist to the face. Pain burst behind his eyes, and he wheeled around, too angry to think, and caught the human with his right hand—which got him a jab to the ribs. What the fuck? Why hadn’t the guy dropped dead?

… I drain the death out of them. Idess’s words popped into his mind just before the right hook that laid him out.

Lore came to his feet before Kynan could kick him, and Jesus, Wraith was grinning, and Idess was watching with her arms crossed, foot tapping, and just looking annoyed. Obviously, without his power, Lore was no mortal threat to Kynan. And Kynan was out to cause pain, not death.

Making it all even more fun was the fact that no matter how hard Lore tried to cripple Kynan, something always went wrong. He couldn’t land a single punch or kick. Kynan was merciless, using Lore’s failures against him.

Lore took a nice beating before finally Idess flashed between them and heaved them apart with her incredible strength.

“Enough!”

Panting, he and Kynan glared at each other. Wraith stepped forward. “If you two are done—”

“We’re not,” they said simultaneously.

“For now, you are,” he growled. “We have a kid to find.” He yanked Lore to him. Lore took a swing, lost his balance, and stumbled without ever striking his brother. “I’m charmed, dickhead. Just like Kynan. You can’t hurt me. And apparently you can’t kill Ky with your touch. Guess we don’t have to worry about you anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Idess said. “I believe it’s temporary. His ability to kill should return soon.”

Lore hoped that would be before the deadline. His assassin-bond throbbed, marking time that was clipping along in fast-forward.

“How did that happen?” Wraith asked.

“I drained him.”

Wraith arched an eyebrow at her. “I’ll bet you did.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not like that.” Might have been believable, too, if she hadn’t pinked up, because she had drained him like that.

Wraith gave a dubious snort, and Idess shook her head. “I still can’t believe that you saved the world.”

“I know, right?” Wraith turned back to Lore. “So where’s Rade?”

“I told you. I don’t have him. But we have a lead. Possible fallen angel named Rariel. Sin’s hunting him right now.” Lore checked his watch, and his heart tripped. She was five minutes late. Sin was never late without calling.

Lore expected Wraith to scoff, to call him a liar, to hit him. Anything but nod. “You can prove it.”

It wasn’t a question, and Lore scowled. “Not really.”

“Yes,” he said, “you can.” Suddenly, Wraith was behind him, his thick arm wrapped around Lore’s neck, and Lore was… well, he wasn’t sure where he was. His memories flipped through his mind like a shuffled deck of cards, and then he was standing in his house again, a little dizzy, and Wraith was several feet away.

“Fuck me,” Wraith muttered. “He’s telling the truth.”

“What the hell just happened?” Lore shouted.

Kynan smirked. “You just got a taste of Wraith’s mind-fuck.”

Ah. Lore hadn’t expected Wraith’s gift for getting inside heads to be so intrusive and unsettling. “You dick.”

“Seriously?” Wraith asked. “That’s all you got? Dick? Idiot? Your sister pops better insults than you do.”

“She’s your sister, too,” Lore pointed out, more to gauge Wraith’s reaction than anything.

Wraith grinned. “E says she’s like a female version of me. Cool.”

“No, not cool,” Lore growled. “So now you know I didn’t snatch the kid, you’re going to haul ass out of my face, right?”

“Slow down there, Mario,” Wraith said. “You’re still planning to kill Kynan.”

Idess crossed to Lore. “No, he’s not.”

Inside Lore’s chest, something shriveled a little at her defense of him, because he would still do what he had to in order to save his sister. Yes, Idess would lose her wings and have to stay on earth. But she wouldn’t die. And… she’d be able to stay with him.

“I was in Lore’s head, Halo. I know what he was thinking.” Wraith’s eyes went wide with sudden knowledge. “Sin will die if you don’t. Ah, fuck.”

Kynan scowled at Wraith. “Are you serious?”

Lore nodded. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to kill you for shits and grins? Not that it wouldn’t be fun,” he added.

Kynan snorted. “Do you think it’s this Rariel guy who wants me dead?”

“Him… and Roag.”

“Yeah,” Wraith said. “E mentioned that. Shade thinks you’re working together.”

“Just when I thought Shade couldn’t think any worse of me,” Lore muttered.

“We’ve got to find Rariel,” Kynan said, fucking king of State the Obvious.

A cell phone buzzed, and Wraith dug into his pocket. “’Sup, E?” Wraith listened for a second, and hung up with a strained curse. “We gotta go, Ky. It’s Gem.”

Kynan lost all the color in his face. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

Baby?

“She was attacked,” Wraith said. “She was attacked inside the hospital.”

Twenty-one

Idess flashed Lore to UG’s parking lot. They ran inside, where at least two dozen spirits were in a frenzy, attacking the walls, wailing, and cowering in corners. Eidolon was standing at the triage desk, and the second he saw Lore, his eyes went crimson and he made like a charging tiger.

“No!” Idess rushed forward and slammed her palms into his chest. “Lore didn’t attack Shade’s mate, and he doesn’t have the baby. Wraith will be here in a moment. He’ll confirm it.”

Speak of the demon, the Harrowgate shimmered, and Wraith darted out of it, right behind Kynan. Kynan, as a human, shouldn’t have been able to travel through the Harrowgates unless he was unconscious, but his charmed status protected him from certain death.

“What happened? Where’s Gem?”

“Exam one,” Eidolon said. “She was found unconscious and bleeding from a head wound in the staff lounge.”

“Did the Haven spell go down?” Wraith asked.

“Nope.”

Idess sucked in a breath. “It was the ghosts.”

“Mother. Fuck.” Wraith snarled. “This is the one place that should be safe from the sonofabitch who attacked Runa, and we have fucking ghosts to worry about. Are Serena and Stewie still here?”

Eidolon nodded. “They’re with Tay in my office.”

“I’m taking them home. Not letting them out of my sight.” He jerked his thumb at Lore. “Big bro here wasn’t responsible for Runa and Rade. Some asswipe named Rariel is.”

Eidolon let out a long breath. “You’ll need to tell Shade. He won’t listen to me.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the cave with Runa and the boys. It’s too risky to have them here when we have diseased wargs coming in.”

Diseased wargs?

“He should be safe then. I’m outta here.” Wraith took off down the hall at a jog, running right through one of the spirits, who cried out loud enough for Idess to wince.

Eidolon scrubbed a hand over his face and turned to Lore. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, hey, don’t worry about apologizing for thinking I attacked my sister-in-law and stole my nephew or anything.”

A muscle in Eidolon’s jaw twitched, and Idess had a feeling he was trying to keep his temper in check.

“Your dagger was buried in her gut, and the message given to her was to turn over Kynan. What were we supposed to think? You are trying to kill the guy. For money.”

“For his sister,” Idess said tightly. She was tired of these guys’ blaming Lore, hating him, fighting him. “Sin will die if Lore doesn’t do it.”

“Fuck.” Eidolon’s dark eyes, so like Lore’s, cut to his brother. “How do you plan to get out of it?” The doctor’s voice was cool, professional, and just flat enough to give away how hard he was trying to hide his concern for his siblings’ situations.

“We need to find Rariel. He’s got to be behind the contract. Kill him, and the contract is void.”

“And what about the ghosts?” Eidolon asked. “This is all too much of a coincidence to think it isn’t related.”

Idess tore her attention away from two spirits near the Harrowgate who were clawing at the posts, their desperate attempts to get the gate to work heartbreaking. “It’s Roag. He’s terrifying the spirits.” She scanned the room, and sure enough, at the junction of two hallways, the dark phantom lurked, still wrapped in a cloak, menace emanating from him in a roiling cloud.

As Idess moved toward the demon, the Harrowgate flashed, and suddenly, a new sensation washed over her. Familiar. But warped, like a favorite song playing on the wrong speed. Her skin wanted to crawl right off her.

“Does the Harrowgate do that a lot? Flash, but nothing comes out?”

“Lately, yeah,” Eidolon said. “It’s weird.”

The familiarity washed over her again, and tears sprang to her eyes. Lore grabbed her. “Idess? Cookie? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t… I can’t explain it. It feels like Rami. And pain.”

“Oh, dear sister,” came an all-too-familiar voice behind her. “How I love causing you pain.”

* * *

Lore caught Idess as she collapsed. She’d gone as white as the ghosts she’d talked about, and though she struggled weakly to stand on her own again, she didn’t take her eyes off Rariel.

But… dear sister?

Lore kept Idess close, holding her tight against him. “Where is Rade?”

At the infant’s name, Eidolon stiffened. “This is the fuck who took my nephew?”

“No,” Idess whispered. “It can’t be. Rami… no.”

“Rami?” Lore gritted out. “As in, the brother who Ascended?”

“She told you about me?” Smiling, the male jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m flattered.”

In Lore’s arms, Idess trembled. “How is this possible?”

“Obviously, baby sister, I fell. Because of you.”

“How? Why?” She shrugged off Lore’s grip but remained next to him.

“Dumb bitch,” he hissed, and Lore had to hold himself back from braining the fucker, Haven spell or no. “You betrayed me. You ruined me.”

Staff members began to close in, all looking expectantly at Eidolon as though waiting for an order.

“What I did,” Idess said, “was terrible. I’ll do whatever you want to make up for it. Just don’t hurt the child.”

Both Lore and Eidolon simultaneously growled, “Where is he?”

“The whelp is… safe. Relatively.” Rami rolled his shoulders, making his muscles bunch tight beneath his black tee. “Your sister, however…”

The air exploded from Lore’s lungs in a painful rush. “What did you do to her?”

Rami bared his teeth. “Fun with razor wire. Now I have a cave to visit.” He paused, offering a fake frown at Eidolon, whose expression had iced over. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know about Shade’s cave or how to get there? Roag is a treasure chest of information.”

Lore launched at the fallen angel. Rami snapped his fingers in drama queen fashion, and Lore’s hand closed on empty air. “How can he flash out of here?”

“He can’t!” Idess raced toward the Harrowgate. “But he can go invisible—” The gate closed, and she skidded to a stop. “He’s gone. Son of a bitch, he’s gone.”

Eidolon fumbled for his cell phone. His fingers shook as he mashed the buttons. “Come on, Shade. Answer. Answer…” He waited, and then, “Shade! Get out of there. Don’t hang up… fuck!” He dialed again, pacing madly and cursing. Then, with a vicious snarl, he hurled his phone against the wall. Bits of plastic and electronic guts exploded into the air.

“We have to go to them,” Lore said.

“I know.” Eidolon ducked behind the triage desk and hit a button. “Medics to the ER, Code Green.”

Almost instantly, two male paramedics jogged through a door near the parking lot exit, bags slung over their shoulders. The blond male with silver eyes stopped in front of Eidolon, who gestured for them to follow.

Tears shimmered in Idess’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault,” Lore said as he brushed his lips over hers. He took her hand in his gloved one and entered the gate with Eidolon and the medics. The gate opened up in a steamy jungle, and Eidolon took off at a sprint down a sun-dappled trail.

They followed at a dead run. Branches slapped at their faces and roots and vines seemed to reach up out of the ground to grab them, but they didn’t slow down, kept running until they reached a waterfall set into a huge rock face. Eidolon slipped around it, reached into a hole, and a huge section of the wall rumbled and moved aside.

“Shade!” Eidolon’s panicked shout joined the blood-curdling sounds of battle coming from inside the cave.

They charged through a strangely modern kitchen to a huge bedroom, where Shade was grappling with Rami. Rami’s blows rained down hard and fast, while Shade’s powerful punches seemed to be a minor inconvenience for the fallen angel. Blood—most of it Shade’s, as far as Lore could tell—coated the floor and smeared the walls. In one corner, a huge, toffee-furred warg crouched protectively over an infant. Nearby, Sin was a motionless lump of blood and bruises.

He’d seen her like that before, and his head rocked back as the memory bitch-slapped his brain.

Lore didn’t recognize the woman he’d slammed into the wall. She lay on the floor, bleeding and curled in on herself. Bloodlust roared through his veins, inflaming his already burning skin. His arm was on fire, the strange new marks glowing.

Kill.

The woman on the floor had the same marks. She whimpered.

Kill.

Cold sweat broke out over his body, but it didn’t stop the burn. The female whimpered again.

Run.

Lore staggered backward, punch-drunk with memories. Through the fog of the fading vision, he saw Eidolon and the medics launch into battle, ripping Shade away from the fallen angel and lending some fresh muscle to the fight. Outnumbered, Rami snarled and poofed out of there. It all seemed so distant, when the memory of the day he’d gained his tats and gifts still clung to the walls of his mind.

Sin. He’d not remembered any of it. Until now. God, he’d failed her. Over and over, and he’d never be able to make it up to her. He sank to his knees next to her, taking the painful crack to his kneecaps as an inadequate penance. Idess and the blond medic joined him.

In the background, his brothers were speaking in harsh words and soft murmurs… and then Runa, now in her human form, was kneeling beside Sin.

Lore gripped his sister’s shoulder. Her arms were tucked awkwardly beneath her, and she was strangely hunched up. Moaning, she shifted. Beneath her, cradled against her stomach, was the second baby.

Tears streamed down Runa’s cheeks as she gathered the infant to her chest. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “You saved his life.”

“Yeah.” Sin’s sarcastic voice was a pained whisper. “I’m a hero.” She eased onto her side, and Lore’s gut twisted at the sight of her bloody wrists, which were bound with razor wire cutting deeply into her flesh. He resisted the urge to rub his own wrists in sympathy.

The medic cursed, and Sin’s surprised gaze flickered to him. “Con,” she murmured. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Con grunted and moved his gloved hands over Sin’s body with practiced confidence. “What hurts?”

“Razor wire is not so comfortable,” she rasped.

“Just hold still. I need Doc E’s help to remove it.”

Lore cursed. “Sin, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” she said, but there was no anger in her voice. “I fucked up and let that angel scum catch me off-guard. He brought me here so I could watch my nephews die.” Wincing, she shifted. “Beneath me. The dagger.”

Carefully, Lore eased his hand under her, came away with his Gargantua dagger… which was covered with blood. “Is this—”

“Yeah.” She offered a shaky smile. “I stabbed the fucker. Now go get him.” Her smile faded. “Bro, you’re running out of time.”

She wasn’t talking about Rariel, and he knew it. His slave-bond throbbed with such a rapid beat that the pain was almost constant now. Either Rariel died, or Kynan would have to, and he had barely twenty-four hours to make someone’s death happen.

“I know, Sin. I’ve got it handled.” Lore locked gazes with Con. “Take care of her.”

“Don’t worry.”

Lore stood. The other medic and Eidolon were working on Shade as he leaned against a Saint Andrew’s cross—and that was when Lore noticed all the… interesting… accoutrements lining the walls. Furry cuffs, soft leather flogs and masks… and yep, this was way TMI. He couldn’t quite picture dainty Runa, who sat quietly on the bed, watching Shade with worried eyes and holding their sons tight, holding a flog.

“How’s Sin?” Eidolon didn’t look up from the massive bleeder in Shade’s thigh.

“Vitals are good,” Con replied. “Injuries are mostly contusions and shallow lacerations, but she’s got razor wire embedded in her wrists. Capillary refill is satisfactory.”

Eidolon gave a sharp nod. “The blades probably missed the major vessels.”

Relieved that Sin wasn’t in immediate danger, Lore turned to Idess, but she’d disappeared. He found her in the living room-slash-home theater, head bowed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his arms. God, she felt good against him. Like she belonged. Like as long as they stayed like that, everything would be okay.

“My brother.” She heaved a great, shuddering sob. “How could this have happened? How could I have let this happen?”

Lore’s heart cracked wide open. “It’s not your fault, angel. He’s not the guy you once knew. He’s enraged and insane—” He broke off as the image of Sin bleeding on the floor of their grandparents’ home came back to him. His voice became a husky rasp. “Everyone’s okay. We got here in time.”

She shook her head so hard her ponytail slapped his arm. “But, Rade. Oh, Lore… if he hurts Rade—”

“He won’t,” Lore swore. “We’ll nail his ass to the wall. My dagger tasted his blood. You can flash us to him.”

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.”

The crack of boots on the floor announced two arrivals. Keeping Idess tucked protectively against him, Lore turned.

Eidolon snatched a satellite phone from the end table near the couch. Shade stood a few feet from Lore, still covered in blood and his gaze dark. “So this Rariel guy took Rade.” It wasn’t a question, and when Lore nodded, Shade swallowed. “I thought you had him.”

“You were wrong.”

More swallowing. And, no apology. “But you were hired to kill Ky.”

“Hired ” wasn’t the right word. “Forced ” was closer, but right now wasn’t the time to split hellrat hairs. “Yes.”

Shade’s hands formed fists, and Lore set Idess aside and braced himself for a blow. “E said if you don’t do it, Sin will die.” He spoke in a hushed tone, for which Lore was grateful.

“Yeah.”

“We can’t let either happen.” Shade’s tone was dead. Flat. But at least he had seen the truth of the situation and wanted to help save their sister.

“That’s why Idess and I are going to kill Rariel.” Next to him, Idess went taut as a garrote wire, and shit, she had better be on board with killing the bastard. “You said his name is Rami. Why is he calling himself Rariel?”

“We’re given new names upon Ascension.” She hung her head, and her shoulders slumped. “I still can’t believe this.”

Shade grabbed a black biker jacket off a hook buried in the cave wall. “I’m going with you.”

“You can’t,” Idess said. “I can only flash one person to his location.”

“Hell’s fucking bells.” Shade’s nasty curse echoed through the chamber. “I want to know how he found the cave.” He threw down his jacket, knocking a gold rattle off the couch. Almost reverently, he picked up the toy, which was engraved with the name “Rade.”

Eidolon replaced the sat phone in its cradle. “Roag.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “It’s what I was trying to tell you just before Runa was attacked, and then a little while ago when I called.”

Tension winged through the air, and Lore held his breath, unsure if Shade was going to strike out at Eidolon for Shade’s own stubborn refusal to listen to Eidolon’s warning.

The storm passed when Shade snarled. “That burned-up, slimy skullfucker.” He clutched the rattle so hard Lore expected it to snap. But at least he hadn’t turned on E. “He’s as good as dead, and he’s still fucking with us.”

“Who is fucking with us?” Runa stood at the entrance to the living room. Her caramel hair hung in limp ropes around her pale face, but Lore suspected she was nowhere near as fragile as she appeared.

Shade went to her. “It’s not important. You need to take care of the boys, and I’ll handle this.”

“The hell you will!” She jabbed him in the shoulder. “My son is in danger, and I want to know everything.”

“Runa—”

“Everything.”

Shade sighed. “E says it’s Roag. He has something to do with all of this.”

Runa lost what little color she’d had, but her voice was steady and deadly as she ground out, “I want him dead. Painfully dead.”

Idess crossed the room, and when she stood before Runa, she took the female’s hand. “I will make this right for you,” she swore softly. “I swear to you all, I will somehow make this right.”

“Idess,” Lore said, “I told you. This isn’t your fault.”

“But it is. My brother wants revenge on me, and somehow he’s managed to draw all of you into it.”

“If this is all true,” Eidolon began, “I’d like to know how Roag and Rariel hooked up.”

“I don’t know how they managed to hook up after Roag was cursed,” Lore said, “but they knew each other before that. Rariel was there when Roag hired me to kill you.”

That earned him a glower from everyone but Idess. “Hey. I said I was sorry.” Actually, he didn’t think he had, but maybe they wouldn’t remember. It was probably time to go before they did. He checked his watch. They had an hour before they’d have to hunt down Rami.

“Idess, we gotta go. The devil’s hour is coming, and we need to prepare.”

She turned to Eidolon. “Can you send Kynan or Tayla to Lore’s place with some weapons treated in qeres?”

“You got it.”

“Qeres?” Lore asked. “Some sort of antiangel poison?”

She nodded. “It’s what affected me so badly when Tayla shot me. It’ll incapacitate Rami just as effectively.”

“I don’t want him incapacitated,” Shade barked. “I want him dead.”

Closing her eyes, Idess swallowed. Before she could say anything in defense of Rami that Shade and Runa might not appreciate, Lore grabbed her hand. “Come on, Cookie. Flash me to my house. We have a battle to prepare for.”

* * *

Idess was still numb when they reached Lore’s place. They stood in the middle of the living room, and when Lore attempted to pull her into his arms, she tore away, unable to stomach kindness after what she’d done.

“Hey. This is not your—”

“Stop saying that! You don’t know. You don’t understand what I did!”

“Then tell me,” he said mildly. “Tell me what you could have done that’s so horrible that he got booted out of Heaven and went batnuts insane.”

“This is serious, Lore. I betrayed him. And now he’s earthbound and out to hurt me and everyone I’m involved with.” She looked down, too ashamed to even look at Lore.

“Hey.” He caught her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Even if you’re right, the thing with Roag is definitely not your fault. The demon was off his rocker before any of this happened. He was just waiting for someone to help him get his revenge.”

A knock at the door announced Tayla and Kynan’s arrival. They entered, and for once, Kynan didn’t look as if he wanted to kill Lore. Tayla carried a crossbow, and Kynan had a broadsword. He handed it to Lore hilt-first.

“The sword and two crossbow bolts have been coated with qeres,” Kynan said. “I wish we had more, but The Aegis has a very limited supply.”

“Why is that?” Lore asked.

“The recipe has been lost. What little we have is all we have.”

“So use it wisely.” Tayla handed the crossbow to Idess. “You sure we can’t go?”

“Positive.” In a lot of ways, Idess was glad for that. Fewer people for her brother to hurt. Fewer witnesses to her shame. “I can only flash with one person.”

“Then take me,” Kynan said. “It’s me he wants. Trade me for Rade. I can handle myself once you get Rade out of there.”

Idess sighed. “I can’t risk you like that. And ultimately, he wants you dead, but not by his hand. His goal is to ruin me, which will only happen if you’re killed by someone other than him.”

“Damn,” he breathed.

She nodded at the appropriateness of the curse. “Does The Aegis know what’s going on?”

“The Sigil knows I’m in danger—” Kynan glowered at Lore “—but we’re considering this a fallen-angel threat. Because if this asshole is dead, I don’t have to worry about you, right?”

“You should still worry,” Lore muttered, and Idess cleared her throat. He gave her a sheepish look. “Yeah, yeah. Once the contract is void, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Kynan snorted. “I was never afraid.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been on the verge of pissing yourself.”

Idess half-expected their heraldi to start burning, so when Kynan laughed, she thought she was hearing things. “If I didn’t hate you so much, I think I could actually like you.”

“I’d probably like it better if you kept hating me.”

Kynan’s lopsided grin was a traffic-stopper. “You’re just mad because I got the girl.”

“No,” Lore said, shifting his gaze to Idess with such hot possession that her breath clogged in her throat, “I got the one I want.”

Heart pounding and face heating, she cleared her throat. “If you two are finished, we should get ready for what we have to do.” She wasn’t going to say, “Kill Rami,” because she prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Maybe she could bargain with him. Or save him somehow. Because destroying him could very well destroy her. “How is Gem, by the way?”

“Like I always said, she’s got a hard head,” Kynan said, the affection in his gravelly voice unmistakable. “Apparently, when she bent over to pick up something on the floor, the coffee maker fell off the counter and beaned her.”

It hadn’t “fallen,” Idess was sure. One of the ghosts had pushed it, probably at Roag’s direction.

“We’d better go,” Tayla said. “I want to check in with Shade and Runa. Oh, and E said to tell you that Sin is fine. She’s at UG getting checked out.”

“No doubt she’s loving that,” Lore said wryly.

“Well, I heard a lot of cussing in the background…” Tayla shrugged. “You guys be careful. And please, get Rade back.”

“We will,” Lore swore. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will deliver that child to Shade.”

Tayla nodded, and then she and Kynan were out of there.

“This is going to be dangerous,” Idess said. “Even with the qeres weapons, Rami has an advantage, Lore. As a fallen angel, he’s drawing on the power of Sheoul. I’m not a true angel, and I’m much weaker than he is.”

“Is that why you were affected so badly by the cross-bow bolt?”

“Exactly.” She absently rubbed her sternum. “But really, you get a hole the size of a fist blasted through you, and see how you fare.”

“I’ll pass.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them to the kitchen table. “You poofed right after that. What if he does the same?”

“He won’t. I have a trick up my sleeve.”

His jacket went next, leaving his arms mouth-wateringly bare in his short-sleeved T-shirt. “Which is?”

“Powdered Benedictine monk wine.”

“Monk… wine?” He paused in the middle of unbuckling the leather weapons harness strapped across his chest. “As in, wine made by monks?”

She nodded. “Wine made in a secret chamber at Buck-fast Abbey in England is blessed by monks and dried. Once powdered, it can be used as a temporary antidematerialization weapon against fallen angels.” And angels, which was why it was kept under lock and key. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, it could be used to immobilize God’s army of angels during the Final Battle.

“How temporary?”

“It’ll give us only a few minutes.”

“That sucks, but it’s better than nothing.” Lore laid out his harness and systematically checked each weapon. If they weren’t going after her brother, she’d actually think his efficiency and confidence when handling the weapons was incredibly sexy. “So where do you think he’ll be?”

