Sora frowned. She was loath to pull the chain out into the open; what if they stole it? It was the only thing remaining of her mother. But one look at Crash changed her mind. Better her necklace than her throat. She pulled the piece of jewelry out of her shirt, dangling it in the open.
Dorian squinted for a moment, then his eyes widened. His brows shot up to his hairline. “Is that...?”
“Yes. I am almost certain of it.”
“Ah.”
And the two fell silent.
Sora dropped the piece of jewelry back into her shirt. She raised a hand to her neck self-consciously. She wanted to ask what they were talking about—demand that they explain themselves—but she was too terrified. They could still kill her. Why keep her alive, just for a necklace? Just count your lucky stars, she told herself, biting her lip. At least they haven't disposed of you yet.
“So...is that the plan?” Dorian asked again. “We just bring her along?”
Crash was staring at her. His face was hard and cold behind the black veil. All she could see were those cool green eyes, like flecked algae, oddly unblinking.
And yet there was a sudden, inexplicable connection, an almost-understanding. She was reminded of her words in the hallway, desperate, breathless. Take me with you.
With an abrupt move, the dark man crossed the campsite and grabbed her satchel, easily yanking it from her grasp. Sora practically dropped the bag, she was so surprised. He ripped it open, spilling the contents to the ground, and she gasped, looking down in despair.
A sudden flush of embarrassment crossed her cheeks—of all things! There lay her humble loaf of travel bread and a small lump of dried meat. Her shabby gray cloak, still fine next to her captor's grimy clothes. The coin purse and flute. She glanced up, quickly meeting Dorian's eyes, then looked away. A tension settled on the camp.
Sora gazed at her belongings, trying to remember all she had packed. Her knife? Where had her knife gone? Her eyes darted around in the shadows and she finally saw the glint of a blade, half-obscured by a gnarled tree root. She looked away quickly, trying not to think about it, to alert her captors.
But the two men were still staring at the spilled contents of the satchel.
"Well," Dorian said after a moment. "It seems that we have a runaway.”
Sora's face paled, turning a stark white, humiliated to no end. Did he have to say it like that? Like she was a child sneaking off into the woods?
Crash picked up the bag of coins and tossed it to Dorian. It made a heavy sound in his hand. Then the assassin wordlessly sifted through her belongings, tucking away what he could use—very little. When the satchel was passed back to her, all it contained were a change of clothes and her wooden flute.
“Quaint,” Dorian murmured, raising an eyebrow. “But quite a bit of coin. Seems unlikely that a servant would carry this much. I doubt you are a commoner, my dear. And you don't appear a thief. By the way, what is that all over your face?”
It took Sora a moment to realize what he was talking about—and that he expected an answer. “M-My face?” she echoed. She raised a shaky hand to her cheek, then pulled it away, only to see smudges of red paint across her fingers. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” Dorian echoed.
“It's...eh...well,” Sora bit her lip. Should she tell them the truth? Who she really was? Or would that endanger her even further? She was nobility, after all, even if it was only Second Tier. She could be worth a hefty ransom....
Her eyes slid to the man in black. He had been in the manor, had witnessed the Blooming, or had at least known of it. Her identity was no secret. They were playing a game.
“Sora Fallcrest,” she said, resisting the urge to raise her chin. It felt strange to say her name without the “Lady” attached, but she was leaving that life behind. For good.
“Hmph. Fallcrest, eh?” Dorian raised an eyebrow and looked at Crash. “Our new pet has a pedigree?”
The dark man didn't reply.
Dorian continued, looking back to Sora. He spoke mockingly. “Well, then...it was your birthday, was it not? Happy birthday, my dear.”
Her eyes widened. In all of the panic, she had almost forgotten. “Oh. Yes.”
“Did you perform the Blooming?”
Sora was surprised by his knowledge of her, and more than a little insulted by his tone. He spoke as though she were five years old. Her brow lowered. What else did they know about her? Had they watched her family for some time? She didn't know much about the ways of criminals. It was very unnerving.
