The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(74)

“The only regret that I have ever known is that I regret when I regret,” Entreri said, rather callously, Effron thought. “You cannot change what has happened.”

“But you can move forward to make amends.”

Entreri scoffed at that remark.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?” Dahlia accused. “Isn’t that why you traveled to Port Llast with us?”

“I wanted my dagger back.”

“No,” Dahlia said, shaking her head and now smiling, and now, too, that the conversation had shifted back to Entreri’s issues, Effron had to take his leave. He slipped out of the building into the alleyway and returned to his corporeal form, then immediately fell back against the building, needing the support of the solid wall to keep him upright.

He tried to make sense of the conversation he had overheard, but the mere fact that it was a reference to him, and to that murderous act, had him overwhelmed, and only added to his already mounting sense of desperation.

He needed to hear that conversation again, but not between Dahlia and someone else. He needed to hear her admit her crime to him, openly, so that he could pay her back violently.

But she was going to sail away, for months, and on a journey that might well drop her at any port along the way, particularly considering the explosion he foresaw between Dahlia and Drizzt. Drizzt would return to Baldur’s Gate, unless Dahlia and Entreri killed him, but Dahlia and Entreri might not. There was nothing for them in the north, any more than elsewhere, for they were clearly not possessed of Drizzt’s sense of duty regarding Port Llast.

He was going to lose her, perhaps never to regain the trail.

And he was so close!

And so it was decided for him, then and there. He rushed down to the docks, a purse of gold in his hand. Then, his task complete, he hustled for a particular alleyway, a dead end corridor he had meticulously scouted along the route Dahlia would surely take on her return to Drizzt.

There were a few people on the main boulevard despite the late hour. Effron grew nervous watching them, and began stepping from foot to foot. Would they intervene and stifle his well-laid plans? What was he doing here? Even if he got away, Draygo Quick would be waiting for him on the other end of his shadowstep, and the old wretch would not be amused.

He almost abandoned his plans. Almost, but then he told himself that it was now or perhaps never, and then, before he could argue in the other direction, she appeared at the end of the lane.

She walked past the street lamps, seeming distracted—likely, she had just come from Artemis Entreri’s bed, Effron surmised, and that unsettling notion only made him hate her even more.

Effron fought hard to get out of his own thoughts. He had almost missed the cue, he realized. He had timed this perfectly, count by count, step by step, and if he wanted to catch one as dangerous as Dahlia, he had to be perfect.

He counted the street lamps, then again, measuring her pace, holding himself back until the very moment she reached the appointed spot. Then he held his steps in proper cadence, and didn’t run into her path as his heart screamed at him to do.

He crossed to the far side of the main avenue, directly in line with Dahlia’s sight, at just the right time.

She was close enough to see him, but not close enough to catch him.

Dahlia’s eyes went wide, and she staggered a bit, clearly overwhelmed.

Effron purposely did not look directly at her, and shifted past, into the alleyway. He broke into a run, suppressing his fears that she would not follow, refusing to allow the doubting words into his mind: Had he so shocked her with his presence that she might just run off?

The end of the alley turned to the right, around the back of one building. From that corner, he peeked back toward the street, and his heart leaped when Dahlia, walking cautiously, turning into the alleyway. With the backlighting of the street lamps, he could see her, but she couldn’t see him. He knew that fact from his meticulous scouting, but despite his intellectual confidence, his emotions almost broke him again.

Effron mentally scolded himself and began his quiet spellcasting. With a last glance toward Dahlia, who was now several strides into the alleyway, he released his dweomers, his three dimensional form becoming that of a wraith once more.

He walked into the seams of the stone building—he had wraith-walked this route many, many times, determining it exactly—and slithered along the course of the alleyway, passing Dahlia, who did not notice. Now beyond her, nearer the street, he waited, and that was the hardest part of all!

Dahlia reached the corner and peered around, now in a low crouch, weapon in hand. Yes, weapon in hand, Effron thought, for she meant to do that which she had failed to do on the day of his birth.

Effron slid out from the wall and resumed his normal form. He wanted to shout out at Dahlia, but couldn’t actually find his voice in that moment. He took out a jar and dumped its contents on the cobblestones. The tiny undead umber hulk began stomping toward its prey even before the miniaturization dweomer had worn away, like a large bug skittering down the alley. Just a few tiny strides from Effron, it began to grow, and its footsteps began to resound with a thunderous report.

Dahlia leaped around, her eyes going wide, to Effron’s satisfaction.

The umber hulk charged in, fully grown now, twice a man’s height and thrice a man’s girth, with huge clacking mandibles snapping at the air, and waving menacingly giant hooked hands that could dig through stone, let alone tender flesh.