“Sheoul. The Forbidden Abyssal.” Her voice was stronger than she felt on the inside.

Lore’s foul curse scorched the very air. “That’s the nice name for it. Do you know where it is? What it is?”

“I’ve heard of it.” Who hadn’t heard of it?

“It’s known as the Butchers’ Playground.” His voice was grim. “It’s said that nothing is off-limits there. There are no rules except that nothing can die quickly.”

It was also one of the few places in Sheoul that angels couldn’t enter at all. Some claimed that Satan himself liked to hang out there. No doubt it was a great vacation spot for someone like him.

“That’s why I know he’ll be there. He was never one for half-measures, and if he’s gone evil, he’s gone evil.”

“Dammit,” Lore muttered. “Since it’s in Sheoul, you can’t flash us there, and if the rumors are true, the nearest Harrowgate is days away. This could throw a King Kong– sized wrench into things. Twenty-four hours, and game over for me, angel.”

Idess glanced at the clock on the wall. They had forty-five minutes. And even if Rami wasn’t in the Playground, if they didn’t find him within an hour, they’d be screwed for another twenty-three.

Which put them dangerously close to Lore’s deadline.

She looked at the demon standing in front of her, a demon who had more honor and love in his heart than many of the humans she’d kept safe over the centuries. Fate had dealt him a bad hand, and he’d been paying for it for over a hundred and thirty years.

Fate had also made him Primori, which meant she had to protect him. He couldn’t face Rami in the Playground alone.

And he wouldn’t. If this was a test, she would pass—but she’d have to cheat to do it. She could go with him, but only if she was no longer an angel.

“Lore?”

“Yeah?”

Licking her lips, she placed her palm on his chest, right over his assassin mark, and then dragged her hand down. Slowly. By the time she reached the waistband of his jeans, his nostrils were flaring, as though taking in the scent of the arousal that had sparked in her the moment she touched him.

“Make love to me.”

Twenty-two

“Idess…” Her name came out in a strangled rush of air.

“Please.”

Taking a step back was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “Now isn’t the time.” What was he saying? Any time was the time. Especially since they could both die and this might be the last chance for having sex with anyone.

“It’s the perfect time.”

“Guess the Butchers’ Playground thing isn’t a big deal if you’re looking death in the face, huh?”

“Guess not.”

“But… your vow. What happens if you break it?”

She stepped into him again. “Some sort of penance. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Common sense told him the penalty for an angel’s breaking a vow of celibacy wasn’t going to be minor, and he couldn’t allow her to suffer no matter how badly he ached for her. But when he tried to back away, she gripped his hips and pressed the entire long, sexy length of her body against him. Still, he might have had a chance against her… until she awkwardly palmed his crotch.

Tenderness flooded him. She wanted him but didn’t know how to initiate sex. Not that he was so great at that either. Neither one of them was technically a virgin, but emotionally? He so was.

He’d fucked. He’d been sucked. But he’d never made love to anyone.

He looked down at her, into her guileless eyes that even now gleamed with a sort of hopeless honesty. She’d resigned herself to something—probably their death—and she was prepared to face it.

Her strength humbled him. Devastated him. Made him want to make her his no matter what the cost.

“Mine,” he growled, as he swept her up into his arms and strode to the bedroom. He had no idea what kind of caveman instinct had come over him, but it had hijacked him and was now in control and the only thing he could do was let it fly on autopilot. And it wasn’t as though Idess was fighting him.

Her chest heaved with panting breaths, her skin was flushed with arousal, and the outline of her nipples against her top left tiny peaks that begged for his touch. His tongue. Right through the fabric.

Mine.

Unable to bear the feel of clothes against his skin for one more second, he laid her on the bed and peeled off his T-shirt, but before he could unbutton his pants, she was on her knees on the mattress, slapping his hands out of the way.

“I get to do this.”

Far be it for him to argue. Plus, it was really hot, the way the pink tip of her tongue slipped between her lips as she worked his zipper. His cock sprang free, didn’t even have time to enjoy the shock of the cool air before her hot hand closed around it.

He dragged a ragged breath into his laboring lungs. “Idess…”

Her mouth closed over the head of his cock and he damned near swallowed his tongue. She applied suction that made his eyes roll back in his head, and then she released him with a soft pop.

“I have so been wanting to do that,” she said, in a morning-rough murmur that grabbed him right between the legs more tightly than her hand ever could.

She looked up at him with a sleepy, seductive gaze, and damn, this was something right out of a skin flick. With a slinky smile, she took him into the warm, wet depths of her mouth again. Oh, damn, this was amazing. So amazing that his knees went rubbery as she sucked him. When she paid special attention to swirling her tongue in the slit, catching the crystal beads that formed there, he had to bite his cheek to keep from shouting.

One hand caressed his balls, her thumb stroking the seam between them. She blew a cool draft of air over his damp shaft, and he shivered with pleasure. She was an evil tease, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Slowly, she dragged the flat of her tongue down his length, all the way to his balls. His muscles tensed, his come building like steam in his sac, made hotter when she sucked his testicles into her mouth and bounced them on her tongue.

“Idess,” he groaned.

He felt her lips stretch into a smile, and she began a wicked hum that sent a shock of stimulation from his groin to his skull. His head swam and his skin tightened. His hearing became more acute, his sense of smell sharper. Colors were brighter, his emotions more intense.

Her mouth slid back up his cock, her teeth scraping gently and nibbling as she went. How had she learned this magic?

She took him deep, so deep he felt the back of her throat… and then she swallowed. Jesus, she swallowed him, creating a maelstrom of sensation at the tip of his cock as her finger and thumb ringed the base and pumped up and down, and the other hand squeezed his balls.

“Stop, oh, shit… stop…” He couldn’t hold on, couldn’t resist the sensations turning him inside out. He drove his hands into her hair, but as the climax edged closer, riding on a razor edge, he jerked his right hand away. He knew it wouldn’t affect her, but a hundred years of paranoia wasn’t going to be extinguished overnight.

Without breaking her rhythm, she took his hand and returned it to her scalp. For the first time, he truly realized how special she was. He could let go… she wanted him to let go. To be free. To be with her.

She sucked upward as her hand rolled his sac. His dermoire writhed, the power burning from his shoulder to his hand, but Idess was safe. Unaffected. The knowledge and freedom condensed all his emotions, all sensations, concentrating them so fully he couldn’t believe his feet were still on the ground. His come boiled up his shaft, shot in a fiery stream. Surging, losing control, he pumped into her mouth. She took everything and kept licking and sucking until he was so sensitive he had to push her away.

Her smile as she looked up at him was one of satisfaction and affection. Desire burned there, too, and a heartbeat later she was shedding her pants.

“It’s true,” she said huskily.

“What is?”

She shot him a sultry grin as she lay back on the mattress and drove her hand inside her panties. He nearly came again. “The stories about your breed’s semen. It’s an aphrodisiac. Milder than I’d have guessed, but… mmm… this is amazing…”

“My human half probably affects the potency—” He broke off as she kicked her head back and began to pleasure herself. “Then again, maybe not.”

“Do you want to watch? You know, watch me come?”

“Fuck, yeah…” He had to clear his throat because he was about to choke on his lust.

“Right… now… oh, yes…” Her body came off the freaking bed as she climaxed, and if this wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen, he didn’t know what was.

Diving onto the bed, he gripped her thighs and spread them. The scent of her feminine arousal made his head swim and his mouth water and he wasn’t waiting another second. He closed his mouth over her sex, over the silk that covered it, and licked her, right through the fabric.

Whimpers of pleasure accompanied frantic rolls of her hips as she ground against his mouth. She came hard, twice, before his impatience had him tearing away her underwear and plunging his tongue inside her. Sweet honey filled his mouth and clogged his brain. The taste of her was a drug, and he was instantly addicted, would need this every day. Twice a day. Morning and night. Maybe noon, too.

Her orgasms came one after another, piling up until he lost count and until she tugged on his hair to drag him up to her. Dazed and sated like a big, well-fed cat, she watched him prowl up her body, and then she welcomed him between her legs.

His cock was rock hard as the blunt tip probed her entrance, but he wasn’t ready yet. He wanted this to be special. Wanted to savor every moment.

Kissing her, he peeled off her sweatshirt. He did it slowly, taking his time, fumbling a little because his fingers trembled. Her hands were still tangled in his hair, her tongue tangling with his as her desperation rose another notch.

“Make love to me,” she said against his mouth, arching her pelvis in an attempt to impale herself on his shaft.

“Nothing can stop me.” He kissed a trail down her jaw to her creamy throat. She was a gift, and he was going to unwrap her slowly. His breath was hot as he unsnapped her flimsy lace bra. He didn’t want to stop kissing her even to remove the last of her clothing, but he wanted her naked. Skin on skin with nothing between them ever again.

His cell phone rang. Sin’s tone. He ignored it. He had to get inside Idess. No one was getting between him and what was his. As if she sensed his desperation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips so tightly he didn’t think he could break free if he wanted to.

Rumbling with pleasure, he sank into her soft, willing body. Idess gasped, clung to him fiercely, and whispered sweet, hot commands into his ear.

Electric strikes stormed through him as he began to thrust. He and Idess were joined by more than their bodies, and now he understood why his brothers had taken mates. The difference between fucking a random female and making love to someone with your entire body and heart could only be measured by something akin to the Richter scale.

Making love to Idess shook him to the core and razed every one of his walls. She was a ten-point-oh for sure, and as long as she kept rocking his world, he was ready and willing to take the damage.

* * *

Idess had never known anything so perfect. Lore was kissing her as he thrust into her, taking her to new, soul-shattering heights, and she finally understood the beauty of giving one’s self to another.

Her life since Rami had been about punishing herself, engaging in self-imposed penance while she waited for a reward she wasn’t sure she deserved.

She finally had that reward, though not in the way she’d expected.

“Idess.” Lore’s voice was wonderfully husky.

He thrust as deep as he could go, and she arched up, her body clenching and holding him there. In her passion, she scored his back with her nails, and he hissed in pleasure.

“Yes. Oh, damn…” He shifted, palmed her butt and brought her up hard against him. Dropping his forehead to hers, he looked into her eyes as he pounded into her in a wild, raw flurry.

The friction blazed, smoked, and then pleasure was rocketing her into the clouds. Lore released with a shout she barely heard through the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears. It seemed to go on forever, and as her senses tumbled over her, they melted together with so many emotions she wasn’t sure how to separate them.

This was all so incredibly right. Closing her eyes, she held Lore when he collapsed on top of her. His weight was crushing, but she’d never been happier to have her breath squashed out of her.

“Sorry,” he muttered against her throat. “I don’t have the energy to roll off.” She laughed—tried to laugh, anyway, and he groaned and rolled, tucking her close. “What’s so funny?”

Blessed air filled her lungs, and the laugh finally got out. “You. Big bad demon reduced to a lump of exhaustion by a mere female.”

His hand stroked her arm. “There’s nothing mere about you. You’ve given me a run from the beginning.”

She smiled against his chest, loving how, for the first time in centuries, she could finally be herself again, could break the restraints that had kept her so contained. She wanted to go wild, to dance in a club, swim naked in the ocean, drink a margarita, and then try a whole lot of exotic sexual things with Lore. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

A long, drawn-out silence ticked by. At first, Idess basked in it, content and sated. But gradually, she became aware of a growing tension.

“It’s time to go, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He squeezed her so hard her joints popped. “How much longer do you have? On Earth, I mean.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

His entire body went statue still. “I don’t want to lose you. I know that makes me sound like a pussy, but I don’t.” His throat worked on a hard swallow. “I even…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?” She propped herself up on one elbow so she could look at him. “You can tell me.”

He threw an arm over his eyes. “You’re going to hate me.”

“No, I won’t.” She peeled his arm away. “Spill.”

Swallowing again, he stared up at the ceiling fan as it spun lazy circles over the bed. “I actually thought that if I killed Kynan, it wouldn’t be so bad, because you’d have to stay longer.”

Ice filled her chest cavity, leaving no room for her heart to beat. “You would do that? Wreck my future?” She had no right to be appalled, given that she’d done the same thing to Rami, but as the ice and pain spread through her, she truly began to understand how betrayed and hurt her brother must feel.

Lore sat up in a quick, fluid motion that startled her. “Hell, no. It was a desperate, random thought. I’m a selfish asshole, but I could never do something so unforgivable to you.” She cried out, but he misunderstood, and he framed her face with his warm palms and brushed his lips over hers. “I’m not lying, Idess. I swear to you, I would never take something as important as your wings away. I would die first.”

Tears burned her eyes. Horrible, acid tears that she deserved. She’d known that what she did to Rami was unforgivable, but hearing Lore—a demon—say how awful it was with so much passion, oh, sweet, sweet Lord, she deserved whatever Rami did to her.

“Idess? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you—”

“It’s not that.” She really wanted to throw up. “You don’t have to worry about me getting my wings. I’m not going to get them.” She didn’t deserve them anyway, had been fooling herself for centuries, thinking that she’d get into Heaven.

A scowl tugged his dark brows down. “What are you not telling me?”

“We only have one shot at finding Rami before your deadline. Angels aren’t allowed in the Playground, so I broke my vow and made sure I’m ruined. I can flash into Sheoul now.”

“Ruined?” He scrambled to his knees and gripped her shoulders as if he was going to shake her. “Oh, fuck. Do not tell me that I ruined you by making love to you.”

“It was my choice. It was the only way we’d get to Rami. It was the only way for you and Kynan to be saved. Until I’m officially summoned, I still have my powers. Just not angel status.”

“Damn it,” he whispered. “I knew I shouldn’t have made love to you. You’re so much better than I am. I’ve tainted you—”

She stopped him with a finger pressed to his sinful lips. “You aren’t listening to me. And no, I’m not better than you are. Don’t you see, Lore? You’ve punished yourself for being what you are. For loving your sister so much that you did what you thought was best, even though you saw it as a betrayal. You’ve given everything to your sister, and it’s time to take something for yourself. Take me. I can be with you now.” He didn’t need to know that “now” probably meant no more than a few hours before she was called before the Memitim Council… and likely destroyed.

He swallowed hard. “Do you realize what you just said, angel? Turn it back on yourself.”

Sluggish realization wove its way through her. She’d been punishing herself over Rami for centuries, putting all her energy into her guilt. Doing the same thing she’d just accused Lore of. But her betrayal had been far, far more damaging to her sibling.

She gulped miserably. “It’s not the same.”

“How can you tell me to take something for myself, to forgive myself, when you don’t walk the walk?”

He was right, and she nearly choked on her own hypocrisy. “I’ll take something for myself then. After we deal with Rami.”

“Prove it. Bond with me,” he blurted. “Swear to be my mate.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d been thinking more along the lines of a tropical cruise or a bigger house. Swallowing dryly, she glanced at his bedside clock because she couldn’t look at Lore, too afraid he’d mistake the doubt in her face for rejection of him, when the truth was, she still wasn’t sure she deserved to take anything so wonderful.

“We have to go.” Her voice cracked, and the doubt seeped out through it.

“I know.” He gripped her chin and brought her face back around. “I want this, Idess. I keep telling you that I’m selfish, and this only proves it. I can’t bond with anyone as long as I’m bonded to Deth, but as soon as we defeat your brother, I’ll be free. We’ll come back here, and I’ll make you mine. Forever. Don’t say no.”

Maybe she didn’t deserve this, but he did. And she couldn’t deny him anything. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll bond with you.” She smiled, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor on her lips, because they definitely did not have forever.

* * *

Two-fifty-nine A.M. Venezuela time.

Lore breathed deeply and handed Idess the dagger.

“You ready to do this?” “

Not at all.” She clutched the little bag of powdered monk wine tighter. She’d flashed in and out of the abbey with no problems, and she’d admitted to him that she’d been glad to test her powers. Rami had told her that ruined Memitim retained their abilities until their official summoning to the Council, but she’d been nervous about it, nevertheless.

“Can you do this?”

She averted her gaze, and fear spiked through him. He got that they were going to kill her beloved brother. But if they didn’t kill him, the contract with Deth would still stand, and Lore would once again be caught in an impossible situation with Kynan and Sin.

Though… if Idess had ruined herself by sleeping with Lore, would she still be required to guard Kynan?

Fuck. He still couldn’t believe she’d done it—damned herself like that, when for two thousand years, all she’d dreamed of was earning her wings. And now she couldn’t.

Because of him.

He would have to make it up to her somehow, even if he could only make sure that she spent the rest of her life happy. He’d spoil her and make love to her and treat her like a damned queen.

They just had to kill her brother first.

“Idess?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I can do it.” She tightened her grip on the crossbow, grabbed his hand that held the dagger and suddenly, they were in a cavern deep inside Sheoul. The walls were lined by live demons crucified on twisted crosses, some being eaten alive by various hell-creatures.

Rami stood just three feet away from Lore and Idess, jaw-dropped and gaping.

“How—”

Idess released Lore and hurled the wine powder in Rami’s face. The fallen angel screamed and clawed at his eyes. Taking advantage of Rami’s misery, Lore buried his sword in the angel’s gut, and Idess cried out at the gruesome sight of her brother being impaled. Steam hissed from the wound, a wet, grotesque sound that was joined by the slide of bone on steel as Rami stumbled backward and off the blade.

Chasing the momentum, Lore swung, a blow that would have decapitated the angel if it had landed. But the bastard wheeled away in a blur, and the tip of the sword only nicked his throat.

He backed against a wall, teeth bared, clutching his gut and glaring at Idess, who had him in her crossbow’s sights. “You bitch.”

“Rami, please. Listen to me. I’m sorry. What I did was stupid. Selfish. I know that—”

“You know that? Your self-serving exploit kept me on this hellhole of a planet for two extra centuries!” he bellowed. “And then it got me kicked out of Heaven, you cocksucking whore!”

The crossbow started to shake. Lore inched closer to Idess when all he wanted to do was shove the sword up her brother’s ass. Her voice shook as hard as her weapon did. “What I did was unforgivable. But it affected you on Earth, not in Heaven.”

“You have no idea.” Rami circled them, his movements as sinuous as a snake’s despite the hole in his gut. “I learned of your betrayal days after my Ascension. Did you know, sister, that once bitterness takes root in an angel, it grows like a weed? Grows until the soul becomes shriveled and polluted with hate, which is not welcome in Heaven. It is your fault I was expelled.”

“No.” Idess wanted to cover her ears, to block the ugly truth. “No!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Lore swung the qeres-coated sword, but Rami wheeled away again, and Lore caught only a glancing blow to Rami’s shoulder. Still, the wound smoked and hissed, and Idess knew very well how much it hurt.

“So protective and possessive.” Rami snared a two-pronged pitchfork tool from a barrel and stabbed one of the scaly rat things that had been gnawing on the foot of a crucified demon. “Like an animal,” he said, as he watched the helpless creature squirm in agony on the tines. “Because that’s all demons are, Idess. Lowlifes. Lower even than the animals humans feed on.”

She might have agreed not long ago, but over the course of two thousand years she’d seen animals with more heart than some humans, and recently, she’d witnessed demons with more compassion.

Easing forward, she concentrated on keeping her voice soft and soothing. “Rami, you used to tell me that there was always balance in the world. If that’s true, and you know it is, then not all demons are bad. Like the one you took. Rade is innocent. You have to give him to us.”

Rami scoffed. “Innocent? He’s an insect. Have you never stepped on a cockroach?”

“Oh, Rami.” Despair sliced at her heart. “What have you become?”

“What I am is because of you!” he thundered.

“We can make it better. We can go to Father—”

“Better?” He laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “Do you know what will make it better? Your complete and utter ruination. I wanted all your Primori to die so you would never Ascend. I wanted you to fail. To feel the humiliation I felt when I learned what you had done to me.”

Lore hurled a morning star, and though Rami twirled out of the way, it caught him in the shoulder. Rami ripped the weapon out of his flesh and threw it to the ground. “I’m disappointed in you, assassin. Roag swore you were competent, despite the fact that you failed him. Now I’ll have to slaughter Kynan myself. And once I have the amulet, I’ll bargain my way back into Heaven.”

“You’re insane,” Idess gasped. “They’ll never accept you.”

“Then Satan will,” he purred. “He will want that necklace, and he’ll give me anything I want. You know the saying, it’s better to rule in hell than serve in Heaven.”

Lore snorted. “I have never met bigger assholes than fallen angels. Why work with Roag, though?” Lore’s hand slipped beneath his jacket, and Idess figured he was going for another weapon. “What concern is it of yours if my brothers are punished?”

“Surely you understand binding contracts.” Behind him, one of the impaled demons screeched, and Rami closed his eyes as if savoring the sound, and his voice was almost trancelike when he answered. “I had one with Roag. He used his black market and underground contacts to discover who Idess’s Primori were, and in return, I was to give him anything he wanted. When he disappeared, I thought I was off the hook.”

“Because you believed he was dead.” In a movement so fast Idess didn’t see it until it was over, Lore sent a throwing knife at Rami’s head.

“Yes.” Rami slid to the left, and the blade whooshed harmlessly past his ear. His eyes were still closed. “But as it turns out, my contract is still valid. The terms are harsh. If I don’t succeed in destroying your brothers’ lives and breaking them apart, I will… disintegrate.”

“That would be too bad,” Lore drawled.

Idess’s mind churned into high gear. “Roag was how you knew Kynan was charmed,” she mused. “He’d been eavesdropping on his brothers.” Kynan had received his charm well after Rami fell, so he couldn’t have known about the human’s Marked Sentinel status. She gripped the crossbow securely and raised her voice, because ultimately, none of this mattered, and they didn’t have much time before the wine powder wore off and Rami could flash out of there. “Where is the child? I need to return him to his family.”

“You don’t need to do anything but suffer.” Rami’s eyes popped open, and from them came an unholy, blinding glow. In a blast of heat and blood, he exploded out of his beautiful skin and into a black, wraithlike creature dripping with shredded flesh. The very air screamed with fury, and the crucified demons shriveled like crushed paper. Their souls escaped their bodies and scrambled around the room, more terrified now than they had been when they were hanging from the walls.

An inky wind howled from inside a dark cavern at the rear of the chamber. The ground beneath Idess’s feet bucked and rumbled. The wind snaked out of the opening in a billowing cloud of rank smoke and swirled around them, its roar blending with the sounds of the demon souls’ agonized shrieks. Idess covered her ears, but within seconds, the gruesome noises stopped. The souls had vanished.

Dear God, Rami had destroyed them. He had the power to destroy souls. Just like their father.

“Now,” he snarled, “I’m going to make you watch your lover die slowly.” He lunged, slammed his fist into Lore’s throat. The impact knocked the sword out of Lore’s grip and drove him into the wall. His skull cracked against the stone, and he did a slow slide into a heap on the floor.

“Lore!” Idess sprinted toward him, but Rami beat her there. He plunged the sword down, stopping when the tip bit into Lore’s neck. Blood ran in a slow rivulet down his throat.

“Did you feed from him when you fucked him?” Rami asked. “Can you feel his terror? Will you feel his pain?” He licked his lips as though anticipating the taste of Lore’s death. Lore glowered in defiance as Idess raised the cross-bow.

“Don’t do it!” She stepped closer, wishing her knees weren’t trembling and her voice didn’t do the same. “I will kill you.”

Rami laughed. “I’ve already won. You fucked away your purity and can’t Ascend. I. Win.”

With a wink, he drew back the sword and plunged it forward in one easy motion. Crying out, Idess pulled the trigger.

Rami yelped as the bolt ripped through his rib cage just below his armpit and exited on the other side. The forward momentum of Rami’s jab propelled the sword forward. In horrifyingly slow motion, Idess watched as Lore tried to block the blade. The sound of metal meeting flesh rang out as the sword bit into his forearm. Blood sprayed, but Lore didn’t falter as he leaped to his feet and plowed his fist into Rami’s face.

Rami wheeled away from Lore’s attack, still clutching the sword. Twin rivers of red ran down his sides. His glazed, shocked eyes shifted to Idess. “You… shot me.” His disbelieving voice was raw, gurgling, like the wounds in his ribs.

She jammed another bolt into the chamber. “I’ll do it again, Rami. Tell me where Rade is.”

A smile twisted his lips, the only warning before he swung the sword. Lore fell back under the assault, and pain flared in Idess’s heart as she fired another round. The bolt punched into Rami’s spine, dead center between his shoulder blades. His howl of agony was like acid in her ears, and she let out a sob as she watched him stagger into Lore.

“Bitch,” he rasped. His hand snaked out with more speed than he should have been capable of, given his injuries, and he caught Lore around the throat.

Lore snarled, and with brutal efficiency, drove his fist through the bolt hole in Rami’s side. Rami screamed, jerked as though he was being electrocuted, and crumpled to the ground. Twitching, he lay on his back, eyes wide and breathing labored, as Lore wrenched the sword from his hand.