Her mouth was clamped shut. If they knew this much already, she wouldn't tell these bastards anything more. For all she knew, they had conspired to harm Lord Fallcrest, and she could well be next.
Dorian grinned at her silence, a sly, terrible look. “Any chance of a rendition?” he asked wickedly. “I've never seen a Blooming, but I hear it is quite...provocative. About fertility, you know.”
Gross. Sora glanced down, focusing on the fire. Her face turned even whiter with anger. The Blooming was a sacred ceremony. Young girls were prepped as early as eleven. They practiced for years...and here he was, scoffing at it like a jester's act.
Crash moved away from them, back to his horse. He finished removing the saddle and began brushing down the steed.
Dorian seemed to grow bored with her silence and let out a long yawn. “Sit down, girl. You’re making my neck ache,” he finally growled, and waved his hand.
Sora obeyed tightly, seething on the inside. Better to sit, she told herself firmly. Her legs were shaking from a mixture of fear and outrage, but she was trying to hide it. She sat as close to the hidden knife as possible. The dirt was cold and damp beneath the trees, and the chill crept straight through the seat of her pants. Good thing I thought to bring a cloak. She picked up the thick fabric from the ground, trying to drag it across her shoulders, though she was limited by her bound hands.
Dorian seemed to notice her discomfort, and another sneer pulled at his lips. “I suppose you’re used to soft feather beds and warm meals, eh? Well, don’t expect anything like that around here. You'll be sleeping on dirt until we find a way to get rid of you.”
She ignored him, though the words circled around in her head. Get rid of me. Would they kill her? Dispose of the body? Or worse, sell her? She glanced again to the man in black, who had finished with his horse and was now sitting at her far left. He held a long, thin sword across his lap, and his fingers moved over it expertly, turning and flipping the blade in his hands as he polished it with an old rag. He worked deftly, silently.
“Ah, the meat’s done,” Dorian said, and leaned forward to poke at the rabbit with a wicked knife. His face finally came into full view, brightly illuminated by the orange fire.
Sora drew in a sharp gasp. Two long ears protruded from his hair, elegantly sloped, pointed. Ashen skin and brilliant blue eyes, the color of an arctic sky. Dorian caught her stare and cocked his head slightly to one side. Twitched one long ear. His large, pale eyes met hers.
Then he showed his teeth—no, not teeth. Fangs. The man had fangs. Dear Goddess, fangs!
He chuckled and speared the meat from the fire in a vicious movement. “What's the matter, sweetness?” he said, addressing her stare. “Never seen a Wolfy before?”
“A...a Wolfy?” Sora stuttered, eyes growing wider. Now she didn't know what to think. She would have laughed if he hadn't been holding a sharp knife. “A Wolfy! That's impossible. You're kidding...!”
His look made her fall silent. She glanced at Crash, who was still polishing the sword, ignoring the conversation. “But...the Wolfy race....They've been dead for centuries....”
“Obviously not, since you're looking at one,” Dorian responded wryly.
Sora couldn't think of what to say.
“Rich and ignorant. Typical,” he grunted, and went back to slicing meat.
Sora couldn't help herself. If there was one thing she had earned in life, it was an education. “I'm not ignorant!” She burst out. “I've...I've heard
about your kind, but only as legends. Not even in history books,” she tried to explain. There were countless mentions of Wolfies in the tales of Kaelyn the Wanderer, but those were stories from ages past, before magic had been lost, before the great War of the Races....
And could she truly believe this man? He was an outlaw, a common thief. He might be playing another game...but his ears, his unusual hair...his fangs....
Dorian turned away from her toward the menace in black. “Seems like she'll be very useful,” he said, and offered Crash the first slice of meat. Sora heard the sarcasm.
Crash ignored the comment, as he seemed to ignore everything. His silence was not comforting. It caused a sense of foreboding, like a dark cloud hanging over their camp. Sora wished he would speak; she couldn't guess his thoughts. The lack of insight made her breath quiver. I'm of no value to them. Would they kill her after all? It was only a matter of time....
