Until you come for me, Vryce, he thought. Until you do what your nature demands, and try to put an end to me. In my domain. On my terms. He chuckled darkly. You haven’t a chance in hell, my friend. But I’ll enjoy watching you try.
Dark fae swirling about his feet, silken robes brushing the floor as he walked, the Neocount of Merentha headed toward his audience chamber.
Black floor and dark draperies: they soothed the eye and calmed the heart, nourishing his nightbound soul. His visitor was a different story. Though the demon’s chosen body was also black, his form was riddled with flaws and sharp edges that caught what little light there was and magnified it, making it bright enough to sting the Hunter’s newly-healed eyes. His voice was likewise irritating, a thing of life and hidden sunlight and the ceaseless cacophony of day.
“Excellency.” The demon bowed. “Allow me to—”
“You’re a guest in my domain,” the Hunter interrupted. “And not a very welcome one. You can design yourself a suitable form for this audience or leave. Now.” When the demon failed to respond he added sharply, “I’m prepared to Banish you, if necessary.”
Calesta stiffened. “Of course, my lord.” The glittering edges of his obsidian flesh began to pulse—and then melted, into a smooth, rippling surface. His voice became a whispering thing, all night air and cool darkness. “Is this better, Prince of Jahanna? Does this please you?”
“It’ll do,” the Neocount said shortly. “What’s your business?”
“Exactly what you expect, my lord. I saw what your vengeance did to my Mistress. I have no wish to suffer a similiar fate.” The black form bowed deeply. “I’ve come to make an offering. A gesture of conciliation.”
“With no strings attached?” the Hunter asked dryly.
The demon laughed softly. “You’re not the fool that she was, my prince. You know the world, and its workings. Let’s say that it would please me if you accepted my offering. It would please me very much.”
“I’m listening.”
The demon glanced toward the window; faceted eyes glittered in the fae-light. “I’ve found you a woman. A rare delight. A beautiful, delicate flower of a girl, whom the gods must have designed with you in mind. A fragile spirit and a strong young body married together in perfect unity, so that the one might suffer while the other endures. She could pleasure you for hours, Hunter. Not like the others. This one was born to be devoured.”
“And where is this . . . jewel?”
“In your realm, prince. I took the liberty of bringing her here while you slept. I anticipated that when you awakened you might be . . . hungry. See for yourself,” he whispered. “It’s all there, for the Knowing.”
The Hunter gathered the dark fae about him and bound it to his will. Tendrils of power stretched forth, and touched the fleeing woman. He tasted the memory of her looking into a mirror, felt the absolute certainty of her beauty reverberate within him. And that soul! As fragile and as fine as porcelain in its tenor, but utterly resilient in its substance. He stroked her brain tenderly with his power, savoring her capacity for terror; she responded to him on at least a dozen levels, from the personal to the archetypal. A finely tuned instrument, that might produce whole symphonies of fear. It would have been a delight to hunt her under any circumstances; now, with the abstinence of a month or more sharpening the edge of his hunger, she was doubly irresistible.
“You would feed off my pleasure,” he challenged the demon.
The dark figure chuckled. “You’d have more than enough pleasure to spare in this hunt.”
“I don’t support parasites.”
“Not true, my prince. Not true at all. What about Karril? You’ve dedicated more than one hunt to him. While all he does is watch, and cheer you on. I can bring you victims, Hunter. I can read the hunger inside you better than any other, and scour the world for suitable prey. You doubt my skill? Test me, then. This one’s a gift. No strings attached—this time. If she pleases you as much as I think she will. . . .” He bowed, deeply. “I live to serve, my lord.”
The taste of her was on his lips, in his soul. It was hard to keep his voice steady as he asked, “What have you told her?”
“The Hunter’s rules. The Forest’s tradition. That you’ll track her as a man would, in a man’s form, using no Working. That she has three days and nights in which to evade you . . . and if she succeeds, she’ll be free of you forever.”
“And did she believe that last point?”
“Of course she did. I understand how important that is, Hunter. It’s the death of hope, rather than of the flesh itself, which is your true kill.” And he added, “I have taken one special liberty, my lord.”
The Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“This is her third night here. I tracked her myself for two of them, just as you would have. So that her terror would be at its peak by the time you went out to take her. After such a long healing sleep . . . I thought you might be very hungry.”
“And you were right,” he said softly. “In that . . . and in your choice. I accept your offering, Calesta. If she pleases me as much as I think she may . . . then we can talk about the possibility of future arrangements.” He looked toward the window, at the Forest beyond; it seemed he could smell her fear on the wind. “That’s all for now,” he said quietly. “You may go.”
The demon smiled, and bowed again. “Good feeding, Hunter.”
The forest air was cold and dry, and her fear was something he could taste on his lips as he breathed it in, testing the wind for her scent. Beneath his feet her imprints were clear, hurried steps that dug deep into the half-frozen earth and then tore it loose—running steps that were skewed as if from exhaustion, a line of imprints that staggered from tree to tree as if she were desperate for some support, but dared not pause long enough to take it. Because resting, even for a moment, meant losing ground before him. And with only hours to go before her last dawn, she dared not waste a precious second.