Dear Lord, she knew Rami was corrupt, was no longer the warm, caring brother she’d loved, but as he lay broken and bleeding, his eyes liquid with pain, she saw only the brother who had comforted her when her human parents had died, the brother who had battled demons at her side.

“Rami, please. There’s still time to do the right thing.” She sank to her knees beside him. “There’s good inside you. I know there is. Where’s the infant? Tell us what you’ve done with him.”

Slowly, Rami stretched out a hand toward Idess. His entire body quivered as he gripped her fingers. Tears streamed down Idess’s face, and she sobbed when he coughed, spraying blood like a geyser. For a moment, Lore thought Idess had actually gotten through to the guy. But when the wheezing fit ended, Rami’s cold gaze met Lore’s, and his smile sent chills down Lore’s spine.

“The… demon child—” he sucked in a gurgling breath “—made your boss a fine meal.”

Pure, unadulterated hatred obliterated every thought in Lore’s brain and replaced them with only one. Kill. With a roar, Lore brought the blade down on the angel’s neck. His head separated from his body and rolled toward Lore’s boots. But even as the blood poured like a river from Rami’s shoulders, it formed sinewy ropes that gripped the head and tugged it toward the body.

Idess drew a blade from the sheath at the small of her back. “You are truly gone, my brother,” she whispered.

Though her hand shook, she didn’t hesitate as she slashed her wrist and held her bleeding arm so her blood mixed with Rami’s. Hissing steam blasted upward, and a heartbeat later, the ex-angel’s body went up in a puff of smoke and ash.

Tears streamed from Idess’s eyes as she came to her feet above the pile of charred remains, holding her wrist as blood seeped between her fingers.

She didn’t have to say anything. Lore swept her into his arms and held her as she collapsed into sobs.

Twenty-three

Idess didn’t waste much time crying. She’d destroyed her brother, and somehow she’d have to deal with that, but both she and Lore were bleeding badly, and they had to tell two parents that their son was dead.

“We have to go,” she croaked, and Lore nodded.

She flashed them to the hospital parking lot. Together they entered UG, and inside, found Eidolon cleaning up one of the multiple messes scattered around the emergency department; smashed equipment, overturned chairs, pills scattered on the floor. The spirits had been active.

Eidolon jogged toward Lore and Idess, slowing before he reached them, his devastated expression telling Idess that he’d read theirs.

“I’m sorry,” Lore rasped.

For a long moment, she thought Eidolon was going to break down. He swallowed repeatedly, his eyes bloodshot and liquid. But when Lore’s blood began to drip to the floor, he shifted into doctor mode.

“Come with me.” He left them no choice but to follow him into an exam room, where he gestured to Idess to sit on the bed, and for Lore to take a seat. “I assume the bastard is dead,” he said, as he gloved up.

“Very.” Lore tucked his injured arm protectively against his body. “Take care of Idess first.”

Before she could protest, Eidolon took her wrist. “Keep pressure on your wound,” he said to Lore. Idess clenched her teeth as he began the painful process of healing her cut, and when he was done, he gently wiped away the blood and covered the mostly healed gash with a gauze pad and tape.

Eidolon sank into a chair across from his brother. “Did you get… the remains?”

Idess closed her eyes and offered a prayer for the small boy her brother had killed.

“I’m going to get them the second I’m done here.” Lore said grimly.

Very gently, Eidolon rested Lore’s arm on his thigh. “You did a number on this,” he muttered. “Sword?”

“Wow,” Lore said, as Idess moved to him and took his good hand in hers. “You’re good.”

“I see a lot of this,” Eidolon said wryly. “Usually on Wraith. You ready?”

“Yeah.” Gazing up at her, Lore squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I am.”

Something in her chest lurched. Lore usually suffered alone and didn’t rely on anyone, and he probably preferred it that way. But he was taking strength and comfort from her.

Eidolon’s dermoire lit up, and when Eidolon was done, he wiped away the blood.

Idess sank down next to Lore just as the doctor’s pager went off. He checked it, cursed soundly.

“What is it?” Lore asked.

“Wargs,” he said. “There are two incoming via ambulance, and three coming through the Harrowgate.” Eidolon closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. “This makes eight in a matter of days. We have an epidemic on our hands.” He opened his eyes and gave Lore a look that chilled Idess to the bone. “Does Sin have any healing abilities at all? Any reversal powers?”

“No, why?” But Idess had a feeling she knew, and she saw in Lore’s face that he did, too. “Oh, God. Sin. She started it, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

Lore cursed. “We can’t catch a break around here, can we?”

Eidolon adjusted his stethoscope around his neck. “I’d like to say that this is unusual, but the last couple of years have been nothing but chaos. And it’s only going to get worse if we can’t get rid of Roag and his merry band of ghosts.”

Stupid bastard! You can’t get rid of me. You made me!

Idess wrenched her head around to the doorway, where Roag was lurking, hood shoved back to reveal a hideous, deformed face. His skin was a mass of dark scar tissue stretched tight over bone that was, in places, visible. Insanity gleamed in his dead eyes.

“Actually,” Idess said quietly, “I think I can do something about that.”

You can help me? Please. This curse… it is agony you can’t comprehend. I did nothing to deserve it.

“You hired your brother to kill his own brothers,” she said to him. “Your brothers.”

“Ah… Idess?” Lore’s voice came from behind her, but she held up her hand to stop both him and Eidolon.

“Did you hear me, Roag? You wanted your own brothers dead.”

Because they burned me alive! He tore off his cloak, and she nearly gasped at the shriveled, twisted wreck that was his body. And now I hurt. I starve. I thirst. Nothing relieves me. Please, help me. His lips peeled back in the most evil grin she’d ever seen. Slaughter my brothers and their families so their blood runs like a river through the streets. Gut them. Rend their limbs from their bodies and their eyes from their sockets!

His laughter pierced her like a lance carved of ice. “You want help? Really?” She grabbed Roag by the arm. Though he wasn’t solid to her, his energy clung to her like static electricity. “I can put you out of your misery. Absolutely. I don’t have the power to destroy souls, but I know someone who does.”

She dragged him out of the hospital and into the parking lot. Dimly, she heard Lore and Eidolon calling her name, but she kept going. Her brother had torn this family apart, and she couldn’t do anything about that, but she certainly could do something about this.

* * *

Inhaling deeply, Idess flashed to the realm where her father resided, where only his children and his griminions were allowed. She appeared on the steps of an ancient Greek temple, a great ebony building flanked by black pillars and set amongst other black structures. Once, she’d run her hand over a wall, only to have it come away covered with a sootlike substance. Where her hand had been, dirty white marble peeked through the oily grit.

The massive buildings and pillars and statues had once been pristine white. Now they groaned under the weight of taint and corruption. The entire realm was a giant replica of Athens, but in the dark. Athens, in her nightmares.

Still maintaining a grip on Roag, whose struggles were mere whispers against her skin, she climbed the steps and entered through the double doors big enough to allow King Kong passage. Inside, polished ebony floors stretched endlessly. Grim, dark statues of demons and humans in pain lined the walls, and in the center of the great room, a fountain ran red into a dark pool at the base.

She dragged Roag down a mazelike corridor, making dozens of lefts and rights, and finally, two of her brothers, one of whom she vaguely recognized, opened the huge iron door at the end.

Idess was nearly blinded by the bright lights blasting through the opening. The entire realm was set in a back-drop of gloom, but Azagoth liked his color, and, she noted with a wince, he apparently liked his Beatles music.

He turned to her from where he was standing before an archway, where griminions paraded by, leading the souls of dead demons. The moment he turned, the griminions halted in their tracks, unwilling to move forward to their final destination, Sheoul-gra, until their boss had seen and approved every soul brought before him.

Azagoth was the epitome of male beauty. Appearing to be in his early thirties, he was tall, with black hair, chiseled cheekbones, and a strong, square jaw. He wore a button-down emerald shirt that matched his eyes, and black, slim-fitting pants that emphasized long legs. In his hand, he had a cup of Starbucks coffee.

“Daughter,” he said, his smile one that would make any human woman swoon but that only looked cold to Idess. “It’s been centuries.” He cast a glance at Roag, who, once inside the room, had become solid. “And you brought a guest.”

“Where am I?” Roag shouted. “What have you done, you stupid cunt?”

Idess released Roag and wondered how many showers she’d have to take before her skin stopped crawling from the feel of his touch. He careened around the room, but when it became clear that there was no way out, he rushed her. He swiped at her, but his clawlike hand passed harmlessly through her body.

“As you can see, you have no power here.” Azagoth casually crossed his arms over his chest. “Or anywhere.”

Roag’s eyes bulged as he stared at his hand. “Am I… dead?”

“Unfortunately not,” Idess said. “Why am I here?” The demon rounded on Azagoth. “Who are you?”

Oh, this promised to be good.

Her father had a flair for the dramatic, and he allowed a few moments of tense silence to tick by before saying, “I’m the being you know as the Grim Reaper.”

Roag made a strangled noise. “Wh-what do you want with me?”

“I don’t know. Daughter?” Azagoth moved to his desk, a modern oak monstrosity next to a fireplace that was lit, but didn’t give off heat. His chamber was freezing. He took a seat, kicked his feet up on his desk, and waited for her to say something.

“Father,” she said, prepping herself for the formal speech he preferred, “I humbly request that you put an end to this vile creature. I would have done so myself on the earthly realm, but he is cursed to formlessness, and has no body to kill.”

Azagoth put down his coffee. “Truly? Interesting curse.”

“Interesting?” Roag screeched. “It is suffering of the cruelest kind!”

“Please,” Idess scoffed. “Hearing you whine about cruelty, given what you’ve done in your life, makes me sick.”

Roag sneered at her. “So you brought me here to kill me. Do you think that scares me? Do you think I’m pissing my pants? Death is welcome.”

No doubt death was much preferable to the fate he was suffering. After death, he’d be taken to Sheoul-gra, where he’d hang out with other demons until he was reborn.

“Father, I don’t want him dead.” She stepped forward, shoving Roag aside. “I want him destroyed.”

Roag’s gasp echoed through the room, and in the tunnel, even the griminions shuddered. “You can’t do that,” he rasped. “You have no right!”

Azagoth steepled his fingers over his chest and pinned her to the wall with his cold gaze. “What you ask is rarely done. In all my time, I have destroyed only a handful of souls, and not without consequence. So why, dear daughter, should I risk Satan’s wrath for this one demon?”

She glanced at Roag, who stood near the tunnel archway. His eyes gleamed hellfire crimson, and malevolence emanated so strongly from him that the demon soul nearest him kept trying to inch away, only to be held steady by his griminion escort.

“He is evil such as I’ve never felt, Father. He has cavorted with fallen angels, including my brother, your son, Rami, also known as Rariel. Given his history and strength of evil, I fear that Roag’s time in Sheoul-gra will be short, and that he’s strong enough to be reborn with his memories intact. He will never stop seeking revenge, and a soul like that will only serve Satan and bring him more power.”

Shadows flitted in Azagoth’s eyes, and dread flitted in her stomach. “Speaking of Rami… I no longer feel his life force.”

She nodded. “I destroyed him, Father.”

The shadows danced faster, grew darker. “Where did you kill him?”

“Sheoul. The Forbidden Abyssal.”

“Your service to humanity has cost you.” Slowly, Azagoth came to his feet and went to Roag. The shriveled demon trembled as her father’s hand clamped down on the demon’s throat.

Roag’s eyes squeezed closed. “Please… no…”

“I know who you are,” Azagoth whispered. “I saw every soul you tortured and killed when they passed through my archway. I felt their suffering. My daughter is right about you, and even had she not asked me to end your existence permanently, I would have done so. You see, God demands equal and opposite. Tit for tat. And evil as great as yours has no pure, good match in the human world. You unbalance the universe. So you shall disappear.”

With that, he squeezed. Roag’s eyes flew open, and his silent scream rang like a shrill whistle through Idess’s mind as his body began a violent tremor. Fire flew from her father’s fingertips and spread down Roag’s already burned body until only ash in the form of a demon remained.

And then there was nothing. No ash, no soul, no evil.

For some reason, the Blue Oyster Cult song “Don’t Fear The Reaper” rang through her head as he turned to her. “Was there anything else?”

The pleasant way he’d asked that made her want to reply with, “A side of fries, please.” Instead, she bowed. “Thank you, Father, but no.”

“Idess.” His voice was soft, but urgent. “It’s coming for you. The light. And whatever you do, do not run.”

* * *

Lore strode into Deth’s chamber, mind focused on one single goal. He would take back Rade’s remains. Eidolon had sworn not to tell Shade and Runa anything until Lore got back to UG, though Lore wasn’t sure how much easier the news would be with a body to go along with it.

Either way, two parents were going to be destroyed.

He swore when he saw his sister standing before their boss. Dammit. He had no doubt that he’d have to bargain with Deth for Rade’s remains, and he also didn’t doubt that Sin would only complicate matters.

“For your sake, I hope you have completed your task.” Deth’s right hand was hanging over the side of his chair, and as Lore approached, the reason why became clear.

Deth had the new Seminus, Tavin, chained to the base of the throne and was petting him. The incubus was crouching, naked and bruised, head hung so his chin-length hair concealed his face. But when he glanced up, his eyes glowed gold with hatred and defiance—and, as he locked his gaze on Sin, lust as well. Deth, that sonofabitch, had denied the male females, something that would drive him insane, and, if let go too long, would result in his death.

Lore wanted to rip Deth’s heart out and feed it to the Ramreels.

“I didn’t kill Kynan,” Lore said. “I killed the contract holder. Rariel is a stain. The contract is void.”

For a moment, Lore thought Deth was going to stroke out. His piggy eyes popped wide and his skin flushed, and it was funny as hell. “I don’t believe you. This is a trick.”

Lore shrugged. “Check the contract.”

Deth gestured at one of the Ramreels, who manipulated a lever in the stone wall. With a grind of rock, a panel peeled back, revealing another panel containing glowing stones set into the wall. The Ramreel palmed one of the stones and brought it to Deth.

Lore’s master held the glowing green orb in one hand and passed his other hand over it. The thing morphed into a parchment, which Deth stared at for only a moment before it crumbled in his hands and fell like sand to the floor.

“Told you,” Lore said.

“We’re free, then?” Sin bounced on her toes, unable to contain her excitement.

Deth snarled. “This is an outrage! You tricked me.”

“I got around the terms of the contract, you son of a bitch. Now release us.”

Deth bounded from his throne and paced frantically, his teeth clicking in a grotesque display of annoyance, and Lore knew he was trying to find some loophole that would allow him to keep them in service.

“Now,” Lore gritted out.

Deth hissed. “I have not received payment from Rariel. I will not lose my two best assassins until I have been paid in full.”

“Not my problem,” Lore said.

Curses fell from Deth’s lips. He kept pacing, stalling.

“Deth, now!”

Deth whirled around, his armor clanking. “The boy,” he said. “The child Rariel brought to me. He is related to you, no?”

The blood in Lore’s veins congealed even as his heartbeat kicked into overdrive. It sounded as if Rade was still alive.

Stay cool. Stay calm. “No.”

Deth’s eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers, and the nearest Ramreel disappeared through a side exit and returned with Rade, his body lying limp and motionless in the demon’s arms.

“What have you done to him?” So much for calm.

Deth smiled. “I don’t know how to care for an infant. There has been no reason to keep him alive. He was meant to be a meal, not a pet, after all.”

Sin moved toward Rade, whose sunken chest rose almost imperceptibly.

“As you can see, he hasn’t perished yet. But if you want him, you will agree to my new terms.”

Sin sucked air between clenched teeth. “You fuck,” she ground out.

Lore forced his own jaws to unclench. “What do you want?”

“I want one of you to remain with me. Forever.”

Outrage nearly knocked Lore off his feet. “Never.”

“Then the child will be sent to the kitchens.” Deth gestured to the Ramreel.

“No! Just… wait.” By now, Lore’s Incredible Hulk should have been knocking at the door, and though he was so furious his voice shook, he didn’t get the jacked-up sense that he was going to explode out of his skin and into a monster. Idess’s touch seemed to have soothed the savage beast. Idess, who had lured him out of his life of loneliness and death, and replaced it with warmth and light.

And Deth had just yanked all of that out from under him. Lore couldn’t bond with her now. Hell, he didn’t think they could be together at all. How was he supposed to come home to her at night and tell her about his day?

Hey, angel, I got to strangle someone today. Took him a while to die, because he had a fat neck and I couldn’t use my death gift because you drained me. And tomorrow, Deth wants me to break some female’s legs because she cheated on her mate. I think I’ll turn that job down and take the two days of torture instead.

Oh, yeah. Good times ahead.

Lore took his sister’s hand and guided her to a quiet corner, where Deth couldn’t eavesdrop.

“That sick bastard,” she snapped. “I’ll kill him, Lore. I’ll give him herpes and syphilis and Khileshi cockfire, and he’ll die slowly and in pain—”

“Listen to me,” Lore interrupted. “I want you to have that chance, but you have to be freed in order to do it.” Not that killing Deth would be easy, if possible at all. “I’ll submit to him for service. You go free. I just need you to take Rade to UG once it’s done.”

“What? No!” She gripped his jacket with both hands, went up on her toes, and got in his face. “You are handling the kid and your brothers. If one of us has to stay, it’ll be me.”

Gently, he peeled her hands off his coat and held them against her chest. “Sin, you have to do this. I owe you. I owe you a lot. I want you to have your freedom.”

She shifted awkwardly, from one foot to another. Her eyes glistened, for the second time, since they were children. Even then, she hadn’t been one to cry. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s because of me that you’re here in the first place. You need to set yourself free.”

Frustration drilled into his skull. She was making this more difficult than it needed to be. “You’re here because of me, too. If I hadn’t left you all those years ago, if I’d done what I could to protect you, you wouldn’t have been forced to sell your services to survive.”

“We’re not talking about that,” she said sharply. “It’s the past, and it’s over.”

It would never be over for her, and he knew it. “My point is, you’ve never been free. You need it. You need to have a normal life. You can have that now.”

She snorted bitterly. “Normal? You think I can be normal in any way? Hello, Lore, I’m a fucking freak of nature.” She waved her right hand in front of him, as if he didn’t know how much pain their dermoires had caused.

“Yeah…” He hesitated, not wanting to walk down a path that ended at Sin’s door. Then Tavin yelped—struck hard in the face by Detharu, reminding Lore that some shit situations couldn’t be avoided. “What do you know about diseased werewolves?”

The color siphoned from her face, confirming his suspicion. “You need to see Eidolon. He’s facing some sort of warg plague.”

She exhaled a curse. “Yeah. Okay. Later. We need to settle this first.” She shot Deth a dark look. “Look, I know you want to do this, but I can’t accept.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Lore wheeled around. “Deth, free her. I’ll stay.”

“No!” She shoved him aside and strode toward the demon. “I don’t want to be free.”

“Dammit, Sin, it’s a life sentence!”

She skidded to a stop and turned around slowly, as if the words “life sentence” had finally sunk in. She swallowed a couple of times before shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter. Truth is, I like it here. I’m good at what I do. It’s all I can do. And you have Idess now. A chance to be happy. You need to take it.” She rounded on Detharu. “Free him.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Lore warned. “I want to stay.”

The demon steepled his fingers and watched them with fierce interest. He was enjoying this way too much. At his feet, Tavin was watching Sin intently, his panting, agonized breaths filling the silence. Lore felt for the guy, but if he got loose, Lore would kill him. No way would Lore allow Tavin to do to Sin what his nature would force him to do.

“If she doesn’t want to be freed,” Deth said finally, “I won’t force her.”

“Then I won’t go, either.” Lore planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.

Sin cursed in a couple of different languages. “You’re an idiot. Stop being so stubborn.”

Lore clenched his hands to keep from wrapping them around her neck and shaking some sense into her.

“Enough!” Deth shouted. “Lore, it was your contract. Therefore, you are freed.”

Before Lore could protest, Deth lurched out of his chair and slammed his palm on Lore’s chest. The air blasted from Lore’s lungs, and suddenly he felt a hundred pounds lighter.

Though the feeling was amazing, it was also horrible, because Sin was still Deth’s bitch. Forever. “You bastard,” he rasped.

Deth waved his hand in dismissal. “You no longer belong here.”

Neither does Sin. Lunging, Lore fired up his gift. Tried to, anyway. It didn’t even spark, but Lore could take Deth out with his bare hands—

“Stop!” Deth snatched Rade from the Ramreel and curled his fingers around the infant’s throat. “I will kill it. Back out of the chamber, or the whelp dies.”

Panting, cursing, Lore focused every ounce of hatred into his glare as he backed toward the door. Once he was standing in the hall, two guards jabbed machetes into his ribs while another brought Rade to him.

Deth dragged one hideous finger down Sin’s throat in a slow, sensuous trail, a taunt that nearly had Lore going after the bastard again. “Get out of my sight and don’t return unless you intend to sign a new contract.”

Go, Sin mouthed. I’ll be fine.

Walking away was the hardest thing Lore had ever done, and as he did, he couldn’t help but feel as if, once again, he’d failed his twin.

Twenty-four

For some reason, Lore’s heraldi no longer worked. Idess stood outside her father’s temple, repeatedly brushing her finger over the circular welt.

Nothing.

Already unsettled by her father’s talk of the light coming for her, she took several slow breaths to tamp down the encroaching panic as she touched the pad of her finger to Kynan’s mark.

Still nothing.

Oh, no. This was bad. Very, very bad. Quickly, she flashed to Lore’s house, but he wasn’t inside. She darted outside to the deck. No sign of him, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. All around her, the air went calm and the forest animals went silent. Crouching in a defensive position, she eased around, expecting… what? The sensation she felt wasn’t evil. In fact, her skin began to tingle pleasantly.

And then, blasting before her, in a strike of silent lightning, was a vertical column of light. It poured from the heavens in a shimmering cascade, calling to her. The tug went all the way to her soul, like a big, mushy embrace.

A tranquil, beautiful warmth settled over her as she drifted toward it. So lovely. So inviting.

Come home.

The musical voice sang not just in her head, but in her entire body.

It is time.

No. She stumbled to a halt, fingers outstretched and nearly touching the stream of light. She’d dreamed of this day, and now that it was here, she only wanted to run. This should have been the happiest day of her life, but this wasn’t a summons to Ascend. This was a call to answer for her actions. She’d lost a Primori and slept with a demon.

The stream of light glided toward her. She moved to the side, but it followed. No way was she going. She’d seen what had happened to Rami and Roag when their very existence was snuffed. They were gone forever. And what if her fate was worse? Doomed to loneliness and guarding Primori for all time?

And what of Lore? Losing Rami all those centuries ago had left her grieving, bleeding from wounds that never healed.

What she felt for Lore was a thousand times stronger. Living without him would kill her.

The light moved closer. With a cry, she flashed to her house in Italy. The light followed her, piercing her roof and shining down in the middle of her living room. She flashed again, this time to the top of Mount Ararat.

The light was there.

Panic blurred the edges of her vision as she flashed to Pompeii. Stonehenge. The Great Wall of China. And everywhere, the light followed. A sob of desperation escaped her as she squeezed her eyes closed tight and flashed to the parking lot at Underworld General. Shaking like a nervous Chihuahua, she peeled open her eyes and turned in a slow circle. No light.

Which, now that she thought about it, made sense, since the human ghosts had been trapped in the demon-built hospital because the heavenly light didn’t penetrate.

The sudden rumble of a vehicle engine sounded like a dragon’s growl in the underground space. A black ambulance eased out of its stall and rolled toward the far wall, which began to shimmer like a Harrowgate. Of course… that would be the opening through which vehicles came.

Sure enough, it seemed as though the entire wall became glass, allowing the ambulance to pass through and into the human-built parking garage on the other side.

A parking garage where a focused beam of light lurked. Waiting for her.

The vehicle gate closed, leaving a solid wall once more.

The fact that she could no longer see the light didn’t comfort her, because it was still there. It would always be there, and her father’s words came back to haunt her.

Do not run.

* * *

Lore went straight to UG. The second he stepped out of the Harrowgate, Eidolon was there. His shock and joy at seeing that Rade was alive was followed immediately by concern at his condition.

“Damn,” he whispered, as he took the child. “What was done to him?”

“Nothing,” Lore said. “I don’t think he was fed or taken care of at all.”

“He’s definitely hypothermic.” Eidolon told a nurse to call Shade and instructed another to fetch heated blankets as he rushed the boy to one of the trauma rooms, his dermoire glowing. Eidolon assessed the baby, who had pinked up a little and was already looking better after an infusion of whatever Eidolon had done to him with his power.

“Can I do anything?” Lore offered his left index finger to the infant, and Rade’s tiny hand curled around it.

“What you’re doing is perfect.” Eidolon very carefully started an IV, and by the time he was finished, a physician assistant had arrived with blankets.

Lore helped swaddle Rade, and once he was completely mummified, Lore sat on the bed and held the boy to his chest, figuring the extra heat couldn’t hurt, and Eidolon didn’t tell him otherwise.

“Is he going to be okay?”