Crash lowered his cowl to eat. She stared in rapt attention, trying to glean some sense of the man. And again, she was surprised.
His features were almost pleasant to look upon. His face was clean, without a hint of stubble. A straight nose rested evenly above hard, unforgiving lips. A tight jaw, stern brows and deep-set eyes. She would have described him as a rogue fox or a wolf, ruffled from the wilderness yet strong and sleek. He appeared in his mid-20s, around the same age as Dorian. His skin was tanned by the road, creased by the sun. His form was lean and wiry, fit but not bulky, clothed in black leather and a well-used belt. She caught sight of a wide silver scar traveling down his jaw into his shirt. It looked like it had once been a ghastly wound. She shuddered.
He stared boldly back at her. She looked away quickly, only to give another jump of surprise. Hovering before her face was another slice of meat, proffered by the...the self-proclaimed Wolfy.
"Come now, sweetness," Dorian said, with a slight bite to it. “Plain meat not good enough for you?”
Sora glared at him, thinking all sorts of horrible things. She forcefully grabbed the piece of meat, though it was hard to hold with her tied wrists. She bit into it and chewed through, trying not to grimace at the burnt flavor, the stringy, tough sinews that caught between her teeth. It was, in a word, disgusting.
The man snorted and sat back, then took a healthy portion of the rabbit for himself. “'You're welcome,'” he said, mocking her once again.
Sora refused to rise to the bait. She concentrated on eating and kept to a stubborn silence. She didn't want their attention, so she wouldn't ask for it.
Eventually, her two captors finished their meals. They shared a glance, then stood up, moving away from the fire. They paused somewhere just beyond her line of sight, hidden by a thin curtain of foliage, conversing in quiet tones. She obviously wasn't supposed to overhear their conversation.
Sora glanced around, wondering if they had a clear view of her. She was absolutely certain that they were discussing her death. In that moment, she was ready for anything, especially the worst. I won't sit here like a docile sheep! She scooted to the side and curled up, as close to the thick tree roots as she could get. She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. She waited for some sign that they were watching, but there was none. Carefully, she stretched out.
The knife was only a few inches from her hand.
Her fingers wrapped around the hilt.
She snatched the blade up into her palm, slipped it between her hands and started cutting one of the bonds. The rope was thick and tough, unexpectedly resistant. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, tight with the effort. She glanced up again, squinting against the glare of the fire, trying to glimpse the two figures between the leaves....
There was a blur before her eyes. A shadow flitted above her, a sudden rustle in the brush.
Then the knife was taken effortlessly from her fingers. Sora gasped. It was as though she had been holding a feather.
She sat up, shocked, to find Crash glaring down at her. The look made her heart stop.
"I don't make idle threats, girl," he hissed, and her blood turned to ice. “I spared you once. But we don't need you alive."
Thud. The knife struck the ground, less than a half-inch from her foot. Sora flinched. Her eyes widened. She looked from hilt to hand, to the hilt, then back to his hand. She hadn't even seen him move.
Crash turned and walked away. She watched his broad back, the ripple of muscle thinly veiled by his black shirt. His strength was shocking. The knife was fully embedded in the dirt, buried up to the hilt. She remembered how he had lifted her onto and off the horse, how he had effortlessly dragged her from the manor.
He crossed to the other side of the fire and sank back into the treeline, his sword once again in hand. Then he sat near the base of a tree, all but removed from her line of sight; so still that, after several moments, he seemed to blend into the woods behind him. The shadows rose up, licking at the edges of his body, ready to swallow him whole.
Sora didn't know how long she stared at that tree. The man wavered in and out of sight, like a ghost. Finally her eyes turned to Dorian, who had returned to his position across from the fire, sprawled in plain sight. He had a deck of worn yellow cards and was playing a game, throwing the cards down in a circular pattern, then occasionally flipping a few over. She was thankful when he didn't return her look. She had had enough threats for one evening.