Run, my fragile one. Run for the sunlight. Only a short time more before your safety is certain . . . and then, in those last desperate moments, I’ll take you. And I’ll taste your hope as it dies, drowned out in a sea of terror. . . . He could feel her already, a faint flicker of fear against the edge of his mind, and desire filled him. What form should he take, once he had her? Her fears were so many, and so deeply rooted . . . he had never faced such a wealth of options before. The thought of taking her blood excited him, a strange sensation; not since his early days had he taken pleasure in so brutal an attack, or taken on a form so centered in pure physicality. Perhaps it was the result of traveling among humans again, of accepting their blood in cold, measured doses—enough to awaken that hunger again, not enough to satisfy it. Whatever the reason, he found that the thought of such a physical assault made him burn with hunger, and his hands shook as he brushed a drift of dead leaves from her trail, in order to read it more clearly. Perhaps a sexual assault would serve his purpose best. Not that he was capable of sexual congress, or even of mimicking its forms; procreation was an act of life, and it was as forbidden to him as fire was, or the light of the sun. But a woman such as that, who found herself overpowered by a man, who might be rendered naked with so little effort . . . she would come to her own conclusions regarding his intent, and those were nearly as nourishing as the act itself. He imagined the taste of her blood under those circumstances, and shivered from the force of his need. Calesta knew my hunger well, he thought. Better than I knew it myself.
And then he caught her scent on the wind, and he knew that he was close. Very close. He took care to move quietly, now, avoiding the crisp leaves that littered the ground about him. It seemed that he could hear her labored breathing, underscored by the pounding of her heart. So much blood, rendered so very warm by her terror . . . it seemed he could taste it on his lips already as he followed her trail, seemed that he could feel the rush of her fear as it enveloped him, hot and wild and utterly unfettered. . . .
He ran. Lo
ng legs consuming the Forest ground at a pace her own could not possibly equal, sharp eyes picking out the marks of her trail in the near darkness. Calesta was right, he could never have waited. And this way there was no need to. For two nights now the demon had tracked her in his stead, playing all the subtle games that he had perfected in order to bring her terror to a fever pitch. All that remained was for the Hunter to harvest that fear, to drink it in along with her life and the last of her hope—to replenish the strength that two months of traveling with those humans had drained from him. A sweet prospect, indeed.
A clearing. Trees fell back, as though parting for him. At the far side a slight figure paused, then spun about in panic. Black hair whipped across a pale face, obscuring delicate features. Her slender fingers were red with blood, where thorns and rough bark had scraped them raw; her clothing, once fine, had been tattered by three days of flight through the woods. Fear blossomed out from her like a welcoming fire, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to resist its heat. He crossed the ground between them quickly and closed his hand about her wrist. Her pulse fluttered wildly, like that of a terrified bird, and she moaned softly as he pulled her toward him. Too weak to struggle; too overwhelmed to plead. He shut his eyes and let himself sink into the depths of her nightmare imagination, let all the images that were within her surface and take form, so that he might choose from among them. So many, so rich . . . the smell of her blood made him giddy with hunger, and he felt himself pushing the torn shirt back from her shoulders, baring skin as pale as the moonlight itself—
“You,” she whispered.
The word was like a blow. For a moment the world spun about him, dizzily—and then he managed to regain control, and he opened his eyes. And he released her suddenly, and staggered back. Stared at her, not quite believing.
“I won’t run from you,” she whispered.
Those eyes, that face . . . he remembered the night he had walked her home, so comfortably arrogant as he played at shielding her from the dangers of the night . . . remembered the promise he had made to her, the vow she didn’t know how to value. That the Hunter would never harm her. That he would never harm her.
“I promised myself that,” she breathed. There were tears in her eyes now—of sadness, not fear, a tender mourning that had no place in his brutal realm. “For what you gave me . . . if you wanted . . . whatever.” She bit her lower lip, fighting for courage. “I won’t run,” she whispered. “Not from you.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He turned away. His hands were shaking—with rage, with hatred. “That bastard. . . .”
He drew in a ragged breath, tried to master his hunger. Tried to dim down the passion that had been driving him, until he could control it. Tried not to think how close he had just come to betraying himself, or at whose prompting it had almost happened. . . .
There was a touch on his arm. Light, like the wingstroke of a bird. “Are you all right?” she whispered. And suddenly he could neither strike out at her, nor laugh at the total incongruousness of the question—but was caught somewhere between the two expressions and thus frozen. Unable to react.
At last he managed, “We were betrayed. Both of us.” He turned back to her, tried to still the tide of hunger that rose up within him at the sight of her. So very, very delicate . . . he swallowed back on that impulse, hard, and said, “I promised not to hurt you. I promised the Hunter would never hurt you.”
Son of a bitch!