Eidolon smiled. “Once his body temperature is up and he nurses, he should be fine. He’s a tough little guy.”

Lore peered down at the baby, who lay calmly in his arms, staring up at him with big, brown eyes. A twinge of longing was like a pinch to the gut. Could Idess have children? Did she want them?

Shade had told Lore that human-Sem offspring were sterile, but if Idess wanted kids, Lore would move the sun to make sure she had them. “Has Idess come back?”

“Haven’t seen her.” Eidolon checked Rade’s temperature with an ear thermometer thingie. “Looking good. I’m going to go check on Shade.”

Lore wasn’t sure how long he sat there alone with Rade, rocking him and talking to him in an idiotic, hushed baby-talk voice, before Shade and Runa arrived with their other two sons. They rushed into the room, and right behind them were Tayla and Eidolon, followed by Wraith and Serena.

It had been almost a month since he’d last seen Wraith’s mate, when she’d been lying in a bed, only hours away from death. Now the gorgeous, tall blond was holding a very young baby.

Standing, Lore handed Rade to Runa, who was crying so hard he couldn’t understand anything she said to him. He did his best invisible impression as he backed away from the crowd, only to halt when he bumped into a solid body. He knew who it was before he even turned around.

Kynan. Gem stood beside him, holding his hand.

For a long moment, they all stared. And then Gem hugged him. Wrapped herself around him the way he would have killed to have her do just a month ago. Now all he wanted was for Idess to do the same thing. Where was she?

“Thank you.” Gem pulled away and stepped back to Kynan. “You saved Rade, and I don’t think any of us can thank you enough.”

It was Sin who deserved the thanks, but he wasn’t going to ruin the happy reunion by announcing Sin’s sacrifice. Instead, he got in a jab at his former rival. “I saved Kynan, too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Kynan drawled, “but we’ll just try not to dwell on that.”

“Oh, I intend to rub it in. A lot.” Lore laughed at Kynan’s curse. “Congratulations on the new spawn, by the way.”

“Well,” Gem said, “that was better than what Wraith said.” She lowered her voice and did an imitation of Wraith. “Way cool about the fuck-trophy.”

Kynan rolled his eyes. “The demon does have a way with words.” He took Gem’s hand and clapped Lore on the back. “Thanks, man.”

The party in Rade’s room hit its stride when Ky and Gem went inside. Lore’s brothers all looked so happy, their mates grinning and holding each other tightly. It was a scene right out of a damned movie or something, complete with laughter, reminiscing, and a few good-natured insults.

Lore so didn’t belong here.

He needed to find Idess anyway. He peeled off toward the Harrowgate just as the ER doors slid open. Idess darted inside and right into his arms.

Lore scooped her up, squeezing her hard in a silent promise that he’d never let her go. “Where have you been? Are you okay? Where’s Roag?”

“Later.” She took his mouth in a desperate kiss that pushed all his startup buttons. “Did you…”

“Yeah. Rade was alive.” He let her feet touch the ground again. “He’s going to be okay.”

“I’m so glad.” She sounded relieved, but there was an odd, underlying tone he couldn’t identify.

Frowning, he tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it? What are you not telling me?”

Her hand came up to his cheek, her touch tender. “Nothing. It’s just been a long day.”

Rami. God, he was such an ass. The guy might have been a monster, but he had still been her brother, and she’d loved him for two thousand years. Expecting her to be okay with killing him mere hours after finding out what he’d become was just stupid.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

The sound of a clearing throat had Lore growling at the interruption. But when he turned to see all of his brothers—and Kynan—standing there, the viciousness turned to confusion.

“Ah… yeah?”

Shade stepped forward. “Runa and I are in your debt.” He breathed deeply, cast his gaze at the ceiling. “I don’t know what the fuck has been wrong with me these last few days. I wanted you dead, I turned on my brother, and I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Idess said, and five sets of eyes focused on her. “It was Roag. He wasn’t just inciting the ghosts. His very essence was affecting all of you. When he was near, you were all more angry. More aggressive. It was what he wanted.”

“Where is he?” That from Wraith.

“He’s been destroyed.”

Kynan’s dark eyebrows shot up. “He’s dead? For real? Not just invisible?”

“He’s not dead. His soul was annihilated. Erased. He cannot be reborn.”

“Holy shit,” Shade said. “How?”

“Let’s just say that my father is a very powerful man.”

“That’s a little understated, don’t you think?” Lore draped his arm over her shoulder and tugged her into him where she belonged. “You know, seeing how he’s the Grim fucking Reaper.”

Man, you could have heard the ghosts tiptoeing by in the silence. At least until Wraith shot Lore a look of sympathy. “Duuuude.”

“No shit,” Kynan chimed in.

“Well, whatever you and your father did,” Eidolon said, “we’re all very grateful.”

Idess’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’s the least I could do.” She cast a glance at the ER doors as if she expected the Prince of Darkness himself to pop through them at any moment. “I think I can do something about your ghost problem, too.”

“Now that Roag is gone, shouldn’t they settle down?” Eidolon asked.

“A little. But they don’t belong here. They’re trapped, and they’re going to grow bitter. The ones who have been here the longest already are. It just took Roag to show them how to wreak havoc. Now they need someone to guide them to, ah… the light.”

For some reason, she tripped over the last part of her sentence.

“And you can do that?”

“Yes, but there will be more. You’ll need someone to purge your hospital on a regular basis.”

“Are you volunteering for the job? Because I’m thinking I’ll have a hard time finding another angel to handle it.”

Idess stiffened. It was a subtle motion that probably only Lore noticed. But yeah, something was definitely wrong here.

“I can’t,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Lore expected his brothers to argue or try to convince her, but Eidolon merely nodded. “If you change your mind, I’d love to have you.”

Shade gestured to Rade’s room. “I’m taking Runa and the boys home. I don’t like having them here with the plague going on.” He squeezed Lore’s shoulder. “Thanks again. And welcome to the family.” Very slowly, he turned to Eidolon. Their gazes locked, and everything around them stilled. Then, Shade embraced E in a silent but powerful apology. When they broke apart, Shade’s eyes were wet.

Wraith and Kynan left with Shade, and once they were gone, Lore wrapped himself around Idess, because she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. “Speaking of the plague, what’s going on with that?”

There was a long, tense silence, and Lore wondered if Eidolon was silently cursing Sin’s existence or maybe he was still soaking up Shade’s apology—something Lore guessed was a rarity. “Hell if I know. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern of how it’s spreading or what segment of the warg population it’s affecting. Bodies are piling up in my morgue, and the Warg Council is breathing down my neck.”

“You have a morgue?” Idess asked.

“A morgue with no ME. He was a freaking warg.”

Lore considered that. “Can I take a look?”

“At my dead medical examiner?”

“The morgue.”

“Whatever gets your rocks off.” Eidolon started down one of the halls. “This way.”

They followed him to an elevator big enough to hold a Gargantua. They took it down, which was the only option, and it opened up into a chilly area the size of a gymnasium. Drawers used to store bodies made up one wall, their sizes varying from human to four times that large.

“What does your medical examiner do?” Idess asked.

Eidolon’s fingers trailed over an autopsy table like a lover’s, which made sense; this hospital was his baby, and he was proud as shit of it. “Since most demons aren’t concerned with justice that requires detailed proof and scientific evidence, our guy mostly just determines identity and a general cause of death. Mystical or natural, accident or homicide, type of weapon used… that kind of thing.”

Lore tugged off his glove, opened one of the drawers, and laid his bare hand on the stiff female inside. “This one died of natural causes. At least, she died of nonmystical causes.”

E frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because my resurrection power only triggers if the person died of natural causes. I can only bring someone back if the death takes place a few minutes earlier, but that same power tells me how someone died.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the diseased werewolves?”

Eidolon took Lore to a stainless-steel door. He tugged it open, and inside was a refrigerator a gourmet chef would give a nut for. If it wasn’t storing two dozen bodies.

Lore palmed a male’s forehead. The telltale sting of a supernatural death shot up his arm. “The disease is definitely not of natural origin,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean Sin is responsible.”

“She admitted to killing the first victim,” Eidolon said. “Apparently, she was interrupted before she could deliver a full dose of whatever she does. The warg ran to a pack-mate, who died a few hours after patient zero. The entire pack is wiped now, and the disease has spread to Europe.”

“Oh, hell.” Lore scrubbed his hand over his face. “What are you going to do?”

“I need Sin here. She’s the key to all of this.”

“That’s not going to be easy—”

“Tough shit,” Eidolon bit out. “She caused it, so she can damned well be at my disposal.”

Lore shook his head. “It’s not that. She’s going to be busy.” He leaned against Idess, needing her strength. “She committed to a lifetime of slavery in order to get Rade back.”

Idess gasped, and Eidolon sucked in a harsh breath. “We’ve got to get her out of that.”

Lore had tried that before, and had ended up serving for thirty years. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Cursing, Eidolon closed the fridge door gently, as though he didn’t want to disturb the dead. “You two have had a rough couple of days. Get some rest. The ghosts can wait. Let’s meet soon and talk about what we can do to get Sin out of her situation.” He took off, leaving Lore and Idess alone in pretty much the last place Lore wanted to be right now.

Right now, he wanted to be inside her, working off the day’s events in bed, where there would be no assassin masters, no fallen angels, no evil brothers, no werewolf diseases. There would be only Lore and Idess, and lots of bare skin.

Lust flared in his belly, and she must have known exactly what he was thinking, because her liquid caramel eyes gleamed with heat, and her face flushed. “What do you say we take the doctor’s advice and head back to my place to get some… rest?”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t go with you.”

“Then your place. We don’t have to go to mine.”

“No, Lore. I can’t go anywhere with you.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. Lore stopped breathing completely. “Ever.”

* * *

The confusion and devastation in Lore’s expression nearly made Idess’s knees give out.

“What is it?” Lore gripped her shoulders. “Dammit, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

“Can we go someplace else to talk about this? Some place where there aren’t a bunch of dead people staring at us?” Which included ghosts, because several had followed them down here even though they had a tendency to avoid places that reminded them they were dead.

They took the elevator back up, and Lore led her to an empty patient room. Regret and pain fluttered in Idess’s chest as she sank down on the bed. He prowled the room like a panther.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” His words came out as a gruff command, but she didn’t take offense. Anxiety was the driving force behind his tone, and she knew it.

“I don’t know how.”

“There’s nothing you can say that will make me angry or upset with you. You know that, right? Why don’t we just leave. Get out of this place. Go to some nice tropical island and drink rum and Cokes and roll around on the beach? Forget all this. God knows we could use a vacation.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I can’t leave here, Lore. Well, I can, but only to go to Sheoul.” She hugged herself, suddenly chilled. “I’ve been summoned, and if I go top-side, I’ll be taken.”

“Taken?”

“To Heaven.”

He went rigid, and his voice broke. “But you said you were ruined. That we had sex and—”

“I was wrong.” Her lie pounded as loudly as the pulse in her ears. She couldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t let him mourn. She loved him too much for that.

“The right thing to say is congratulations, isn’t it? I’m supposed to say I’m happy for you, right?” He bowed his head, and his voice faltered. “What kind of asshole am I that I’m not happy? What kind of selfish prick wants to grab you and beg you not to go?”

“Oh, Lore…” She leaped off the bed and held him so tight the air whooshed from his lungs. “I want to stay with you.”

“Is there… is there a way? I know I shouldn’t ask. I know I should be all noble and shit… but I’m not. I’m a selfish bastard, and… fuck. Just, fuck.”

In an attempt to stay calm, she ran her hands up and down his back, as if doing so grounded her and kept her from breaking into a million pieces. “I could hide out in the hospital for the rest of my life. That’s my only option.”

His big body shuddered. “Part of me would rather have you do that than leave me. But the other part of me can’t let you live like that. You’re too good for me, for that kind of life… God, Idess, when do you have to go?”

“Soon.” There was no point in dragging this out. If she did, it would only get harder and she might actually be tempted to ask Eidolon if she could rent out a room.

His chest heaved and his arms tightened around her. “What can I do to stop you? Or help you? Hell, I don’t know what I want.”

“I know what I want,” she whispered. “Make love to me. One more time.”

“Anything, angel.” Lore swept Idess up and carried her to the bed. Silently but quickly, he locked the door and stripped, first himself, and then her. He was gentle as he stretched out beside her, and his hands shook as he framed her face and kissed her. Tender lips caressed hers, slowly at first, and as the heat between them built, his kisses became more urgent. His hand trailed from her throat to her breast, and she hissed at the heady feel of his callused fingers petting her sensitive flesh with such finesse.

Moaning, she threw one leg over his hip, forcing him to slide between her thighs. His hard arousal rubbed against her sex, drawing a moan from him, too. And when he began to rock into her, sliding his shaft through her slick moisture and stroking her clit with every pump of his hips, they both gasped.

“I don’t want this to end,” he murmured against her lips. “Maybe we can do this forever. My brothers can bring us food, and we can just stay here like this.”

Tempting, so very tempting. She twined her hand in his and squeezed. “I need you inside me. Please. Now.”

He pushed up on one arm, the muscles bunching beneath his writhing dermoire. His gaze slammed into hers. “I love you. Never forget that. Never forget… me.”

He loved her. Emotion bubbled up in her throat, leaving her voice completely wrecked. “Never,” she rasped.

In a powerful surge, he entered her. They both cried out, and then he was thrusting, long, slow glides that went deep and then so shallow he nearly came free of her. But it wasn’t enough. She needed more of him inside her. She wanted to feel his emotions. For the first time, feeding was a desire, not a chore.

Swiping her tongue over her canines, she willed them to extend, and they did with a vengeance, punching painfully out of her gums.

“That is so sexy.” As if his body agreed, he pumped faster.

“Yeah?”

He tilted his head to the side, exposing his bronzed neck. “Yeah.”

Tangling her fingers in his hair, she pulled him down. His scent filled her nostrils, and her core went molten. A masculine purr erupted from him, and she knew he’d felt it, too.

She dragged her tongue along his jugular, once, twice, three times, because she would never tire of tasting him and she wanted this to last. Wanted to remember everything about him. His taste, his scent, even the way he breathed.

“Jesus, Idess. I could come from that.”

“Mmm.” She licked him again, smiling at the way he sucked a breath between his teeth. “Can’t have that.” Mouth watering, she sank her fangs into him.

Her mouth filled with his silky, dark essence, and her body filled with power. The weird sensation she’d felt before, the one that felt as if someone was drawing his dermoire pattern on her skin with a pen, started up again. And every emotion he had punched into her… love, joy, despair. But mostly lust, and her body answered.

Between her legs, an erotic storm gathered, building like thunderheads in the spring. Lore’s body seemed to have a mind of its own as long as her teeth were in him, as if he felt her need and could only respond to it. Relieve it.

“Ah, yes… Idess… I… can’t… stop…”

As if she wanted him to! She wanted more. Harder. Faster. She wanted to be sore and aching, so that every step she took on the Other Side would remind her of him.

Bond with me.

He’d mentioned wanting to do that before they’d gone to battle with Rami.

Bond with me.

Oh, she wanted that. But when the Memitim Council destroyed her, he’d know when he felt the bond break.

“Bond with me!”

With a start, she realized he was speaking out loud. His words weren’t in her head. Lightning from the strengthening tempest ripped through her, turning her blood to fuel and setting her body on fire. She was drunk with Lore’s very essence, and his command to bond became a compulsion she couldn’t fight.

“Your blood,” he panted. “Give it to me.”

Disengaging her fangs, she sealed the wound with her tongue. High on the overload of physical and emotional sensation, she bit into her wrist and pressed it to his mouth. Greedily, he latched on as he tightened the knot of his right hand and her left.

Burning, pulsing energy washed over her. The sharp blast of her orgasm shattered her. And her soul crashed into his, twisting and spinning until there was only ecstasy.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, though he braced his upper body on his elbows to keep from completely crushing her.

For a long time, they just lay there, panting and sweating. She barely had the strength to lift her wrist to her mouth to seal the punctures she’d made. Tingles ran up her other arm. Frowning, she rolled her head to the side.

“Lore?”

“Mmm?”

“My arm.”

He lifted his head from where he’d buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. “Shit,” he breathed. “We really did it. My dermoire is setting into your skin.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“Dunno.” His fingers trailed over the shadowy pattern that pulsed just beneath her skin, and she sucked air. Wow. Erogenous zone. Big-time. “Instinct, I guess. It just… took over.” He went taut, and she felt his fear right in her heart. “We shouldn’t have done it. What if your angel buddies see it? Being bonded to a demon has to be some sort of disqualifier for the job.”

No, breaking her vow of chastity with a demon had already done that. “It’s fine.” She smiled reassuringly, because the doubt in his eyes said he wasn’t buying it. “But I should go.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just a little longer.”

She touched his face, committing every angle, every curve, every pore to memory. “It’s time.”

* * *

More than three dozen spirits waited for Idess at the emergency room doors. They rushed her, but she did her best to ignore them as she walked hand in hand with Lore, who had been silent since they left the room. His eyes were swollen with unshed tears, and his jaw was tight, as though he was afraid to open his mouth, lest sobs fall out.

She knew exactly how he felt, and not just because of the bond.

Her steps were leaden as they walked through the parking lot, the herd of ghosts on their tail. When they reached the far wall, he finally spoke.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I need the gate to open.”

He nodded and shouted at the medic who had accompanied them to Shade’s cave. “Yo! Con! I need you to open the vehicle entrance.”

The medic climbed into the ambulance, and he must have hit a switch, because the wall shimmered and disappeared as it had before. Outside, the column of light waited. And beyond it, on a different level, was a bluish, less-focused glow. It was the one waiting for the human souls. They stood there, confused… apparently unable to see the light from inside the lot.

“Come with me.” She led them to the gate, careful not to get too close to her own light. Not yet. “Go now.” All but one of them filed out the door and straight into the glow, which swallowed them up in little flashes.

A boy of perhaps ten human years remained behind. I’m afraid.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she went down on her knees before him. “I am, too.”

Really?

“Yes, but only because it’s something new. But it’s also something wonderful. Do you miss your family?” At his sullen nod, she took his hand. “They’ll be on the other side of that light, waiting for you.”

My parents? And sister?

“I don’t know about that, but trust me, generations of family are waiting to greet you.”

He bowed his head. I don’t think so. I did something bad. I played with matches.

“Is that how you died?”

And my sister.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you worry. Your family loves you. There is eternal forgiveness in the light.” She turned to the glow, where several adults and a young girl stood, all smiling. “See? They’re waiting.”

Tension mounted as he stared into the light, his chin quivering and tears rolling down his face. He kept shifting his feet, stamping them like a colt that was about to bolt. Finally, with a giant sob, he ran, straight into their arms. As he turned to wave to her, the spirit light faded.

Hers remained.

When she turned to Lore, his eyes were as large as the boy’s had been. “Idess. My… God.”

“You saw?”

He nodded numbly. “Must be the bond or something, but yeah. Wow. That was… beautiful.”

She laced her fingers with his. “It’s my turn.”

“I know. Eternal forgiveness, right?” His smile trembled, but he was trying to be strong for her.

Eternal forgiveness. She hadn’t lied to the boy. She felt it in her heart and soul, and for the first time since the light had come for her, she wasn’t afraid.

Slowly, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers. “I love you,” he murmured. “I love you so much.”

“Be good,” she said, even as her heart split wide open. She wasn’t afraid, but she was in pain.

Before she could change her mind, she pulled away from him and walked into the light.

She didn’t look back.

Lore watched her leave, and the moment she disappeared and the gate slammed shut so it was nothing but dark, cold rock, he dropped to his knees and screamed.

Screamed until medics came. Then Eidolon. Then there was a prick in his biceps, and mercifully, the world went black.

Twenty-five

Lore was going to kill Deth. Okay, sure, he said that all the time. But after two days of doing nothing but sit in his hovel and drink, Lore realized he didn’t have anything better to do anyway. And if Lore died during the attempt, so be it. He couldn’t care less about himself, because the best part of him was gone.

The bond with Idess had broken. Which meant she was dead.

You fucked away your purity and can’t Ascend. You’ll probably be destroyed.

Rami’s words had been clanging around in his skull since the moment she’d disappeared into the light. She’d lied about being summoned to get her wings, damn her. Lore had been stupid enough to believe it, and now she was dead. So yeah, if he died, too, so what. And if he survived, Sin would no longer be at the mercy of that evil bastard. Idess had helped him forgive himself for what he’d done to Sin, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep trying to make it up to her.

Lore just hoped his sister was all right. She hadn’t contacted him, nor had she answered his texts or returned his calls. If Deth had hurt her…

Soul-searing anger joined the black hole of grief that no amount of white lightning could fill.

You shouldn’t have left Sin behind again. You shouldn’t have let Idess go. They’re both dead because of you.

He took a swig of alcohol, relishing the raw burn in his gullet. If he couldn’t scour away the grief, at least he could savor the pain. He raised the bottle into the air.

“To you, Deth. One of us will be dead by morning.”

Lore hit the demon bars at midnight. He knew exactly who he was looking for, and sure enough, he found the tiger shifter, Sunil, at a poker table, doing his best to scam a vampire, a Sora, and an orange, horned thing of unknown species.

“Hey, man, can I talk to you?”

Sunil threw down his cards. “I’m out anyway.” He followed Lore to a corner table. “Heard you’re free. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. How’s Sin?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

A chill throbbed through Lore’s veins. “What do you mean, you haven’t seen her? How did you know I’m free?”

“The new Sem told me. He came to me for some healing after Deth was through with him.” Sunil shook his head, making his long, tawny bangs swish across his eyes like wiper blades. “The bastard waited until Tavin was crazed with lust, and then he brought in a whore. Turned Tav loose and watched the show. I don’t know what happened to the female, but damn, Tav’s broken. Afterward, Deth kicked him to me to patch up.”

That sick son of a bitch. Lore would take revenge for Tavin as well as for Sin. “Can you get me into the den?”

Sunil knocked back a swig of his beer. “Fuck that.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like my head on my shoulders, thank you very much.”

“Sin could be in trouble.”

“You know I like your sister, man. But I can’t risk my life for her. I have kids to feed.”

“I know, and I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. I plan to re-up with Deth,” he lied.

“Then go through the normal channels.”

He couldn’t do that, because Deth would meet him in the Guild Hall, which was under a Haven spell similar to the one protecting Underworld General.

“I need to see Sin first.”

“Dammit, Sem—”

“Please.” Shit, Lore hated begging. But he sucked it up and added, “I’ll do anything.”

Sunil cursed. Long and hard. Finally, he growled, “I’ll get you through the barrier. You’re responsible for getting yourself inside Deth’s keep. And if we’re caught, I’ll save my own skin and say you forced me.”

Lore grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

Deth was as good as dead. All Lore had to do now was pay a visit to Eidolon.

* * *

Lore had earned a fierce ass-chewing from Brother Doctor.

“I’ve left you a dozen messages,” Eidolon said, as he spread his palm on Lore’s bare chest.

“Didn’t feel like answering.”

“How have you been?”

This was exactly why Lore had avoided Eidolon. He didn’t want to talk about any of this. Didn’t want to talk about it, think about it, didn’t want to be here, because he’d made love to Idess for the last time in this very hospital.

“I lost my mate,” Lore rasped. “How do you think I’ve been?”

“I’m sorry. If anything happened to Tayla…”

“You’d die. I know.” Lore took in a ragged breath. “Thanks, by the way. You know, for knocking me out the other day.” Whatever his brother had shot him up with had put him on his ass for a good twelve hours.

But when he’d awakened in a hospital bed, Idess was still gone, and he’d gone into a fresh meltdown.

Eidolon nodded. “You shouldn’t have taken off so soon.”

“’Cuz I so wanted to hang out here and watch everyone pity me.” He looked down at Eidolon’s hand. “A little to the right. The scar has to look real if I’m going to get past Deth’s goon squad.”

Eidolon adjusted his palm. “You sure you want to do this? If you wait, we can work out a plan to get Sin out of there—”

“Can’t wait. I need something to do.” He didn’t see any way for his brothers to help get Sin out of Deth’s contract anyway. This was their best shot.

“We could keep you busy.”

Lore snorted. “Doing what? Polishing the floors? Emptying the garbage? I’m good at killing people, not healing them.”

“We haven’t replaced our ME,” Eidolon said with a shrug, and Lore stared.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“It’s perfect for you. You don’t have to worry about killing anyone.”

Lore shifted Eidolon’s pinky a hair to the left. “You should be doing standup.”

“I’m serious, Lore. We could use you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Tell you what. If Deth doesn’t kill me, you can do whatever you want with me.” He figured he wasn’t coming back, so hey, this would be just yet another promise to a sibling that he couldn’t keep.

Eidolon pressed his hand more firmly over Lore’s heart. “This is going to hurt.”

“Again, whatever.” There was nothing left in there to injure.

Eidolon’s dermoire lit up, and instant, searing pain tore through Lore’s chest. Who cared. He lost track of how long it went on, but when it was done, he had a hand-shaped scar on his chest. It wasn’t an exact replica of Deth’s, but it should be good enough to get him past Deth’s minions.

“Good luck,” E said. “You sure we can’t help? Wraith can get inside anything.”

“I can’t risk an alarm being raised before I get to Deth and Sin. He’ll kill her and get out before I ever hit the throne chamber.”

“If you change your mind, call.”

“You bet.” He reached out, shook Eidolon’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

E nodded. “If anything happens to you, we won’t stop looking for a way to rescue Sin.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Lore met up with Sunil at the demon bar, and together they headed to Sheoul. For the first time in thirty years, Lore couldn’t see the entrance to Deth’s keep. Sunil took Lore by the sleeve and guided him through an invisible—to Lore—barrier. Ahead, beyond a narrow walkway of frozen earth, boulders, and vicious booby traps, was the arched entryway to the den, where two of Deth’s henchmen kept watch.

This would be the first test.

Sunil revealed his mark to the guards, and after sliding Lore a good-luck glance, he disappeared inside.

“Well, Sem?” one of the guards snarled through tusks.

Lore lifted his shirt, revealing the palm-shaped mark they expected. For the space of a long, drawn-out breath, the guard stared, and Lore’s pulse jackhammered through his veins.

“Mark is fresh. Re-upped your contract, eh?”

Lore shrugged. “Discovered all I’m good at is killing.” Discovered Eidolon was good at making cosmetic scars, too.

The other guard cocked his thumb at the entrance. “Go.”

Relief made Lore’s knees weak, but he strode into the keep like he belonged. Like he wasn’t going to tear Deth’s fucking head off. He moved down the hall, boots thudding on the floor in time to his heartbeat. Ahead, the double doors to Deth’s chamber were closed.

Inside, there would be two Ramreels. Smiling, Lore whipped two blades from the weapons harness under his jacket. He didn’t even slow down when he reached the doors. He threw them open, and before the Ramreels could blink, he’d buried his blades in their throats.

Furious, Deth lurched out of his bone chair. Beside him, chained naked to the base of the throne, was Sin. What had that evil fuck done to her?

“Lore, no!” The concern in her plea only fueled the fires of his anger, which was rapidly turning inferno hot.

He dipped his hand into one pocket for a cutting tool and tossed it to Sin as Deth summoned more guards. An arrow pierced Lore’s shoulder from behind, and pain popped along every single nerve ending. The familiar haze came down over his vision, and for the first time in memory, he was glad for the rage.

* * *

There was nothing but weightlessness in the light. There was no sense of time, no hot or cold, nothing but a sense of peace. Then, suddenly, Idess was standing inside a white-marbled gazebo in the middle of the most beautiful world she’d ever seen. It was like marshmallow clouds raining diamonds all over fields of emerald grass and ruby roses.

Even her imagination couldn’t have spun this up.

Nice to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. No, she wanted steamy North Carolina forests, McDonalds, and demon men who dressed in leather.

Standing to her left were four angels, two females and two males, all wearing what Idess guessed were ceremonial robes. In crimson. Interesting color choice. In their hands, they held golden scythes.

Obviously, this was the Memitim Council. And none of them looked happy.

Idess dropped to one knee in a deep bow, and realized she was wearing a robe that matched theirs. It pooled around her bare feet like blood.

“Stand.” A male voice compelled her to her feet. “Do you know why you have been brought here?”

“For judgment,” she replied. “For failing my test.”

The auburn-haired female shook her head. “You did not fail.”

Idess frowned. “But Lore. I had relations with him.” I’m bonded to him. Actually, she couldn’t feel him. She cast a covert glance at her hand, where the markings still colored her skin. So maybe they were still bonded, but their link had been dropped like a call on a crappy cell phone network?

“He was not your test.”

Idess tugged her robe more snugly around her. “I don’t understand. Even if he wasn’t my test, is it not forbidden to know any male so intimately? Let alone a demon male?”

“Exceptions are made when the outcome is positive.”

Now she was really confused. “Outcome?”

“Your selflessness was your test. After your betrayal of your brother, we had to make sure you’d grown. And you have. By giving up that which was most important to you—your Ascension—for the greater good, you proved your worth. You knew what intercourse with the half-breed would cost you, yet you did it to gain entrance to Rariel’s lair. By slaying him, you voided the contract on Kynan’s life and ensured his safety.”

“Way to go, Idess.” Reaver’s rumbling voice came from behind her. He was propped against a pillar, arms and ankles casually crossed. “Thought I’d pop by to watch you get your wings.”

“Wings?” Her voice was barely audible, even to her ears. So many feelings mixed together… joy, ecstasy… and panic. She’d wanted this for two thousand years. Had spent entire days dreaming about it. Imagining this very moment.

She’d give it all up in a heartbeat if she could go back to Earth.

“Wings,” the blond male Memitim said. “You will be assigned new duties, for Ascended Memitim are not guardians. We are judges.”

Rami had once told her that guardian angels abandoned evil humans, leaving Memitim to judge them in death. Great. Fine. But she no longer wanted that job.

“But… is there to be no punishment for betraying Rami in the first place? If not for me, he wouldn’t have Fallen.”

The blond male snorted. “He failed his test. We never should have allowed him in.”

Stunned, Idess gaped at the angels. “He didn’t fail. He didn’t sleep with the woman.”

“He did,” the male said. “Why do you think he ran from the summons light for so long?”

“To be with me…” She trailed off, feeling like a fool under the Memitim’s looks of pity. He’d lied.

“He came to us with a stain on his soul.” The auburn female glared at the blond male, and Idess knew he’d played a role in this somehow. “Rami begged us to stay, rather than return to Earth, and because he’d failed his test out of love, we gave him another chance. But his own guilt is what blackened his soul. When he found out what you’d done, it simply accelerated what was fated to be anyway.”

All those years, Idess had punished herself… and for nothing.

“Come forward,” the auburn-haired female continued. “You have earned your reward.”

Idess froze to the floor, which might as well be ice instead of marble. “I can’t.”

The blond male moved toward her. “You cannot be refusing to Ascend.”

“I want to stay on Earth.”

“You want to be with Lore,” Reaver said.

She didn’t deny it. “Please. I know I’ll be human. Mortal. But I love him.”

“If you’re mortal,” Reaver said gravely, “his gift could kill you. You know that, right?”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“What if Lore isn’t willing to chance it?”

She shrugged. “I won’t know until I get there.”

“Be sure about this,” the black-haired female said. “What is done cannot be undone.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Reaver blurted. “You know, the done-undone thing. I’m proof of that.”

The carrot-topped male who had been silent shot Reaver an annoyed look. “Stay out of this, battle angel. Don’t you have demons to smite?”

“Totally. There’s an exorcism planned in Melbourne today. But I have an hour to kill, and this is way cooler than X-Box.”

“You make me very glad I Ascended before the age of electronics and ridiculous slang,” the blond male said.

“I’m sure your age of Black Death and witch-burnings was much more fun,” Reaver said dryly.

The auburn female held up her hand. “Enough.” She approached Idess, her expression concerned. “You are certain?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “oh, yes.”

“You cannot remain as Memitim, but your service has earned you more than a mortal existence. If your reason to stay on Earth is to be with Lore, then we will bond you to him so that his power will not kill you, you can travel via Harrowgates with him, and your lifespan will be his. As a half-breed, he has centuries of life ahead of him. When he dies, so shall you, and assuming that you don’t fall prey to evil, you will both be granted entrance into Heaven.”

Heaven? “So… his soul is human.” Idess could hardly breathe at that news. They would be together. Forever. “Do it,” she said. “Make it happen.”

“There is a price. A duty, if you will.”

“Anything. Just hurry!”

“So be it.” The female waved her hand, and instantly, the link to Lore was back.

With a vengeance.

Idess’s knees buckled. Reaver caught her before her knees struck the floor. Darkness and rage slammed into her brain, as well as misery and sorrow.

“Lore,” she gasped. Automatically, she brushed her finger over her wrist, but his heraldi was gone.

“You are no longer Memitim, and he is no longer Primori,” the female said.

“I have to go to him.” She caught glimpses of him… no, not him… but of what he was seeing. Blood. Weapons. Detharu. “He’s at the den. I have to go. Send me there!”

“We can’t get you inside—”

“Then outside! Now!”

The raven-haired female shook her head. “You are human now, and no match for demons in Sheoul.”

“I don’t care! I remember how to fight. Just send me!”

Reaver gripped her shoulders and spoke to the Council. “I got this.” When Idess looked up at him, he grinned and waggled his brows. “Battle angel. Let’s go kick some demon ass.”

Twenty-six

They materialized in Sheoul, just outside a giant door that was guarded by two drooling Ramreels. The beasts didn’t even have time to draw their machetes before Reaver went Terminator on the demons. He didn’t fight them; he demolished them.

When they were nothing but steaming piles of quivering flesh on the ground, he brushed off his hands and pushed the door open. “I can’t enter without an executive order. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Reaver.”

With a nod, he was gone.

Idess’s bare feet slapped the floor of Deth’s den as she ran, the crimson robe flapping at her legs and ankles. Dread rumbled through her, plowing into the overwhelming fury and pain the link brought from Lore.

Oh, please no. Idess exploded through the doors… and skidded to a stop. Her heart slammed into her rib cage and remained there, plastered to the bone and not beating.

Lore was raging, was a bloody mess as he battled several demons. Sin was on the ground, struggling against the fierce hold of three Ramreels. Their bleeding wounds and the weapons scattered around Sin spoke of her valiant attempt to kill them before they’d taken her down.

Deth stood at his throne, snarling like a rabid dog. “You!” he hissed at her. “We had a deal!”

She swung, but her newly human body lacked the strength she was accustomed to, and Deth easily captured her. He yanked her against him, his hand jamming into her chest, and fire melted her robe and seared her skin. She screamed… and so did Lore. In her peripheral vision, she saw him lunge for Deth, only to be slammed to the floor by a Ramreel.

“Kill him!” Deth commanded, and as the link to Lore faded, the fresh bond on her chest flared with heat. “Kill Lore.” Deth’s voice was reedy with panic and fury. “Do it now!”

Killing wasn’t in the terms they’d negotiated at the Guild, but the need to comply tugged at Idess anyway. Against her will, her feet shuffled toward Lore.

No. Clenching her teeth, she battled Deth’s compulsion. Sweat popped out on her brow, and her nails dug deep into her palms. As she ground to a halt, her resistance to Deth’s command became an agonizing sting of nettles under her skin.

Sin’s curses and the harsh sounds of battle rang in her ears. Lore was fighting with everything he had, from a Ramreel’s machete, to his teeth. His eyes glowed crimson, embers of hate inside his skull.

“You bitch!” Deth screamed, as Lore took down one of the Ramreels and started after the assassin master. “I said kill him!”

Her bond became a white-hot brand that bored all the way to her spine. Woodenly, she retrieved a machete off the floor. The Ramreels had somehow pinned Lore’s killing arm beneath him. He was vulnerable.

Kill him!

Idess swung. The loss of her Memitim strength made the weapon seem heavier and her movements slower, but she took off the nearest demon’s head.

Freed, Lore launched at Deth, striking him full in the chest. The demon master flew into the wall, his armor buckling like a crushed tin can. The Ramreels came at Idess, mouths dripping foam.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a feather-light Memitim scythe right now. Heart pounding in her throat, she leaped and spun, swinging the heavy blade with practiced skill. The demons scattered, but she managed to slice one of them open across his abdomen. The other fell back with a severed hand.

She went for Deth, but Lore was already there, hacking at the larger demon, the wet thuds of metal striking flesh echoing through the chamber. The assassin master’s massive wounds didn’t stop him from slamming his gauntleted fist into Lore, who rocked backward with a pained hiss.

Idess whacked him with her blade, and he howled with fury and pain. She struck again. And again. The armless Ramreel barreled into her from behind, and she stumbled, momentarily taken off her game.

Her entire body screamed for vengeance. Spinning, she sliced him open as she had the other one. He hit the ground with a thud, hands futilely trying to hold his guts.

Idess gathered every last bit of strength and swung at Deth. Her machete tore through his chest.

Deth’s eyes shot wide with disbelief, and then clouded over with death as his body crumpled. Before he hit the ground, Lore’s blade cut through his neck in a grisly whisper. The demon’s head struck the floor a split second before his body.

Behind her, she heard another thud; Sin’s Ramreel had gone down. She stood over his body, naked and panting, a bloody blade in her hand.

An ungodly snarl cut through the silence. Slowly, afraid of what she’d see, Idess turned back to Lore. He loomed in the shadows, larger than life, blood running in rivulets down his leather jacket and pants, lava flows on basalt.

“Kill.” The word itself was chilling enough, but it was the way he said it, the feral tone of his voice, that turned Idess’s blood to slush.

Detharu’s death had done nothing to calm Lore’s rage. Fury contorted his expression, and his eyes were crimson lasers that targeted her for annihilation.

“Lore,” she whispered, her voice raw and aching. “Lore, it’s me.”

He came at her. Sin screamed at him, with no effect. He tackled Idess, coming down on top of her and shoving the tip of his blade into her throat.

“Lore!” Idess gripped his hand, using every ounce of strength she had to keep him from stabbing her. “It’s Idess.”

Sin ran toward them, and Lore’s head swiveled around. He hissed at her, tensing to attack.

“Sin! Stop!” Idess swallowed, wincing at the bite of metal in her neck. “Stay back.”

Sin obeyed, but her black eyes were wild with fear.

Idess tapped her foot against Lore’s leg, bringing his attention back to her. “Hey. Look at me. You can fight this.” Tenderly, she ran her foot up his calf in a soothing caress. “I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

The pressure on her throat let up, just a little. A warm trickle ran down her neck from the cut he’d made.

“Good,” she breathed. “That’s good. I love you, you know that, right?” Slowly, so she wouldn’t spook him, she cocked her knees up, creating a cradle for his body between her thighs. He was hard, as she expected—his rages had a sexual side effect and vice versa.

Lore’s nostrils flared, and a muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared at her. It might have been her imagination, but it seemed as though the insane glow in his eyes had dimmed. Then, a low growl erupted in his chest and his head wrenched back to his sister.

“Sin,” Idess said, keeping her voice mellow—soothe the savage beast and all that. “Leave. Please. Just… wait outside the door.”

“But—”

The violent snap of Lore’s teeth shut her up. Keeping her gaze on Lore, Sin backed out the door, closing it behind her. With Sin gone, Lore’s attention turned fully to Idess. His eyes had gone back to the intense burning coal color, but he’d let up even more on the blade.

“You won’t hurt me,” she repeated, and though she believed it, a small part of her cowered in terror. As a human now, she was vulnerable, and this might have been a really stupid thing to do. “You were so afraid you would, but I know better.” Praying she was doing the right thing, she tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck even more. “Kiss me there. Put your mouth where the blade is.”

His gaze dropped to her throat, and he licked his lips with a startlingly sensual swipe of his tongue. Her senses wobbled a little, a completely inappropriate reaction given the circumstances, but that was how he affected her, and she wasn’t going to feel shame for it.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Kiss me. Love me. Right here in this chamber, where your life has been hell. You can turn it all around.” She arched into him, and this time the noise he made was a tortured moan.

“Love me, Lore.”

The blade fell away, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he lowered his head and dragged his lips from her collarbone to her jaw.

“Idess?” His voice was resonant and deep, totally foreign. “Idess? Is it really you?”

“It’s me, Lore.”

He blinked. “Am I dead?”

“No, but not for lack of trying.”

Suddenly, he gathered her in his arms and held her so tight she could barely breathe. “You’re real,” he choked out. “I can feel you. Inside and out.” He buried his face against her neck and rocked her. Wetness rolled down her skin, and she knew he was weeping.

Her big, strong demon was weeping for her. Shaken to the core, she joined him, and as her tears rolled down her cheeks, his emotions seeped into her, the bond they shared tying them together once again. The burn in her chest from Deth’s mark eased, becoming merely tender, and then it was gone altogether.

“How did this happen?” he asked finally, sitting back and covertly wiping his eyes. “Did you get your wings?”

“I passed. I got you instead. And mortality. Modified.”

He jerked as though he’d been stung. “You gave up being an angel? Idess, you need to go back!”

“Shh. I gave up punishing myself. It’s time for me to take what I want, and what I want is you.” She palmed his cheek, careful not to touch any of his wounds. “We’re bonded so that our lifespans are connected. We’ll be together in this life and the next one. And I can use the Harrowgates with you.” Something flitted past, and she frowned. “And apparently, I can still see ghosts.” There is a price. A duty, if you will.

He rested his forehead against hers. “Damn,” he breathed. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course it is. Unless you don’t?”

“Angel, now that you’re back, I’m never letting you go.”

There was an insistent pounding on the door, followed by Sin’s muffled shout. “Hey! Are you guys okay?”

Lore pushed to his feet as Sin burst through the door.

She still brandished a sword, but she’d found clothes, a coarse burlap robe made for someone twice her size. Stark relief put a glow on her face and a smile on her lips as she ran to Lore and wrapped him in a big embrace. “Thank God you’re okay.” She slid Idess a glance. “And that you didn’t kill my new boss.”

“Excuse me?” Idess came to her feet, hoping the new altitude would clear her ears.

“Ah, yeah…’” Lore crossed to Deth and wrenched a ring off his finger. “Whoever strikes the killing blow on an assassin master takes over. That’s why they maintain such high security.”

“But you’re the one who chopped his head off.”

“After you struck the death blow. What I did was for fun.” Lore shrugged. “His ring is yours. You also have to quarter his body and have the pieces sent to his four greatest enemies, and mount his head over the Guild entrance for ninety-two days.” He said it like normal people would say, “You also need to bring potato salad to the picnic.”

Suddenly, being human and normal—sort of—sounded really great. “So, if I take the job, can I just free all the assassins and be done with it?”

Sin glared at Deth with such malice that Idess figured he was lucky he was dead. “No. Their contracts are binding and must be fulfilled. If they break the terms, you can alter the contracts, but that’s it.”

“Can I give the job to you?”

“Seriously?” Sin’s dark eyes flared, and then narrowed. “Why don’t you want it? It’s a great gig.”

“I’m sort of human now.” She scanned all the dead bodies, the death and destruction. “And running an assassin organization isn’t exactly my dream job.”

Shrugging, Sin held out her hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Lore laughed and flipped the ring into the air at her. “That was easy.”

“I told you this was all I know,” she said, and a flicker of sadness crossed Lore’s face. “So I might as well be the boss.” She slipped the ring onto her index finger. “Hey, I know everything about everyone’s contracts!” Grinning, she looked at Idess. “Yours is fulfilled.”

“But he ordered me to kill Lore, and I didn’t do it.”

“Since I’m the new owner of the contract, I say that Deth’s demise counts toward the kill he ordered you to make.”

Happiness leaped through Idess, and she crushed Sin in a hug. Sin went stiff as a board, but she gave Idess an awkward pat on the back before shoving away and putting a few feet of distance between them, clearly uncomfortable with affection.

“Well, what now?” Idess asked Lore.

“Now,” he said, with a lustful stare, “we head home.”

His hunger slammed into her through the mate bond, intensifying her own until she was burning up on the inside. “My place or yours?” she breathed.

“Whatever’s closest,” he said roughly, and she was definitely on board with that suggestion.

Sin rolled her eyes. “Get outta here already.”

Lore grinned. “Couldn’t keep me here. If I never have to see this shithole again… well, you get the picture.” He sobered then, as if maybe what he’d said wasn’t true. With a jerky movement, he slipped his hand under his jacket and withdrew his Gargantua-bone dagger. “Sin, this is yours now.”

“But I gave that to you.”

“And no gift has ever meant more,” Lore said quietly. “But I don’t need it anymore. You do.”

“But—”

“Tell you what,” he said, cutting her off. “You can give it back to me once you’re free of this life.”

The fierce glint in Sin’s eyes said she’d never be free of it, something Lore had to have noticed, but his expression didn’t waver. He held the weapon out, and after a moment, Sin took it.

“Thank you.” Sin cleared her throat of the emotional hitch in it, and suddenly, she was the carefree, breezy assassin again. “You’re the best brother ever.”

“Speaking of brothers,” he said, in a very big-brother tone, “you need to see Eidolon right away.”

“So do I,” Idess said. “Now that I’m back, I can play full-time ghost exterminator after all.”

Lore laughed. “He wants me to play with his dead patients.”

“Are you going to?” Sin asked, and there was an underlying concern in her voice that Idess didn’t understand.

“Sin—”

“It’s okay.” She offered a shaky smile. “I want you to work there. Get to know them.” She slid the dagger into her belt with a firm shove. “Now, I have a business to run. See ya.”

Idess wrapped her arm around Lore’s waist, and melted into him when he tugged her close. “Will she be all right?”

“Yeah,” he breathed as Sin left the room. “She’s a survivor.”

Idess couldn’t help but wonder if that was truly enough. She’d been a survivor for two thousand years, but all that meant was that she’d existed. Now, as she hugged Lore to her, she knew that she was living.

Twenty-seven

Sin tapped on Eidolon’s office door, even though it was open. Scowling, he looked up from a stack of paperwork, but his severe expression softened when he saw her.

“Sin. Come in.”

She hesitated. All the trouble she’d caused, piled on top of the fact that Eidolon was one of the most intimidating males she’d ever met, made her a little insecure, when she’d never been that way. Ever.

He was just so… different. Lore, Shade, and Wraith radiated danger with varying degrees of humor and moodiness. She’d been around danger all her life and could deal with it. Was comfortable with it. But with Eidolon it was impossible to tell where his thoughts were, and it seemed like the calmer he got, the angrier he was. Plus, he had a logical, intelligent side she couldn’t relate to at all.

Nope, chaos and street-smarts were what guided her.

He said nothing when she didn’t enter right away, merely sat there with that shuttered expression and eyes that revealed nothing. Finally, she walked over to his desk.

“Have you learned anything?”

“About why you’re a… what is it called… Smurfette? Or about the plague?”

“Plague,” she said softly. She didn’t give a crap about the reasons behind her existence. She was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“I’ve got nothing,” Eidolon admitted. “Your blood hasn’t revealed any clues. And this disease is like nothing I’ve ever seen. This is a hellfuck of Sheoulic proportions.”

Oh, goodie, she’d caused a hellfuck of a plague. Lore always said that when she did something, she did it well. She’d worn his words like a badge of honor, but she just couldn’t find the pride in what she’d done this time.

“Usually everyone I infect develops something unique… no one dies from the same thing. Have the wargs you’ve seen had different symptoms?”

Eidolon leaned back in his chair. “Everything has been identical to the first victim, from the signs and symptoms, to the way their capillaries dissolved, leading to internal bleeding and ultimately, cardiac arrest. Whatever you did to the first warg has been passed to the wargs he came into contact with, though the mode of transmission is still unknown.”

She frowned. “Conall came into contact with him, so why hasn’t he gotten sick?”

“I’m guessing his vampire half is giving him immunity or resistance.”

“Maybe there’s something in his blood that can help create a vaccine?”

A small smile tipped up one corner of Eidolon’s mouth. “You’re wasting your talents as an assassin. You should be working here.”

That was a joke and a half. “I kill, brother. That’s where my talents lie.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said, in a voice that dripped with moral superiority and judgment.

“You don’t know anything about me or my situation,” she snapped. “So don’t you dare tell me what doesn’t have to be.”

Though his expression didn’t give anything away, he tapped his fingers wildly on his desktop. “You’re overreacting a little—”

“Overreacting? Bite me, asshole. The next time you start a plague that threatens to take out an entire species, you see how you react.” She slammed her palms on his desk. He didn’t even flinch, just kept up that maddening calm. “All I know how to do is fuck and kill, and now I’ve diseased not just one warg, but possibly an entire population. So tell me how I’m supposed to react.”

“Is this true?” The deep, booming voice had both Sin and Eidolon wrenching their heads around to the doorway, where Conall and another, older male stood.

Neither looked happy.

Eidolon glanced at his watch. “Valko. You’re early.”

The red-haired male snarled and stalked into the office, his glare murderous, and Sin had a sinking feeling that he was a warg. “Is this true?” He jabbed a finger at her. “Is she the cause of the disease that is wiping out our people?”

Eidolon turned to her. “Sin, why don’t you come back later?” It wasn’t a request.

Swallowing dryly, she nodded, but when she tried to leave, the warg blocked her. “I don’t think so.”

Eidolon exploded out of his chair, eyes gold, teeth bared. So her brother wasn’t always the cool, collected guy he probably liked to think he was. Good to know.

“Let her go. Now.” His voice was a lethal drawl, and in that moment, she knew she’d seriously underestimated Eidolon. He was as dangerous as any of her brothers—maybe the most dangerous, because with him, you didn’t see the ax until it was at your throat.

There was a torturous silence, which struck Sin as odd, because the tension crackling in the air should have made noise. Eventually… like, when her lungs were about to explode from her held breath, the warg stepped aside. Unfortunately, that meant she had to face Conall now. He’d remained in the hallway, and as she scooted past him, he grabbed her elbow.