The rage, hot inside him, was finally overwhelming the hunger. It allowed him to think. “Here.” He pulled his medallion out of his shirt—on a new chain, made to replace that which Ciani had torn from his neck so many weeks ago—and handed it to her. “Take this. Hold onto it. None of my people will harm you while you have it, and the beasts . . . they obey my will. Nothing will hurt you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Confused, as her fingers closed about the thin disk and its chain. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t want to,” he assured her. “Ever.”
With effort, he managed to step back from her. The smell of her blood was like a magnet to his hunger—but she no longer feared him, and that helped immensely. Even as it amazed him, that it was true.
“I’ll send you help,” he told her. “Someone to get you safely out of here. You wait, with that . . . someone will come. You show him that. You’ll be safe.”
Calesta, you bastard . . . you’ll pay for this indignity. And so will whoever or whatever spawned you. I swear it!
He turned to go. And he felt her fingers on his arm again; there was fear in her touch.
“Do you have to go?” she breathed. I mean . . . please.“
He turned to her in amazement, saw the desperate hope in her eyes. She was afraid—not of him, now, but of the Forest. His creation. He was her island of refuge in a vast sea of terror, the single creature whom she did not fear in all of his domain. The concept was so bizarre he could hardly absorb it.
“I have a score to settle,” he told her. And then, because it seemed to suit this bizarre new role that he had made for himself, he added, “You’ll be all right.”
I promise you.
The harbor at Faraday was bustling with activity, longshoremen swarming across the open docks like insects on honey. By now most of the tugs had put out to sea, and the small skiffs that would transport passengers across the shallow harbor waters were already making their way toward their motherships, whose vast sails and steady turbines stood ready to tame the dangerous eastern waters.
The captain of the Golden Glory looked out over the docks and snorted sharply. Then he climbed to where Damien stood, on a shelf overlooking the harbor. And put his hands on the hips, facing the man.
“Tide’s going out soon,” he informed him. “Another hour.”
The priest nodded.
“It’s a hard double, this time. Best we’ll get. It could take us past the Shelf before anything from outwater could hit us—you listening to me?”
“A hard double tide,” Damien repeated. “One hour. Anything else?”
“Only that we’ve really got to leave, this time. The investors won’t stand for another delay—and neither will I. You want a safe crossing, we start now. Otherwise you can find yourself another captain, not to mention another ship.”
Damien smiled faintly. “And you think that pack of gold-seekers on board will let you quit, just like that?”
The captain grinned, displaying several broken teeth. “You got me there, Reverend. But look: it’s you who got it all together, right? You who found enough bodies willing to cross the sea, to get us some investors to pay the backing costs, to buy yourself a good safe crossing . . . so why waste all that? I don’t want to be out there in storm season and neither do you. Whatever you’re waiting for . . . it’s had its fair chance, all right? Let’s take this one and go.”
He waited a moment for an answer—and then, receiving none, shook his head in exasperation and began the long climb down. “One hour!” he called back. “Be there!” Damien watched as he negotiated the dangers of the rubble-covered slope, finally down the last twenty feet or so to the level of the piers. Then he looked up, back toward the road from Faraday proper—and froze, as a tall, lean figure and a single horse stepped out into the moonlight.
He climbed up the remaining slope quickly until he stood face to face with the man. The Hunter’s gaze was as cold as ever, and considerably more confident than when he’d last seen it. The pale eyes blazed with anger.
“If you say one smug word about this,” Gerald Tarrant warned, “—at any time—anything like ‘I told you so,’ or, ‘What took you so long?’—I will sink that miserable crate to the bottom of the ocean, and swim home if I have to. Am I making myself clear?”
He carefully avoided all the obvious rejoinders, and said only, “Of course, your Excellency. Infinitely clear.” And bowed, with only a hint of mockery.
The Hunter glared at him, as if about to speak—and then simply
shook his head in exasperation, and began to walk toward the harbor. The night-black horse, laden with several travel bags, followed obediently behind.
Damien watched as the figure faded into darkness, disappearing behind a turn of the switchback road. And then shook his own head, smiling slightly.
“Welcome aboard,” he whispered.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Having failed at both science and sewing on the high school level, C.S. Friedman decided to devote her life to science fiction and costume design. She presently teaches costume design at a small private college in northern Virginia, and has published patterns for historical costumes, most recently for the English and Italian Renaissance. She has been an active member of numerous historical re-creation societies including The Society for Creative Anachronism, Medieval Studies and Restoration, The Brigade of the American Revolution, L‘Epee et la Rose, and the League of Renaissance Swordsmen. She has fenced with both period and modern weapons, and has choreographed combat for the stage. Currently she is doing research for the second volume in the Coldfire trilogy, which begins with BLACK SUN RISING.
Novels by C. S. FRIEDMAN available from DAW Books
IN CONQUEST BORN
THE MADNESS SEASON
BLACK SUN RISING
C. S. Friedman, Black Sun Rising
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