Eidolon’s growl followed, but she raised her hand to cut him off. “It’s okay,” she said, but she knew he was going to keep an eye on things.

Conall’s eyes flashed silver daggers. “What have you done?”

“Didn’t you hear? I’ve started a plague that looks like it’ll wipe out the whole sorry lot of you.”

“Why?”

He made it sound as if she’d done it on purpose. Fine. She could play his game. “For fun. Why else?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and she could hear the scrape of enamel on enamel. All that grinding was probably terrible for his fangs. “Did you infect me?”

“You’re very indignant for a guy who bet five hundred bucks that he could get in my pants.”

He seized her by the shoulders and shook her. “Answer me!”

She smiled sweetly. “If I had, you’d already be dead. And if you don’t remove your hands, that’s exactly what will happen.”

His expression darkened even more, and she resisted the urge to shiver as he leaned in so his fangs scratched an earlobe. “Pray no one I know dies.”

“I would be careful about threatening me,” she said, jerking out of his grip.

“Why? Because your brothers will come after me?”

“No. Because I will.”

With that, she stalked off, head high, but inside, her stomach was churning. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just made an enemy out of the wrong man.

* * *

Conall watched Sin walk away, his gut roiling with a mix of emotions. Anger, lust, disappointment. He’d wanted her—hell, he still did—but she was clearly much more than a female who had fascinated him with her confidence and humor.

She was a cold-blooded killer.

He waited until she’d taken a corner and disappeared before entering E’s office, where the doctor was still standing, his body coiled as though he’d been ready to tear Conall’s head off. It took a full thirty seconds for Eidolon to turn his attention back to Valko, who was practically boiling with rage.

“I want that female’s head,” he snapped, and Conall winced, because clearly, the senior Warg Council member had no idea Sin was Eidolon’s sister.

“Touch her,” Eidolon said in a disturbingly reasonable voice, “and I’ll make sure you’re dead by the next morning.”

Conall brought his hand down on Valko’s shoulder. “Check up. We’ll deal with her later.” He gave his fellow Council member a squeeze, a silent message that right now, antagonizing Eidolon was not a bright idea.

Valko tensed, but the male wasn’t stupid, and he inclined his head in a brief nod. “I want to know what you plan to do about this plague.”

Dammit. Conall had warned the warg to not treat Eidolon as if the doctor was his servant, but there he went, and the demon’s eyes glazed over with ice.

“I’m doing all I can—”

“It’s not enough,” Valko barked. “Wargs are dying. The disease has spread to three continents and fifteen countries—”

“Maybe you could do better?” Eidolon suggested. “No doubt your medical training is superior to mine.”

Conall would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so dire.

Valko tensed even more, becoming a steel rod. “Apologies,” he gritted out. “But I’m sure you can understand my concern.”

“Of course I can.” Eidolon took a seat. “But there’s only so much I can do. The disease spreads so fast that putting out a call for quarantine hasn’t been effective, and I haven’t had any luck isolating mode of transmission. Direct contact seems to be a definite, but I don’t know if the pathogen is also airborne or transmitted by indirect contact. And as far as I can tell, no one who has come into contact with the infected victims has been immune.”

“Except me,” Conall said.

“Yes, but likely it’s your vampire blood that’s allowing for immunity. We’re experimenting with the possibility of using your natural antibodies to work up an immunization, but even if that’s possible, it could take years to come up with something usable in pure wargs.”

Conall cursed. This thing was moving so fast that he didn’t think his species had years. “What can we do to help?”

Eidolon blew out a breath. “Spread the word about this. I suggest that packs stay isolated for now. Keep away from other wargs. And if you hear about anyone not contracting the disease after contact with an infected warg, I need to know about it. Immediately.”

“You got it.”

Valko wanted to say something about Sin; Conall knew it. But in an uncharacteristic display of restraint, he thanked Eidolon and strode out of the office. When Conall followed, the doctor cleared his throat.

“Hold up, dhampire.”

Shit. Conall swung back around. “What’s up?”

“What’s going on between you and my sister?”

I fucked her, and man, it was good. “Nothing.”

Doubt put lines around Eidolon’s eyes, but he nodded. “Keep it that way.”

Conall didn’t say anything. He merely joined Valko in the hall. They walked in silence to the Harrowgate, and once the gate closed on them, Valko punched the symbols that would get them to Warg Council headquarters in Moscow.

When they stepped out, Valko took Conall by the arm. “I want to know everything there is to know about that female who brought this down on us. Whether Eidolon finds a cure or not, she will pay for what she’s done. And I want you to see to it.”

* * *

As soon as Conall and Valko were gone, Eidolon propped his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands. This had gotten out of control and beyond his ability to handle by himself.

Unfortunately, pretty much every demon doctor he knew of worked at UGH, and those who didn’t were surgeons or general practitioners. He needed infectious-disease specialists working on this problem.

And, actually, they were. He’d been watching the news, keeping up on the latest medical alerts, and the disease had caught the attention of human doctors.

Anatomically, wargs were no different than humans, and physicians wouldn’t pick up on the fact that the people they were treating turned into bloodthirsty beasts three nights out of the month. So yes, they were seeing a few cases of this mysterious new disease, but they would never in a million years figure out what connected them.

Still, anything they learned in their research would help Eidolon.

Just not quickly enough.

As much as he hated to do it, it was time to call in the troops.

He picked up the phone and dialed Kynan. “Hey, man, it’s E. I need you to get me in touch with your Army buddy, Arik.” Arik was also Runa’s brother, but Eidolon didn’t want to bother her right now, and besides, Kynan had worked with the guy for years and knew more about the military’s secret paranormal unit than anyone.

Eidolon could hear Kynan suck air. “Jesus… E, I don’t think getting involved with the R-XR would be a good idea.”

Eidolon didn’t either. “I don’t have a choice. This were-wolf disease has to be stopped, but I don’t have the resources to do that.”

“And you’re hoping the Army will help?”

“They do operate USAMRIID, and you can’t tell me that the R-XR doesn’t have contacts within the organization. You know damned good and well that half the para-normal unit’s function is to find underworld substances and biological elements to use in warfare. They’d definitely be working with someone inside the Army’s Institute of Infectious Disease.”

Kynan’s curse blistered the airwaves. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll contact Arik.”

Eidolon hung up, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He had no doubt that the military could help. He just hoped the price would be something he could pay.

Twenty-eight

“Beat you there.” Idess darted out of the Harrowgate and raced toward her house. Lore’s curse followed her, accompanied by heavy footsteps that were closing the distance between them.

“Idess.” His shout held a predatory, ominous warning. “When I catch you, I’m taking you where we land.”

And that was supposed to be a threat? “When? If,” she called out.

Laughing, she picked up the pace, dodging tree branches and leaping over tree roots that wove veins into the worn path to her villa. She risked a glance over her shoulder and screamed in delight. He was nearly upon her. Intense hunger burned in his dark eyes, and she suddenly felt what it must be like to be a rabbit running from a wolf.

Somehow she scrounged up one last burst of speed, enough to make it to her front door. He caught her there, pinning her against the wood with his big body. At some point he’d lost the glove he still wore, even though she regularly drained his death power to give him temporary bits of freedom.

One hand cupped her breast and the other gripped her hip and her entire body hummed with anticipation.

“I warned you.” His voice was breathless from the run and with need, the latter of which she could sense all the way to her soul.

She lifted her leg to put her aching sex in contact with his erection, and he hissed in a breath. “Right here against the door?”

“Yes.” His sizzling gaze challenged her as his fingers found her jeans buttons. But she wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, she nearly wept with relief at the soft yet urgent rasp of his knuckles brushing her skin as he tore open her fly. “You should wear skirts.”

“With no panties?”

A wicked smile tipped up his mouth, robbing her of her ability to speak. “With panties. That way I can rip them off with my teeth.”

The words, the images, were dizzying.

“And if I’m in too much of a hurry to take them off,” he said, as he drove his hand down the front of her pants, “I can move them aside.” Which he proved by tugging the silk to the side and pushing two fingers into her core.

She cried out at the wonderful invasion. “Lore…”

He braced his forearm against the door next to her head and leaned in as his fingers began a slow glide in and out. She expected him to kiss her, but instead he watched her, his breaths labored, his eyes half-lidded. Under his admiring gaze she felt like a beautiful treasure.

“I’ll never get tired of looking at you,” he whispered. “I want to watch you come every day. Ten times a day. A hundred.”

“You say the most wonderful things,” she panted. “You are never getting rid of me now.” It had been a week since they’d left the assassin den forever, and she had said the same thing every day since.

“Good.” He made a sinful twist with his fingers, and she arched into his hand, hanging right on the edge. “Damn, Idess. You’re drenched, so wet, and all for me.”

“For you,” she agreed.

“Mine,” he growled.

“Yours.”

His fingers raked a sensitive spot deep inside that ignited her, sent flame racing through her until even her breath burned in her throat. Every pulse of her climax sang with pure, rich notes as her body churned to life.

Lore brought her down with light, gentle strokes over her center, never once taking his eyes off her. Before he’d come along, she hadn’t believed that being watched during such a private, intimate moment would be so sexy, but the way his gaze grew hotter, his expression more intense, and his body harder… yes, this was something she enjoyed and wanted to repeat often. Her mind started flipping through future scenarios, more things she could do while he watched, and the fire sparked again.

“Inside,” he rasped. “Now.”

“What happened to against the door?” she said saucily.

“I want you so bad I’ll break it.” He nipped her throat before turning her around and giving her a playful slap on the bottom. “Bed. I need your bed.”

She opened the door and paused at the threshold. “Our bed now.”

Stark masculine pride and possession took over his expression. She shivered with appreciation as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. With a gentleness she didn’t expect, he placed her on the bed they’d both been chained to. Still were, in a way, and she wouldn’t change a thing.

She trailed one finger along the whorls of his dermoire, and he marveled at the blessed sensation, didn’t know if he’d ever get used to feeling something he’d stopped praying for decades ago. “You said once that you weren’t always a killer. That you were more than that. You were right.”

“At the time I said it, I was lying.”

“And now that you aren’t an assassin? Do you still think it’s a lie?”

“No,” he said, as he trailed kisses along her shoulder. “I’m a man with a future and a family. Because of you. My old life is over, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”

She grinned. “I feel the exact same way.” Her hand drifted to his waist, and then lower, until he was gasping in pleasure. “For us, the end is just the beginning.”

From the desk of Larissa Ione

Dear Reader,

“Family” is a word that means something different to everyone. Your family might consist of those who were born into it, or it might be made up of the people (or pets) you choose to bring into the fold. Your family members might be tight, or they might be estranged. Maybe they fight a lot, or maybe they get along beautifully. Often, family dynamics exist in a delicate balance.

So what happens when something happens to throw off that balance?

In ECSTASY UNVEILED, the fourth book in the Demonica series, I explore that question when the assassin hero, Lore, is forced to go up against his newfound brothers in a dangerous game of life or death.

In previous books, the conflicts each hero faced brought the demon brothers together to battle an enemy. In ECSTASY UNVEILED, the conflict is more internal, their bond is put to the test, and they become their own worst enemies.

Can love and trust overcome suspicion, tragedy, and an old enemy bent on tearing them apart?

When Idess, an angel bent on thwarting Lore’s mission to kill someone close to his brothers, begins to fall for the coldhearted assassin, family ties are tested, betrayals are revealed, and a dark shadow falls over Underworld General Hospital.

Fortunately, “family” can also be a source of hope, and with Idess’s help, Lore may yet find the family he gave up hoping for so long ago.

For more about the Demonica world and the families that make it come alive, please visit my Web site at www.LarissaIone.com to check out deleted book scenes, sign up for the newsletter, and enjoy free reads.

Happy Reading!

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 20:55:00 +0000

 
RFC 6803           Camellia Encryption for Kerberos 5      November 2012


   Required checksum mechanism: as defined in Section 7.

   Key generation seed length: the key size (128 or 256 bits).

   String-to-key function: as defined in Section 4.

   Random-to-key function: identity function.

   Key-derivation function: as indicated below, with usage represented
   as 4 octets in big-endian order.

   String-to-key parameter format: 4 octets indicating a 32-bit
   iteration count in big-endian order.  Implementations may limit the
   count as specified in [RFC3962], Section 4.

   Default string-to-key parameters: 00 00 80 00.

   Kc = KDF-FEEDBACK-CMAC(base-key, usage | 0x99)
   Ke = KDF-FEEDBACK-CMAC(base-key, usage | 0xAA)
   Ki = KDF-FEEDBACK-CMAC(base-key, usage | 0x55)

   Cipher state: a 128-bit CBC initialization vector.

   Initial cipher state: all bits zero.

   Encryption function: as follows, where E() is Camellia encryption in
   CBC-CTS mode, with the next-to-last block used as the CBC-style ivec,
   or the last block if there is only one.

   conf = Random string of 128 bits
   (C, newstate) = E(Ke, conf | plaintext, oldstate)
   M = CMAC(Ki, conf | plaintext)
   ciphertext = C | M

   Decryption function: as follows, where D() is Camellia decryption in
   CBC-CTS mode, with the ivec treated as in E().  To separate the
   ciphertext into C and M components, use the final 16 bytes for M and
   all of the preceding bytes for C.

   (C, M) = ciphertext
   (P, newIV) = D(Ke, C, oldstate)
   if (M != CMAC(Ki, P)) report error
   newstate = newIV

   Pseudo-random function: as follows.

   Kp = KDF-FEEDBACK-CMAC(protocol-key, "prf")
   PRF = CMAC(Kp, octet-string)



Hudson                        Informational                     [Page 4]

 
RFC 6803           Camellia Encryption for Kerberos 5      November 2012



7.  Checksum Parameters


   The following parameters, required by [RFC3961], Section 4, apply to
   the checksum types cmac-camellia128 and cmac-camellia256, which are
   the associated checksum for camellia128-cts-cmac and camellia256-cts-
   cmac, respectively.

   Associated cryptosystem: Camellia-128 or Camellia-256 as appropriate
   for the checksum type.

   get_mic: CMAC(Kc, message).

   verify_mic: get_mic and compare.


8.  Security Considerations


   Chapter 4 of [CRYPTOENG] discusses weaknesses of the CBC cipher mode.
   An attacker who can observe enough messages generated with the same
   key to encounter a collision in ciphertext blocks could recover the
   XOR of the plaintexts of the previous blocks.  Observing such a
   collision becomes likely as the number of blocks observed approaches
   2^64.  This consideration applies to all previously standardized
   Kerberos encryption types and all uses of CBC encryption with 128-bit
   block ciphers in other protocols.  Kerberos deployments can mitigate
   this concern by rolling over keys often enough to make observing 2^64
   messages unlikely.

   Because the new checksum types are deterministic, an attacker could
   pre-compute checksums for a known plain-text message in 2^64 randomly
   chosen protocol keys.  The attacker could then observe checksums
   legitimately computed in different keys until a collision with one of
   the pre-computed keys is observed; this becomes likely after the
   number of observed checksums approaches 2^64.  Observing such a
   collision allows the attacker to recover the protocol key.  This
   consideration applies to most previously standardized Kerberos
   checksum types and most uses of 128-bit checksums in other protocols.

   Kerberos deployments should not migrate to the Camellia encryption
   types simply because they are newer, but should use them only if
   business needs require the use of Camellia, or if a serious flaw is
   discovered in AES which does not apply to Camellia.

   The security considerations described in [RFC3962], Section 8,
   regarding the string-to-key algorithm also apply to the Camellia
   encryption type

Digital Orpheus

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 18:38:00 +0000

Abstract

This article addresses the problem of how hypertext poems composed in the late 1990s have aged relative to their counterparts in traditional print. The author pays special attention to the rapid pace with which digital modes become outmoded and to the relationship between this process and lyric poetry’s inherent ephemerality.

It has been 10 years since FEED magazine, among the first and most influential online publications specifically devoted to culture in the digital age, shut itself down.[1] (The magazine’s editors recently reposted the magazine’s archive.)[2] This decennial provides a good context for the following discussion, which considers the problem of how hypertext poems composed in the late 1990s (roughly, the period of FEED’s activity) have aged relative to their counterparts in traditional print. Two issues are of particular interest to me here. First, I will consider why the poem in hypertext, a digital medium initially trumpeted for its novelty and malleability, appears to age so much more rapidly than its cousins in print; Stephanie Strickland will offer the primary examples. Second, I suggest that the hypertext poem’s visible submission to time is not a mark of its technological failure but rather the technology’s accentuation of the lyric poem’s inherent ephemerality. The essay addresses these issues in turn, beginning with an archetypal formulation of the problem, namely, Dino Buzzati’s delightfully idiosyncratic retelling of the Orpheus myth.

On its surface, at least, this pairing of genre (poetry) and hermeneutic frame (time) is intuitive, if not altogether conventional. At least since Empedocles wrote poetic lines declaring the universality of change—“All things doth nature change, enwrapping souls / in unfamiliar tunics of flesh”—verse, whose name in English already conveys the “turning” of that change, has assumed time as its measure and, often explicitly, its subject.[3] For some poets, the poem’s rhythmic movement reminds us that we must act fast, before these “tunics of flesh” have lost their appeal, as when Robert Herrick exhorts the virgins to “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, / Old time is still a-flying.” Others, beginning as far back as Xenophanes in the sixth century BC, regard the poem as a kind of mainstay against the ephemerality that would be declared by other philosopher-poets, at least insofar as the fame sung in verse will “never cease / so long as a Greek sort of song shall be.”[4] Of course, these two orientations of the poem in time—the first a declaration of time’s mercilessness, the second a defense against same—hardly exclude one another; Horace, for example, has given us lasting specimens of both.[5]

Yet any poem, as a language technology—“a small (or large) machine made of words,” as William Carlos Williams famously puts it—is inevitably subject to technological obsolescence as regards both its compositional (language) and distributional media (print, hypertext, loudspeaker, etc.).[6] The aforementioned verses illustrate this point perfectly: Language becomes antiquated (as in Herrick’s seventeenth-century idiom) or antique (Xenophanes’ Greek, Horace’s Latin), while the full text of the poem may be lost with the disintegration of the material upon which it had been written. The hypertext poem answers this challenge by slipping free of the materiality of print media and conveying itself instead within cyberspace, which none of us can hold, but which anyone with Internet access can see by opening the right kind of “window.”

0. Digital Orpheus

Among twentieth-century poetic technologies, hypertext is hardly unique in its attempt to reconcile the timelessness of Being with the all-too-brief time of our own passing, the memento mori now reshaped by technologies that afford us perspectives both cosmic and subatomic.[7] As we hear from Paul Celan, one of our most insistent practitioners of metaphysics grounded by experience, a poem always has to contend with the fact that its gestures toward eternity are constrained by the temporal dimension of any language technology: “For a poem is not timeless. Certainly it lays claims to infinity, it seeks to reach through time—through it, not above and beyond it.”[8] The hypertext poem of the twentieth century’s last decade seemed poised to circumvent the material aging of the poem by the very fact of its non-materiality. Why then, we may ask, do hypertext poems appear to age on the screen so much faster than their counterparts in print?

Stephanie Strickland’s work provides an excellent case-in-point. One of the few poets to achieve professional acclaim both as a hypertext author and as a poet in traditional print, Strickland frequently draws our attention to the ephemeral and the disembodied, juxtaposing meditations on the natural world with hypertextual elements that constantly draw attention to their own artifice, much as A. R. Ammons’ poems did with the long strips of adding-machine tape on which they were composed.[9] Taken together, the hypertext elements of Strickland’s poems suggest the convergence of the finite creative act and the eternal passing of the world into which that act is inserted, so that the artist affirms, rather than works against, the ephemerality of all things. Strickland suggests as much in the closing lines of the print version of “To Be Here as Stone Is” (1999).

...Objects

are answers, unspoken collusions of humans with the earth

as it turns, as it culminates in night-skies on Neptune, Earth

as it sweeps by, or is swept—it depends where you are—

by schools of light, loose, adrift in the empty

aisles of the cosmos: this, their care

—the artisans—their persistent reverence for error,

mis-fit; fabulists of silica, water, what we are,

glassware, charcoal, starlight only; forgers of green,

translucent stones that are the structure of all question.[10]

The poet establishes a continuity between question and answer, natural object and made thing, encounter and manufacture. The objects of this world “are answers, unspoken collusions of humans with the earth,” while the “green, / translucent stones” that we either make or discover—by now the distinction has become trivial—reveal “the structure of all question.” Whether we stumble upon the object of our contemplation or reshape it to comport more productively with our ideal, the artist is a kind of “fabulist,” a storyteller whose text imbues the object with a meaning to which the object itself is wholly indifferent. In this way, Strickland collapses the concept-manifestation binary. She affirms neither the Platonic notion that the object should conform to its ideal, nor the opposite, Aristotelian tack, that we can come to know the principle only by observing the object.[11]Instead, object and ideal flow into one another, “schools of light, loose, adrift”; their designation “depends where you are.”

Where this affirmation of the ephemeral falters, however, is in its attendant assertion that the technological assistance of the computer retrieves the poem from its own passing and allows us to hold it in tenuous suspension, neither fully released from our own acts of reading, nor locked down into paper’s formal stability. Hypertext attempts to represent timelessness within the necessarily temporal acts of reading and writing, to create, in Stephanie Strickland’s formulation, “poetic work that thinks time dimensions in new media[.]”[12] The poet strives for Orphic katabasis, a visit to the Land of the Dead, in an effort to retrieve the object of his or her desire, that which has passed away and is now beyond mortal reach, and to bring that object back into a world defined by time.

Here I especially have in mind a non-classical, multimedia rendition of the Orpheus myth from the 1960s, Dino Buzzati’s Poem Strip. For Buzzati, what separates “Orfi” from “Eura” in the Underworld is the time limit that is felt by the poet but, in death, completely incomprehensible to his love (Figure 1).[13] Instead of the expected echo of the story of Lot’s wife, with its failure to keep oneself from looking back (Gen. 19:26), in Poem Strip we hear Goethe’s conclusion to Faust, Part 1: Faust cannot convince Margarete to leave her dungeon before dawn, when he and Mephistopheles will lose all power to save her. Buzzati’s Orpheus, like Faust, dramatizes the powerful maker’s powerlessness against time.

Fig. 1. Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, pp. 201-202.

We witness an analogous staging of powerlessness in the hypertext poem, one that depends on the assertions of power made by hypertext’s earliest champions. Just as Faust must exercise his power over Gretchen/Margarete in order to establish his failure to rescue her—and just as “Orphi” must reach toward immortality through katabasisto realize his inability to draw that immortality into daylight—hypertext’s strong emphasis on the medium of its composition and distribution paradoxically underscores the aging of that medium itself.

1. The Downward Journey: A Race Against Time

Strickland’s claim that hypertext fosters “poetic work that thinks time dimensions in new media” has its roots in early projections of what hypermedia could deliver that traditional print could not. Many such claims originate from a time when the technology that would produce a hypertext poem was nearly as hypothetical as the poems themselves, as in Vannevar Bush’s conceptualization, published in 1945, of a deeply integrated, cross-referenced, universally accessible memory bank.[14] By the time widespread Internet connectivity allowed for the composition and dissemination of hypertext poems in the early 1990s—at least among the socioeconomic elites who could afford the requisite hardware and service charges—the writers theorizing the hypertext poem far outnumbered the poets writing it, though in many instances the theorists have been the poets themselves, who have felt compelled, as many of us do, to articulate the principles behind their practice.

Foremost among these core principles was the notion that hypertext could disrupt the supposed “linearity” of the print text. Typical of such declarations is John M. Slatin’s definition, from 1990, of how reading in hypertext differs from reading in print: “Reading, in hypertext, is understood as a discontinuous or non-linear process which, like thinking, is associative in nature, as opposed to the sequential process envisioned by conventional text.”[15] Several essays from the same period, some of which have been collected in Paul Delaney and George P. Landow’s anthology Hypermedia and Literary Studies (1991), draw a similar contrast between the relative freedom within a hypertext environment and the linearity of print, as Landow remarks in his own contribution: “Whereas print technology emphasizes the capacity of language to form a linear stream of text that moves unrelentingly forward, hypermedia encourages branching and creating multiple routes to the same point.”[16] In his phrasing, Landow is more cautious than Slatin, consistent with the former’s emphasis elsewhere on the fact that the basic model of hypertext is already visible in the scholarly convention of footnoting.[17] As Landow indicates, the capacity for a reader to click on the numeric superscript that concludes the preceding sentence—or, using a technology that Landow could scarcely have envisioned in 1989, to press that superscript physically with a finger—facilitates the reader’s navigation between the main body text and the parallel text in the footnotes. But the concept of footnoting is fundamentally the same.

There is a tendency in these early formulations to ascribe intentionality to the print object, which has “envisioned” our manner of reading before our arrival, and whose text “moves unrelentingly forward” regardless of our own habits or purposes. According to this model, it is the materiality of the print object that determines the parameters of how we use it, not the other way around.

It is an attitude grounded conceptually in the hypothesis that technology shapes our consciousness as much as we use technology to realize what consciousness has already imagined. For thinkers like Vilém Flusser, one of the first philosophers to connect advances in information technology to the emergent obsolescence of human interventions, the linearity of print is the source of modern man’s sense of history, which might just as easily dissolve once that linearity has been abandoned.

If one wants to decipher (“read”) a text, one must let the eye glide along the line. Not until the end of the line does one receive the message, and then one must attempt to bring it together, to synthesize it. Linear codes demand a synchronization of their diachronicity. They demand progressive reception. And the result is a new experience of time, that is, linear time, a stream of unstoppable progress, of dramatic unrepeatability, of framing: in short, history. With the invention of writing, history begins, not because writing keeps a firm hold on processes, but because it transforms scenes into processes: it generates historical consciousness.[18]

Flusser’s description of “synchronization,” effectively collapsing a syntactic chain into information no longer construed from sequence, resonates powerfully with the practice of reading, broadly defined, beginning with the ability to read whole words or set expressions without consciously registering the order of their component letters. And not just reading: Cognition in general involves a constant shift between unifying concepts (an idea, a memory) and their component parts (“and then this happened, and then that happened”). While it can be voluntarily directed, the mechanism itself is unconscious: I do not need to recall a particular author’s wording or syntax in order to describe Orpheus looking back on Eurydice, since the mental “scene” already synthesizes both the “processes” of the myth (Eurydice must first be walking behind Orpheus before he turns back to look at her, he must turn to look at her before she is pulled back into the Underworld) and the language through which that myth is told by a given author. In fact, I have synthesized the author’s syntactic chain so thoroughly that I need not recall any of his language in order to remember both the scene and its parts. For the purpose of contemplating the story, the language process itself may be superfluous.

Not so with a poem. To speak of the iambic pentameter of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth is nonsensical, since there is nothing in the story that designates a particular meter or any mode of telling whatsoever. In discussing Allen Mandelbaum’s elegant translation of Ovid, however, it might be equally foolish not to mention the prosody.

...But at last,

they’d almost reached the upper world, when he,

afraid that she might disappear again

and longing so to see her, turned to gaze

back at his wife. At once she slipped away—

and down. His arms stretched out convulsively

to clasp and to be clasped in turn, but there

was nothing but the unresisting air.[19]

A detailed discussion of the poem’s formal properties will remain much the same irrespective of whether the poem appears in print, online, on an e-reader, or even line-by-line as part of a multimedia reimagining of the poem.[20] Such reimagining, especially using Flash animation, is no longer exceptional, and several websites offer poems in a format that print cannot easily accommodate, ranging from simple, line-by-line transcription (TextFlow) to interpretive animated shorts.[21] At least one venue, Born Magazine, an online-only periodical, pairs written work that has been accepted for first-time publication with an artist/designer who programs his or her own animation to present the text, which the reader also has the option of reading without multimedia embellishment.[22] As a general principle, none of the texts imported into these multimedia projects is “digital born,” though all take on a new textual existence within their respective projects.[23] An analogue to traditional print would be comparing one edition of a given work to another: Even if the source text is identical in both editions, its presentation in each may differ considerably and offer substantially divergent reading experiences.

Fig. 2. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone,” viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11.

Fig. 3. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone Is,” as published in True North (1997).

2. The Upward Journey: Embracing Loss

Benjamin Paloff is Assistant Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures and of Comparative Literature at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, and a poetry editor at Boston Review. He is the author of The Politics(Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2011), a collection of poems, and has contributed to a wide range of scholarly and popular publications, including The Nation, The New Republic, The Paris Review, and Slavic and East European Journal. A former fellow of the US Fulbright Program and the National Endowment for the Arts, he has also translated several works from Eastern and Central European literatures, most recently Krzysztof Michalski'sThe Flame of Eternity: An Interpretation of Nietzsche's Thought (Princeton University Press, 2012) and Andrzej Sosnowski's Lodgings: Selected Poems (Open Letter, 2011).

Notes

One sentence in, I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for the Journal of Electronic Publishing whose many felicitous suggestions and comments contributed greatly to the essay’s development.
http://www.feedmag.com/wp/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Empedocles, The Fragments of Empedocles, trans. William Ellery Leonard (Chicago: Open Court, 1908), 58. Statements regarding the poetic line’s mapping of time are a staple of prosody manuals. Among the more jocular of these expressions is John Hollander’s mimetic description, “Blank verse can be extremely flexible: / It ticks and tocks the time with even feet / (Or sometimes, cleverly, can end limping).” John Hollander,Rhyme’s Reason: A Guide to English Verse, 3rd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 12. But as Paul Fussell points out, the poetic line need not be composed in any standard meter—and, in fact, need not be a line of verse at all—in order to demonstrate a necessary temporal progress, one that places rhetorical emphasis on the end: “Every part of a poetic line accumulates weight progressively: every part anticipates the end of the line. This is less because the line is positioned in a poem than because the line is a unit of measured time.” Paul Fussell, Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, revised ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1979), 167.
Xenophanes of Colophon, Fragments, trans. J. H. Lesher (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 67.
“Now as I say these words,” Horace concludes the eleventh ode of Book 1, “Time has already fled / Backwards away— / Leuconoe— / Hold on to the day.” Horace, The Odes of Horace, trans. David Ferry (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997), 33. We are in the habit of repeating this sentiment in Horace’s original Latin, carpe diem. In Book 3, however, Horace announces, “Today I have finished a work outlasting bronze /.../ Nor can the rain obliterate this work, / Nor can the years, nor can the ages passing.” Ibid., 255. David Ferry provides several similar examples of Horace’s “shifting” attitudes toward the poem’s orientation in time in his introduction to the same volume, xi.
William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, vol. 2, ed. Christopher MacGowan (New York: New Directions, 2001), 54. As Cecelia Tichi suggests, Williams’ approach to the poem as a language technology had been conditioned by the temporal demands of rapid industrialization: “Williams’s kinetics was a correlative of his poetics of efficiency. Both were a deliberate response to the new fast pace of an industrial United States whose tempos were set by machine technology.” Cecelia Tichi, Shifting Gears: Technology, Literature, Culture in Modernist America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987), 230.
As an example from the last decades of the twentieth century, consider the closing lines of Stanley Kunitz’s late poem “Passing Through”: “I’m passing through a phase: / gradually I’m changing to a word. / Whatever you choose to claim / of me is always yours; / nothing is truly mine / except my name. I only / borrowed this dust.” Stanley Kunitz, Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), 131. Or else any number of poems by A. R. Ammons, whose early training in biology informed his treatment of how literature represents natural cycles of growth and decay. See especially his poems “Eyesight” and “Corson’s Inlet.”
Paul Celan, Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan, trans. John Felstiner (New York: W.W. Norton, 2001), 396.
See, for example, Strickland’s poem “Errand Upon Which We Came” (2000–2001; hypertext designed by M. D. Coverly), which uses kinetic, sometimes blurring text to convey the ephemerality of the text vis-à-vis its natural subject, http://califia.us/Errand/home.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland, True North (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 85. For the hypertext poem designed by M. D. Coverly, see http://califia.us/SI/stone1a.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
For an eloquent treatment of the Platonic and Aristotelian approaches to concept, see Hans Blumenberg,Paradigms for a Metaphorology, trans. Robert Savage (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010), 6–12.
Stephanie Strickland, “Quantum Poetics: Six Thoughts,” in Media Poetry: An International Anthology, ed. Eduardo Kac (Bristol: Intellect Books, 2007), 27.
Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, trans. Marina Hass (New York: NYRB Classics, 2009).
Vannevar Bush, “As We May Think,” The Atlantic Monthly (July 1945),http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1945/07/as-we-may-think/3881/, accessed April 27, 2011.
John. M. Slatin, “Reading Hypertext: Order and Coherence in a New Medium,” College English 52, no. 8 (December 1990): 874.
George P. Landow, “The Rhetoric of Hypermedia: Some Rules for Authors,” in Hypermedia and Literary Studies, Paul Delany and George P. Landow, eds. (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), 100.
George P. Landow, “Hypertext in Literary Education, Criticism, and Scholarship,” Computers and the Humanities 23 (1989), 174–175.
Vilém Flusser, Writings, ed. Andreas Ströhl (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 39.
Ovid, The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt, 1995), 327.
For a thorough discussion of the movement of texts and publishing markets away from print, see Ted Striphas,The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). True to its subject, the book can be downloaded under a Creative Commons license from the author’s website, http://www.thelateageofprint.org/download/, accessed June 1, 2011.
For the TextFlow project of the Academy of American Poets, see http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/531, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated interpretations of work by a single author, see Billy Collins Action Poetry, http://www.bcactionpoet.org, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated shorts that interpret work by a number of different authors, see http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/uwm/index.html accessed May 2, 2011.
Born Magazine, http://bornmagazine.org, accessed May 2, 2011.
I am following N. Katherine Hayles’ flexible definition of the term “digital born” as “a first-generation digital object created on a computer and (usually) meant to be read on a computer.” N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 3.
Another, perhaps more exacting way of stating this would be to say that poetic reading, the set of practices that allow the reader to appreciate the lyric poem’s effects, cannot be “linear.” Even those forms of repetition that make relatively modest demands on the reader, such as end-rhyme and anaphora, are predicated upon that reader’s ability to reconstruct the poem’s vertical architecture even as he or she is reading across the lines. Internal rhymes, assonance, and consonance require the same skill at a higher level of sophistication. Rhetorical effects, meanwhile, may demand that the reader process meaningful tensions between vertical and horizontal sequence (this is the case, for example, with chiasmus) or to refer outside of the text altogether (metaphor, allusion), and to do so by collapsing the discrete verbal elements together, effectively “synchronizing” what appears on the page as sequence. Rather than opening the way for new compositional practices, then, hypertext would appear simply to reframe those practices that are already encoded within the poem.
Espen J. Aarseth, “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” in Hyper/Text/Theory, ed. George P. Landow (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 51–86.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 60.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 65. Author’s emphasis.
T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” Proceedings of the 20th National ACM Conference (1965), 96.
Espen J. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 1–2.
An especially engaging treatment of this topic as it relates to the process of signification in literature can be found in Lars Nylander, “Literature In and Out of Time: Temporality in Theory, Narrative, and Authorship,”Literature and Psychology 47, no. 4 (2001): 1–37.
Gunnar Liestol, “‘Gameplay’: From Synthesis to Analysis (and Vice Versa),” in Digital Media Revisited: Theoretical and Conceptual Innovations in Digital Domains, ed. Gunnar Liestol, Andrew Morrison, and Terje Rasmussen (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003), 390.
It may be worth nothing that it is the traditional print that has won Strickland the most acclaim. While we need not accept professional accolades as a measure of literary merit, they do help us describe the works’ cultural impact around the time of publication. Among her many honors, Strickland received the Poetry Society of America’s prestigious Alice Fay di Castignola Award in 2000 for the manuscript of her V project.
N. Katherine Hayles, My Mother Was a Computer: Digital Subjects and Literary Texts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 51.
Terry Harpold considers such challenges of the upgrade path in his Ex-Foliations: Reading Machines and the Upgrade Path (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). Especially interesting in light of the present discussion is Harpold’s treatment of Vannevar Bush’s previously cited essay, in which Bush outlines his design for a machine (Memex) that both collects information and records the history of its own reading; see pages 20–43.
Strickland, True North, iv.
Without tackling this question directly, Hayles provides a nuanced discussion of the continuities between electronic and print media storage in the fourth chapter of My Mother Was a Computer; see pages 89–116. Of ongoing interest here is Matthew Kirchenbaum’s research into the preservation of born-digital media environments, including text and “virtual worlds,” which one can follow from his website,http://mkirschenbaum.wordpress.com/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland and Cynthia Lawson, “Making the Vniverse,”http://www.cddc.vt.edu/journals/newriver/strickland/essay/index.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Brian Lennon, “Literature and the Transposition of Media,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 72. Lev Manovich makes a similar observation with regard to the cinematic experiments that the European avant-gardes, effectively demonstrating how digital media have allowed for the realization of avant-garde concepts that were not technologically feasible a century ago: “the avant-garde became materialized in a computer.”Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 307. Author’s emphasis.
Stephanie Strickland, “Born Digital,” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/182942?id=182942, accessed May 2, 2011.
In Hypertext and the Female Imaginary, Jaishree K. Odin provides a thorough and persuasive account of how the experience of reading Strickland’s poems differs depending on whether one is reading the print or digital versions. If we accept Strickland’s definition of electronic literature as offered, Odin’s reading across media would itself come into question. Jaishree K. Odin, Hypertext and the Female Imaginary (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 73–102.
Brian Kim Stefans, “The Dreamlife of Letters,” http://www.arras.net/RNG/flash/dreamlife/dreamlife_index.html, accessed May 2, 2011. Oni Buchanan, The Mandrake Vehicles,http://collection.eliterature.org/2/works/buchanan_mandrake_vehicles.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Oni Buchanan, Spring (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 85.
Stefans also calls for reader input to run the poem’s individual sections, but only once the entire poem has completed its initial run.
Aarseth addresses the insistent drive toward novelty among authors and theorists of electronic literature in his essay, “We All Want to Change the World: The Ideology of Innovation in Digital Media,” in Digital Media Revisited, 415–440.
Robert Coover, “The Passing of the Golden Age,” Feed 02.10.00,http://www.feedmag.com/templates/default.php3?a_id=1211, accessed June 1, 2011. As I have already mentioned, the claims to nonlinearity in hypertext originate with Nelson’s original definition of the medium: “Films, sound recordings, and video recordings are also linear strings, basically for mechanical reasons. But these, too, can now be arranged as non-linear systems—for instance, lattices—for editing purposes, or for display with different emphasis.” T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” 96. But not all early practitioners of hypertext poetry conceived of their work as a rejection of linearity. Eduardo Kac, commenting on his first “hyperpoem,” “Storms” (1993), notes that when reading hypertext online “one chooses paths but each locus provides stable words on a two-dimensional computer screen, which are scanned by the eye in linear fashion, like in print, from top to bottom, left to right.” Eduardo Kac, “Holopoetry and Hyperpoetry,” in The Pictured Word: Word and Image Interactions 2, eds. Martin Heusser et al. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 177. Eduardo Kac, “Storms,”http://www.ekac.org/storms.swf, accessed May 2, 2011. By the time Coover wrote his essay, several other theorists were also questioning claims that hypertext provided a “nonlinear” reading experience. Eric Zimmerman, also writing in 2000, demands that we no longer regard hypertext as meaningfully interactive, or at least not in a way that we do not already know: “There are plenty of examples of explicitly interactive media—architecture, computer games, letters-to-the-editor, sports, jazz—that offer richer and more meaningful interaction than tired old hypertext novels.” He then makes the very strong point that hypertext is simply a different kind of linearity: “Content-based interactive texts are more indebted to their linear cousins like film or novels. They consist of segments of pregenerated linear content, received in some order by the participant.” Eric Zimmerman, “Against Hypertext,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 79, 81.

Fig. 2. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone,” viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11.

Fig. 3. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone Is,” as published in True North (1997).

2. The Upward Journey: Embracing Loss

Notes

One sentence in, I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for the Journal of Electronic Publishing whose many felicitous suggestions and comments contributed greatly to the essay’s development.
http://www.feedmag.com/wp/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Empedocles, The Fragments of Empedocles, trans. William Ellery Leonard (Chicago: Open Court, 1908), 58. Statements regarding the poetic line’s mapping of time are a staple of prosody manuals. Among the more jocular of these expressions is John Hollander’s mimetic description, “Blank verse can be extremely flexible: / It ticks and tocks the time with even feet / (Or sometimes, cleverly, can end limping).” John Hollander,Rhyme’s Reason: A Guide to English Verse, 3rd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 12. But as Paul Fussell points out, the poetic line need not be composed in any standard meter—and, in fact, need not be a line of verse at all—in order to demonstrate a necessary temporal progress, one that places rhetorical emphasis on the end: “Every part of a poetic line accumulates weight progressively: every part anticipates the end of the line. This is less because the line is positioned in a poem than because the line is a unit of measured time.” Paul Fussell, Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, revised ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1979), 167.
Xenophanes of Colophon, Fragments, trans. J. H. Lesher (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 67.
“Now as I say these words,” Horace concludes the eleventh ode of Book 1, “Time has already fled / Backwards away— / Leuconoe— / Hold on to the day.” Horace, The Odes of Horace, trans. David Ferry (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997), 33. We are in the habit of repeating this sentiment in Horace’s original Latin, carpe diem. In Book 3, however, Horace announces, “Today I have finished a work outlasting bronze /.../ Nor can the rain obliterate this work, / Nor can the years, nor can the ages passing.” Ibid., 255. David Ferry provides several similar examples of Horace’s “shifting” attitudes toward the poem’s orientation in time in his introduction to the same volume, xi.
William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, vol. 2, ed. Christopher MacGowan (New York: New Directions, 2001), 54. As Cecelia Tichi suggests, Williams’ approach to the poem as a language technology had been conditioned by the temporal demands of rapid industrialization: “Williams’s kinetics was a correlative of his poetics of efficiency. Both were a deliberate response to the new fast pace of an industrial United States whose tempos were set by machine technology.” Cecelia Tichi, Shifting Gears: Technology, Literature, Culture in Modernist America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987), 230.
As an example from the last decades of the twentieth century, consider the closing lines of Stanley Kunitz’s late poem “Passing Through”: “I’m passing through a phase: / gradually I’m changing to a word. / Whatever you choose to claim / of me is always yours; / nothing is truly mine / except my name. I only / borrowed this dust.” Stanley Kunitz, Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), 131. Or else any number of poems by A. R. Ammons, whose early training in biology informed his treatment of how literature represents natural cycles of growth and decay. See especially his poems “Eyesight” and “Corson’s Inlet.”
Paul Celan, Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan, trans. John Felstiner (New York: W.W. Norton, 2001), 396.
See, for example, Strickland’s poem “Errand Upon Which We Came” (2000–2001; hypertext designed by M. D. Coverly), which uses kinetic, sometimes blurring text to convey the ephemerality of the text vis-à-vis its natural subject, http://califia.us/Errand/home.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland, True North (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 85. For the hypertext poem designed by M. D. Coverly, see http://califia.us/SI/stone1a.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
For an eloquent treatment of the Platonic and Aristotelian approaches to concept, see Hans Blumenberg,Paradigms for a Metaphorology, trans. Robert Savage (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010), 6–12.
Stephanie Strickland, “Quantum Poetics: Six Thoughts,” in Media Poetry: An International Anthology, ed. Eduardo Kac (Bristol: Intellect Books, 2007), 27.
Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, trans. Marina Hass (New York: NYRB Classics, 2009).
Vannevar Bush, “As We May Think,” The Atlantic Monthly (July 1945),http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1945/07/as-we-may-think/3881/, accessed April 27, 2011.
John. M. Slatin, “Reading Hypertext: Order and Coherence in a New Medium,” College English 52, no. 8 (December 1990): 874.
George P. Landow, “The Rhetoric of Hypermedia: Some Rules for Authors,” in Hypermedia and Literary Studies, Paul Delany and George P. Landow, eds. (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), 100.
George P. Landow, “Hypertext in Literary Education, Criticism, and Scholarship,” Computers and the Humanities 23 (1989), 174–175.
Vilém Flusser, Writings, ed. Andreas Ströhl (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 39.
Ovid, The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt, 1995), 327.
For a thorough discussion of the movement of texts and publishing markets away from print, see Ted Striphas,The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). True to its subject, the book can be downloaded under a Creative Commons license from the author’s website, http://www.thelateageofprint.org/download/, accessed June 1, 2011.
For the TextFlow project of the Academy of American Poets, see http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/531, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated interpretations of work by a single author, see Billy Collins Action Poetry, http://www.bcactionpoet.org, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated shorts that interpret work by a number of different authors, see http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/uwm/index.html accessed May 2, 2011.
Born Magazine, http://bornmagazine.org, accessed May 2, 2011.
I am following N. Katherine Hayles’ flexible definition of the term “digital born” as “a first-generation digital object created on a computer and (usually) meant to be read on a computer.” N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 3.
Another, perhaps more exacting way of stating this would be to say that poetic reading, the set of practices that allow the reader to appreciate the lyric poem’s effects, cannot be “linear.” Even those forms of repetition that make relatively modest demands on the reader, such as end-rhyme and anaphora, are predicated upon that reader’s ability to reconstruct the poem’s vertical architecture even as he or she is reading across the lines. Internal rhymes, assonance, and consonance require the same skill at a higher level of sophistication. Rhetorical effects, meanwhile, may demand that the reader process meaningful tensions between vertical and horizontal sequence (this is the case, for example, with chiasmus) or to refer outside of the text altogether (metaphor, allusion), and to do so by collapsing the discrete verbal elements together, effectively “synchronizing” what appears on the page as sequence. Rather than opening the way for new compositional practices, then, hypertext would appear simply to reframe those practices that are already encoded within the poem.
Espen J. Aarseth, “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” in Hyper/Text/Theory, ed. George P. Landow (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 51–86.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 60.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 65. Author’s emphasis.
T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” Proceedings of the 20th National ACM Conference (1965), 96.
Espen J. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 1–2.
An especially engaging treatment of this topic as it relates to the process of signification in literature can be found in Lars Nylander, “Literature In and Out of Time: Temporality in Theory, Narrative, and Authorship,”Literature and Psychology 47, no. 4 (2001): 1–37.
Gunnar Liestol, “‘Gameplay’: From Synthesis to Analysis (and Vice Versa),” in Digital Media Revisited: Theoretical and Conceptual Innovations in Digital Domains, ed. Gunnar Liestol, Andrew Morrison, and Terje Rasmussen (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003), 390.
It may be worth nothing that it is the traditional print that has won Strickland the most acclaim. While we need not accept professional accolades as a measure of literary merit, they do help us describe the works’ cultural impact around the time of publication. Among her many honors, Strickland received the Poetry Society of America’s prestigious Alice Fay di Castignola Award in 2000 for the manuscript of her V project.
N. Katherine Hayles, My Mother Was a Computer: Digital Subjects and Literary Texts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 51.
Terry Harpold considers such challenges of the upgrade path in his Ex-Foliations: Reading Machines and the Upgrade Path (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). Especially interesting in light of the present discussion is Harpold’s treatment of Vannevar Bush’s previously cited essay, in which Bush outlines his design for a machine (Memex) that both collects information and records the history of its own reading; see pages 20–43.
Strickland, True North, iv.
Without tackling this question directly, Hayles provides a nuanced discussion of the continuities between electronic and print media storage in the fourth chapter of My Mother Was a Computer; see pages 89–116. Of ongoing interest here is Matthew Kirchenbaum’s research into the preservation of born-digital media environments, including text and “virtual worlds,” which one can follow from his website,http://mkirschenbaum.wordpress.com/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland and Cynthia Lawson, “Making the Vniverse,”http://www.cddc.vt.edu/journals/newriver/strickland/essay/index.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Brian Lennon, “Literature and the Transposition of Media,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 72. Lev Manovich makes a similar observation with regard to the cinematic experiments that the European avant-gardes, effectively demonstrating how digital media have allowed for the realization of avant-garde concepts that were not technologically feasible a century ago: “the avant-garde became materialized in a computer.”Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 307. Author’s emphasis.
Stephanie Strickland, “Born Digital,” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/182942?id=182942, accessed May 2, 2011.
In Hypertext and the Female Imaginary, Jaishree K. Odin provides a thorough and persuasive account of how the experience of reading Strickland’s poems differs depending on whether one is reading the print or digital versions. If we accept Strickland’s definition of electronic literature as offered, Odin’s reading across media would itself come into question. Jaishree K. Odin, Hypertext and the Female Imaginary (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 73–102.
Brian Kim Stefans, “The Dreamlife of Letters,” http://www.arras.net/RNG/flash/dreamlife/dreamlife_index.html, accessed May 2, 2011. Oni Buchanan, The Mandrake Vehicles,http://collection.eliterature.org/2/works/buchanan_mandrake_vehicles.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Oni Buchanan, Spring (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 85.
Stefans also calls for reader input to run the poem’s individual sections, but only once the entire poem has completed its initial run.
Aarseth addresses the insistent drive toward novelty among authors and theorists of electronic literature in his essay, “We All Want to Change the World: The Ideology of Innovation in Digital Media,” in Digital Media Revisited, 415–440.
Robert Coover, “The Passing of the Golden Age,” Feed 02.10.00,http://www.feedmag.com/templates/default.php3?a_id=1211, accessed June 1, 2011. As I have already mentioned, the claims to nonlinearity in hypertext originate with Nelson’s original definition of the medium: “Films, sound recordings, and video recordings are also linear strings, basically for mechanical reasons. But these, too, can now be arranged as non-linear systems—for instance, lattices—for editing purposes, or for display with different emphasis.” T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” 96. But not all early practitioners of hypertext poetry conceived of their work as a rejection of linearity. Eduardo Kac, commenting on his first “hyperpoem,” “Storms” (1993), notes that when reading hypertext online “one chooses paths but each locus provides stable words on a two-dimensional computer screen, which are scanned by the eye in linear fashion, like in print, from top to bottom, left to right.” Eduardo Kac, “Holopoetry and Hyperpoetry,” in The Pictured Word: Word and Image Interactions 2, eds. Martin Heusser et al. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 177. Eduardo Kac, “Storms,”http://www.ekac.org/storms.swf, accessed May 2, 2011. By the time Coover wrote his essay, several other theorists were also questioning claims that hypertext provided a “nonlinear” reading experience. Eric Zimmerman, also writing in 2000, demands that we no longer regard hypertext as meaningfully interactive, or at least not in a way that we do not already know: “There are plenty of examples of explicitly interactive media—architecture, computer games, letters-to-the-editor, sports, jazz—that offer richer and more meaningful interaction than tired old hypertext novels.” He then makes the very strong point that hypertext is simply a different kind of linearity: “Content-based interactive texts are more indebted to their linear cousins like film or novels. They consist of segments of pregenerated linear content, received in some order by the participant.” Eric Zimmerman, “Against Hypertext,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 79, 81.

Feed magazine

noreply@blogger.com (Mnkcandy) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 18:37:00 +0000

Abstract

0. Digital Orpheus

...Objects

are answers, unspoken collusions of humans with the earth

as it turns, as it culminates in night-skies on Neptune, Earth

as it sweeps by, or is swept—it depends where you are—

by schools of light, loose, adrift in the empty

aisles of the cosmos: this, their care

—the artisans—their persistent reverence for error,

mis-fit; fabulists of silica, water, what we are,

glassware, charcoal, starlight only; forgers of green,

translucent stones that are the structure of all question.[10]

Fig. 1. Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, pp. 201-202.

1. The Downward Journey: A Race Against Time

...But at last,

they’d almost reached the upper world, when he,

afraid that she might disappear again

and longing so to see her, turned to gaze

back at his wife. At once she slipped away—

and down. His arms stretched out convulsively

to clasp and to be clasped in turn, but there

was nothing but the unresisting air.[19]

Fig. 2. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone,” viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11.

Fig. 3. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone Is,” as published in True North (1997).

2. The Upward Journey: Embracing Loss

Notes

One sentence in, I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for the Journal of Electronic Publishing whose many felicitous suggestions and comments contributed greatly to the essay’s development.
http://www.feedmag.com/wp/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Empedocles, The Fragments of Empedocles, trans. William Ellery Leonard (Chicago: Open Court, 1908), 58. Statements regarding the poetic line’s mapping of time are a staple of prosody manuals. Among the more jocular of these expressions is John Hollander’s mimetic description, “Blank verse can be extremely flexible: / It ticks and tocks the time with even feet / (Or sometimes, cleverly, can end limping).” John Hollander,Rhyme’s Reason: A Guide to English Verse, 3rd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 12. But as Paul Fussell points out, the poetic line need not be composed in any standard meter—and, in fact, need not be a line of verse at all—in order to demonstrate a necessary temporal progress, one that places rhetorical emphasis on the end: “Every part of a poetic line accumulates weight progressively: every part anticipates the end of the line. This is less because the line is positioned in a poem than because the line is a unit of measured time.” Paul Fussell, Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, revised ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1979), 167.
Xenophanes of Colophon, Fragments, trans. J. H. Lesher (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 67.
“Now as I say these words,” Horace concludes the eleventh ode of Book 1, “Time has already fled / Backwards away— / Leuconoe— / Hold on to the day.” Horace, The Odes of Horace, trans. David Ferry (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997), 33. We are in the habit of repeating this sentiment in Horace’s original Latin, carpe diem. In Book 3, however, Horace announces, “Today I have finished a work outlasting bronze /.../ Nor can the rain obliterate this work, / Nor can the years, nor can the ages passing.” Ibid., 255. David Ferry provides several similar examples of Horace’s “shifting” attitudes toward the poem’s orientation in time in his introduction to the same volume, xi.
William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, vol. 2, ed. Christopher MacGowan (New York: New Directions, 2001), 54. As Cecelia Tichi suggests, Williams’ approach to the poem as a language technology had been conditioned by the temporal demands of rapid industrialization: “Williams’s kinetics was a correlative of his poetics of efficiency. Both were a deliberate response to the new fast pace of an industrial United States whose tempos were set by machine technology.” Cecelia Tichi, Shifting Gears: Technology, Literature, Culture in Modernist America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987), 230.
As an example from the last decades of the twentieth century, consider the closing lines of Stanley Kunitz’s late poem “Passing Through”: “I’m passing through a phase: / gradually I’m changing to a word. / Whatever you choose to claim / of me is always yours; / nothing is truly mine / except my name. I only / borrowed this dust.” Stanley Kunitz, Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), 131. Or else any number of poems by A. R. Ammons, whose early training in biology informed his treatment of how literature represents natural cycles of growth and decay. See especially his poems “Eyesight” and “Corson’s Inlet.”
Paul Celan, Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan, trans. John Felstiner (New York: W.W. Norton, 2001), 396.
See, for example, Strickland’s poem “Errand Upon Which We Came” (2000–2001; hypertext designed by M. D. Coverly), which uses kinetic, sometimes blurring text to convey the ephemerality of the text vis-à-vis its natural subject, http://califia.us/Errand/home.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland, True North (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 85. For the hypertext poem designed by M. D. Coverly, see http://califia.us/SI/stone1a.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
For an eloquent treatment of the Platonic and Aristotelian approaches to concept, see Hans Blumenberg,Paradigms for a Metaphorology, trans. Robert Savage (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010), 6–12.
Stephanie Strickland, “Quantum Poetics: Six Thoughts,” in Media Poetry: An International Anthology, ed. Eduardo Kac (Bristol: Intellect Books, 2007), 27.
Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, trans. Marina Hass (New York: NYRB Classics, 2009).
Vannevar Bush, “As We May Think,” The Atlantic Monthly (July 1945),http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1945/07/as-we-may-think/3881/, accessed April 27, 2011.
John. M. Slatin, “Reading Hypertext: Order and Coherence in a New Medium,” College English 52, no. 8 (December 1990): 874.
George P. Landow, “The Rhetoric of Hypermedia: Some Rules for Authors,” in Hypermedia and Literary Studies, Paul Delany and George P. Landow, eds. (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), 100.
George P. Landow, “Hypertext in Literary Education, Criticism, and Scholarship,” Computers and the Humanities 23 (1989), 174–175.
Vilém Flusser, Writings, ed. Andreas Ströhl (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 39.
Ovid, The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt, 1995), 327.
For a thorough discussion of the movement of texts and publishing markets away from print, see Ted Striphas,The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). True to its subject, the book can be downloaded under a Creative Commons license from the author’s website, http://www.thelateageofprint.org/download/, accessed June 1, 2011.
For the TextFlow project of the Academy of American Poets, see http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/531, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated interpretations of work by a single author, see Billy Collins Action Poetry, http://www.bcactionpoet.org, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated shorts that interpret work by a number of different authors, see http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/uwm/index.html accessed May 2, 2011.
Born Magazine, http://bornmagazine.org, accessed May 2, 2011.
I am following N. Katherine Hayles’ flexible definition of the term “digital born” as “a first-generation digital object created on a computer and (usually) meant to be read on a computer.” N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 3.
Another, perhaps more exacting way of stating this would be to say that poetic reading, the set of practices that allow the reader to appreciate the lyric poem’s effects, cannot be “linear.” Even those forms of repetition that make relatively modest demands on the reader, such as end-rhyme and anaphora, are predicated upon that reader’s ability to reconstruct the poem’s vertical architecture even as he or she is reading across the lines. Internal rhymes, assonance, and consonance require the same skill at a higher level of sophistication. Rhetorical effects, meanwhile, may demand that the reader process meaningful tensions between vertical and horizontal sequence (this is the case, for example, with chiasmus) or to refer outside of the text altogether (metaphor, allusion), and to do so by collapsing the discrete verbal elements together, effectively “synchronizing” what appears on the page as sequence. Rather than opening the way for new compositional practices, then, hypertext would appear simply to reframe those practices that are already encoded within the poem.
Espen J. Aarseth, “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” in Hyper/Text/Theory, ed. George P. Landow (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 51–86.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 60.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 65. Author’s emphasis.
T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” Proceedings of the 20th National ACM Conference (1965), 96.
Espen J. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 1–2.
An especially engaging treatment of this topic as it relates to the process of signification in literature can be found in Lars Nylander, “Literature In and Out of Time: Temporality in Theory, Narrative, and Authorship,”Literature and Psychology 47, no. 4 (2001): 1–37.
Gunnar Liestol, “‘Gameplay’: From Synthesis to Analysis (and Vice Versa),” in Digital Media Revisited: Theoretical and Conceptual Innovations in Digital Domains, ed. Gunnar Liestol, Andrew Morrison, and Terje Rasmussen (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003), 390.
It may be worth nothing that it is the traditional print that has won Strickland the most acclaim. While we need not accept professional accolades as a measure of literary merit, they do help us describe the works’ cultural impact around the time of publication. Among her many honors, Strickland received the Poetry Society of America’s prestigious Alice Fay di Castignola Award in 2000 for the manuscript of her V project.
N. Katherine Hayles, My Mother Was a Computer: Digital Subjects and Literary Texts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 51.
Terry Harpold considers such challenges of the upgrade path in his Ex-Foliations: Reading Machines and the Upgrade Path (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). Especially interesting in light of the present discussion is Harpold’s treatment of Vannevar Bush’s previously cited essay, in which Bush outlines his design for a machine (Memex) that both collects information and records the history of its own reading; see pages 20–43.
Strickland, True North, iv.
Without tackling this question directly, Hayles provides a nuanced discussion of the continuities between electronic and print media storage in the fourth chapter of My Mother Was a Computer; see pages 89–116. Of ongoing interest here is Matthew Kirchenbaum’s research into the preservation of born-digital media environments, including text and “virtual worlds,” which one can follow from his website,http://mkirschenbaum.wordpress.com/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland and Cynthia Lawson, “Making the Vniverse,”http://www.cddc.vt.edu/journals/newriver/strickland/essay/index.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Brian Lennon, “Literature and the Transposition of Media,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 72. Lev Manovich makes a similar observation with regard to the cinematic experiments that the European avant-gardes, effectively demonstrating how digital media have allowed for the realization of avant-garde concepts that were not technologically feasible a century ago: “the avant-garde became materialized in a computer.”Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 307. Author’s emphasis.
Stephanie Strickland, “Born Digital,” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/182942?id=182942, accessed May 2, 2011.
In Hypertext and the Female Imaginary, Jaishree K. Odin provides a thorough and persuasive account of how the experience of reading Strickland’s poems differs depending on whether one is reading the print or digital versions. If we accept Strickland’s definition of electronic literature as offered, Odin’s reading across media would itself come into question. Jaishree K. Odin, Hypertext and the Female Imaginary (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 73–102.
Brian Kim Stefans, “The Dreamlife of Letters,” http://www.arras.net/RNG/flash/dreamlife/dreamlife_index.html, accessed May 2, 2011. Oni Buchanan, The Mandrake Vehicles,http://collection.eliterature.org/2/works/buchanan_mandrake_vehicles.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Oni Buchanan, Spring (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 85.
Stefans also calls for reader input to run the poem’s individual sections, but only once the entire poem has completed its initial run.
Aarseth addresses the insistent drive toward novelty among authors and theorists of electronic literature in his essay, “We All Want to Change the World: The Ideology of Innovation in Digital Media,” in Digital Media Revisited, 415–440.
Robert Coover, “The Passing of the Golden Age,” Feed 02.10.00,http://www.feedmag.com/templates/default.php3?a_id=1211, accessed June 1, 2011. As I have already mentioned, the claims to nonlinearity in hypertext originate with Nelson’s original definition of the medium: “Films, sound recordings, and video recordings are also linear strings, basically for mechanical reasons. But these, too, can now be arranged as non-linear systems—for instance, lattices—for editing purposes, or for display with different emphasis.” T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” 96. But not all early practitioners of hypertext poetry conceived of their work as a rejection of linearity. Eduardo Kac, commenting on his first “hyperpoem,” “Storms” (1993), notes that when reading hypertext online “one chooses paths but each locus provides stable words on a two-dimensional computer screen, which are scanned by the eye in linear fashion, like in print, from top to bottom, left to right.” Eduardo Kac, “Holopoetry and Hyperpoetry,” in The Pictured Word: Word and Image Interactions 2, eds. Martin Heusser et al. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 177. Eduardo Kac, “Storms,”http://www.ekac.org/storms.swf, accessed May 2, 2011. By the time Coover wrote his essay, several other theorists were also questioning claims that hypertext provided a “nonlinear” reading experience. Eric Zimmerman, also writing in 2000, demands that we no longer regard hypertext as meaningfully interactive, or at least not in a way that we do not already know: “There are plenty of examples of explicitly interactive media—architecture, computer games, letters-to-the-editor, sports, jazz—that offer richer and more meaningful interaction than tired old hypertext novels.” He then makes the very strong point that hypertext is simply a different kind of linearity: “Content-based interactive texts are more indebted to their linear cousins like film or novels. They consist of segments of pregenerated linear content, received in some order by the participant.” Eric Zimmerman, “Against Hypertext,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 79, 81.

Fig. 2. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone,” viewed on a MacBook Pro running Firefox 3.5.11.

Fig. 3. Stephanie Strickland, “To Be Here as Stone Is,” as published in True North (1997).

2. The Upward Journey: Embracing Loss

Notes

One sentence in, I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for the Journal of Electronic Publishing whose many felicitous suggestions and comments contributed greatly to the essay’s development.
http://www.feedmag.com/wp/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Empedocles, The Fragments of Empedocles, trans. William Ellery Leonard (Chicago: Open Court, 1908), 58. Statements regarding the poetic line’s mapping of time are a staple of prosody manuals. Among the more jocular of these expressions is John Hollander’s mimetic description, “Blank verse can be extremely flexible: / It ticks and tocks the time with even feet / (Or sometimes, cleverly, can end limping).” John Hollander,Rhyme’s Reason: A Guide to English Verse, 3rd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 12. But as Paul Fussell points out, the poetic line need not be composed in any standard meter—and, in fact, need not be a line of verse at all—in order to demonstrate a necessary temporal progress, one that places rhetorical emphasis on the end: “Every part of a poetic line accumulates weight progressively: every part anticipates the end of the line. This is less because the line is positioned in a poem than because the line is a unit of measured time.” Paul Fussell, Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, revised ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1979), 167.
Xenophanes of Colophon, Fragments, trans. J. H. Lesher (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 67.
“Now as I say these words,” Horace concludes the eleventh ode of Book 1, “Time has already fled / Backwards away— / Leuconoe— / Hold on to the day.” Horace, The Odes of Horace, trans. David Ferry (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997), 33. We are in the habit of repeating this sentiment in Horace’s original Latin, carpe diem. In Book 3, however, Horace announces, “Today I have finished a work outlasting bronze /.../ Nor can the rain obliterate this work, / Nor can the years, nor can the ages passing.” Ibid., 255. David Ferry provides several similar examples of Horace’s “shifting” attitudes toward the poem’s orientation in time in his introduction to the same volume, xi.
William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, vol. 2, ed. Christopher MacGowan (New York: New Directions, 2001), 54. As Cecelia Tichi suggests, Williams’ approach to the poem as a language technology had been conditioned by the temporal demands of rapid industrialization: “Williams’s kinetics was a correlative of his poetics of efficiency. Both were a deliberate response to the new fast pace of an industrial United States whose tempos were set by machine technology.” Cecelia Tichi, Shifting Gears: Technology, Literature, Culture in Modernist America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987), 230.
As an example from the last decades of the twentieth century, consider the closing lines of Stanley Kunitz’s late poem “Passing Through”: “I’m passing through a phase: / gradually I’m changing to a word. / Whatever you choose to claim / of me is always yours; / nothing is truly mine / except my name. I only / borrowed this dust.” Stanley Kunitz, Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), 131. Or else any number of poems by A. R. Ammons, whose early training in biology informed his treatment of how literature represents natural cycles of growth and decay. See especially his poems “Eyesight” and “Corson’s Inlet.”
Paul Celan, Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan, trans. John Felstiner (New York: W.W. Norton, 2001), 396.
See, for example, Strickland’s poem “Errand Upon Which We Came” (2000–2001; hypertext designed by M. D. Coverly), which uses kinetic, sometimes blurring text to convey the ephemerality of the text vis-à-vis its natural subject, http://califia.us/Errand/home.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland, True North (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 85. For the hypertext poem designed by M. D. Coverly, see http://califia.us/SI/stone1a.htm, accessed May 2, 2011.
For an eloquent treatment of the Platonic and Aristotelian approaches to concept, see Hans Blumenberg,Paradigms for a Metaphorology, trans. Robert Savage (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010), 6–12.
Stephanie Strickland, “Quantum Poetics: Six Thoughts,” in Media Poetry: An International Anthology, ed. Eduardo Kac (Bristol: Intellect Books, 2007), 27.
Dino Buzzati, Poem Strip, trans. Marina Hass (New York: NYRB Classics, 2009).
Vannevar Bush, “As We May Think,” The Atlantic Monthly (July 1945),http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1945/07/as-we-may-think/3881/, accessed April 27, 2011.
John. M. Slatin, “Reading Hypertext: Order and Coherence in a New Medium,” College English 52, no. 8 (December 1990): 874.
George P. Landow, “The Rhetoric of Hypermedia: Some Rules for Authors,” in Hypermedia and Literary Studies, Paul Delany and George P. Landow, eds. (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1991), 100.
George P. Landow, “Hypertext in Literary Education, Criticism, and Scholarship,” Computers and the Humanities 23 (1989), 174–175.
Vilém Flusser, Writings, ed. Andreas Ströhl (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 39.
Ovid, The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt, 1995), 327.
For a thorough discussion of the movement of texts and publishing markets away from print, see Ted Striphas,The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009). True to its subject, the book can be downloaded under a Creative Commons license from the author’s website, http://www.thelateageofprint.org/download/, accessed June 1, 2011.
For the TextFlow project of the Academy of American Poets, see http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/531, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated interpretations of work by a single author, see Billy Collins Action Poetry, http://www.bcactionpoet.org, accessed May 2, 2011. For animated shorts that interpret work by a number of different authors, see http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/uwm/index.html accessed May 2, 2011.
Born Magazine, http://bornmagazine.org, accessed May 2, 2011.
I am following N. Katherine Hayles’ flexible definition of the term “digital born” as “a first-generation digital object created on a computer and (usually) meant to be read on a computer.” N. Katherine Hayles, Electronic Literature: New Horizons for the Literary (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 3.
Another, perhaps more exacting way of stating this would be to say that poetic reading, the set of practices that allow the reader to appreciate the lyric poem’s effects, cannot be “linear.” Even those forms of repetition that make relatively modest demands on the reader, such as end-rhyme and anaphora, are predicated upon that reader’s ability to reconstruct the poem’s vertical architecture even as he or she is reading across the lines. Internal rhymes, assonance, and consonance require the same skill at a higher level of sophistication. Rhetorical effects, meanwhile, may demand that the reader process meaningful tensions between vertical and horizontal sequence (this is the case, for example, with chiasmus) or to refer outside of the text altogether (metaphor, allusion), and to do so by collapsing the discrete verbal elements together, effectively “synchronizing” what appears on the page as sequence. Rather than opening the way for new compositional practices, then, hypertext would appear simply to reframe those practices that are already encoded within the poem.
Espen J. Aarseth, “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” in Hyper/Text/Theory, ed. George P. Landow (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 51–86.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 60.
Ibid., “Nonlinearity and Literary Theory,” 65. Author’s emphasis.
T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” Proceedings of the 20th National ACM Conference (1965), 96.
Espen J. Aarseth, Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 1–2.
An especially engaging treatment of this topic as it relates to the process of signification in literature can be found in Lars Nylander, “Literature In and Out of Time: Temporality in Theory, Narrative, and Authorship,”Literature and Psychology 47, no. 4 (2001): 1–37.
Gunnar Liestol, “‘Gameplay’: From Synthesis to Analysis (and Vice Versa),” in Digital Media Revisited: Theoretical and Conceptual Innovations in Digital Domains, ed. Gunnar Liestol, Andrew Morrison, and Terje Rasmussen (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003), 390.
It may be worth nothing that it is the traditional print that has won Strickland the most acclaim. While we need not accept professional accolades as a measure of literary merit, they do help us describe the works’ cultural impact around the time of publication. Among her many honors, Strickland received the Poetry Society of America’s prestigious Alice Fay di Castignola Award in 2000 for the manuscript of her V project.
N. Katherine Hayles, My Mother Was a Computer: Digital Subjects and Literary Texts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 51.
Terry Harpold considers such challenges of the upgrade path in his Ex-Foliations: Reading Machines and the Upgrade Path (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). Especially interesting in light of the present discussion is Harpold’s treatment of Vannevar Bush’s previously cited essay, in which Bush outlines his design for a machine (Memex) that both collects information and records the history of its own reading; see pages 20–43.
Strickland, True North, iv.
Without tackling this question directly, Hayles provides a nuanced discussion of the continuities between electronic and print media storage in the fourth chapter of My Mother Was a Computer; see pages 89–116. Of ongoing interest here is Matthew Kirchenbaum’s research into the preservation of born-digital media environments, including text and “virtual worlds,” which one can follow from his website,http://mkirschenbaum.wordpress.com/, accessed June 1, 2011.
Stephanie Strickland and Cynthia Lawson, “Making the Vniverse,”http://www.cddc.vt.edu/journals/newriver/strickland/essay/index.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Brian Lennon, “Literature and the Transposition of Media,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 72. Lev Manovich makes a similar observation with regard to the cinematic experiments that the European avant-gardes, effectively demonstrating how digital media have allowed for the realization of avant-garde concepts that were not technologically feasible a century ago: “the avant-garde became materialized in a computer.”Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 307. Author’s emphasis.
Stephanie Strickland, “Born Digital,” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/182942?id=182942, accessed May 2, 2011.
In Hypertext and the Female Imaginary, Jaishree K. Odin provides a thorough and persuasive account of how the experience of reading Strickland’s poems differs depending on whether one is reading the print or digital versions. If we accept Strickland’s definition of electronic literature as offered, Odin’s reading across media would itself come into question. Jaishree K. Odin, Hypertext and the Female Imaginary (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 73–102.
Brian Kim Stefans, “The Dreamlife of Letters,” http://www.arras.net/RNG/flash/dreamlife/dreamlife_index.html, accessed May 2, 2011. Oni Buchanan, The Mandrake Vehicles,http://collection.eliterature.org/2/works/buchanan_mandrake_vehicles.html, accessed May 2, 2011.
Oni Buchanan, Spring (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 85.
Stefans also calls for reader input to run the poem’s individual sections, but only once the entire poem has completed its initial run.
Aarseth addresses the insistent drive toward novelty among authors and theorists of electronic literature in his essay, “We All Want to Change the World: The Ideology of Innovation in Digital Media,” in Digital Media Revisited, 415–440.
Robert Coover, “The Passing of the Golden Age,” Feed 02.10.00,http://www.feedmag.com/templates/default.php3?a_id=1211, accessed June 1, 2011. As I have already mentioned, the claims to nonlinearity in hypertext originate with Nelson’s original definition of the medium: “Films, sound recordings, and video recordings are also linear strings, basically for mechanical reasons. But these, too, can now be arranged as non-linear systems—for instance, lattices—for editing purposes, or for display with different emphasis.” T. H. Nelson, “Complex Information Processing: A File Structure for the Complex, the Changing, and the Indeterminate,” 96. But not all early practitioners of hypertext poetry conceived of their work as a rejection of linearity. Eduardo Kac, commenting on his first “hyperpoem,” “Storms” (1993), notes that when reading hypertext online “one chooses paths but each locus provides stable words on a two-dimensional computer screen, which are scanned by the eye in linear fashion, like in print, from top to bottom, left to right.” Eduardo Kac, “Holopoetry and Hyperpoetry,” in The Pictured Word: Word and Image Interactions 2, eds. Martin Heusser et al. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 177. Eduardo Kac, “Storms,”http://www.ekac.org/storms.swf, accessed May 2, 2011. By the time Coover wrote his essay, several other theorists were also questioning claims that hypertext provided a “nonlinear” reading experience. Eric Zimmerman, also writing in 2000, demands that we no longer regard hypertext as meaningfully interactive, or at least not in a way that we do not already know: “There are plenty of examples of explicitly interactive media—architecture, computer games, letters-to-the-editor, sports, jazz—that offer richer and more meaningful interaction than tired old hypertext novels.” He then makes the very strong point that hypertext is simply a different kind of linearity: “Content-based interactive texts are more indebted to their linear cousins like film or novels. They consist of segments of pregenerated linear content, received in some order by the participant.” Eric Zimmerman, “Against Hypertext,” American Letters and Commentary 12 (2000): 79, 81.