She turned to her satchel and folded it, plumping up her change of clothes. Then she stretched out and laid her head against it, a makeshift pillow. If she pretended to sleep, maybe they would leave her alone.
Well, at least I'm not dead, she reminded herself, wrapping herself in the heavy cloak, trying to ignore the cold moisture seeping up from the ground. The forest sounds were loud and forceful, not soothing like she was used to hearing from her bedroom window. Bird calls seemed harsh and grating, the crickets like rusty violins. The fire snapped and crackled, eating at the air. The wind clawed and hissed through the leaves, branches cracking together. There were strange rustlings in the underbrush, the heavy bodies of four-footed animals. She tried not to flinch at every sound, not to groan with fear. Will we be attacked by wolves? A bear? Dark terrors seemed to loom between the trees, staring down at her.
And every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father drop to his knees, heavy as stone.
Chapter 3
It was the morning after the disastrous birthday. Lily stood on the wide grand foyer, thick sunlight spilling down the walls like syrup. Two large staircases stretched up behind her, starting on either side of the room and arching above her head. The floor was pure white granite, the walls were painted a deep navy blue with bright white crown molding. A set of carved, wooden double-doors stood open to her left, leading to the ruined ballroom. Servants ran in and out with brooms, dustbins and buckets of glass.
She kept twirling her apron, picking apart the seams, running over the hem. She looked at the white floor, the mud that had found its way between the tiles. She thought of the amount of time it would take to clean those tiles.
A rather tall, dark-haired man stood only a few feet away. He was dressed in a midnight-blue velvet suit trimmed in silver thread. He was young, traditionally handsome, yet his hair was flecked with gray. She knew from the other servants that he was in his prime, a desirable 28 years. There was a firmness around his mouth that spoke of heavy responsibility, which would explain the gray hairs.
She watched him shift in the sunlight. His hands rested on a tall, dark wood cane. His velvet suit was adorned with small tokens of the First Tier—a large gold pin in the shape of two unfurling wings and three badges carved from perfectly black onyx: military honors. And his House insignia, a rearing blue stallion on a field of silver thread. She knew the House colors, of course. Lord Gracen Seabourne, Captain of His Majesty's personal guard...one of the few military positions reserved for nobility.
“Lady Fallcrest is...gone?” he asked slowly. Lily didn't respond right away. It was a redundant question. She had already told him the
news.
“My Lord,” she bobbed a curtsy. “I went to check her room this morning. We all thought she was asleep last night. But when I looked in, it was the same as she had left it. No sign.”
Lord Gracen nodded slowly again. He had a stern face, as intense as an eagle, with dark, unreadable eyes. “And you are her personal handmaid?”
Lily nodded. He knew this as well. He had spoken first to Housekeeper Grem, the thankless woman in charge of the staff.
“I must ask....Did the Lady speak of any...discontent? Was she upset with her father?”
Lily's lips paled, set in a firm, tight line. She certainly couldn't lie. He had only to ask another servant or any of the serfs to know the truth. “The Lady argued with her father, just as any young person would. But...she is gentle, my Lord. She couldn't have....”
“And they maintained a stark silence these past two years? No letters? No pleasantries?”
Lily let out a slow breath. She knew what it looked like. “There were letters about her schooling. Few of them, to be sure. Lord Fallcrest was a...a practical man, good at business, not the warm or sensitive sort. Not the type to raise a daughter....”
Lord Gracen glanced up the first set of stairs to a large, closed oak door. Two servants stood outside the door, trying to appear alert after a long, sleepless night. Lily winced at their shabby appearance, crooked uniforms and mussed hair.
Beyond that tightly shut door was a very cold body. With Lord Fallcrest dead, the servants were holding their breaths, praying for Lady Sora's return. All of their jobs—their very livelihoods—hung in the balance. Unless the Lady reappeared, the estate would be seized by the King. A probate would ensue, the assets passed off to distant relatives. The King would keep a hefty chunk of money, to be given as gifts to his favorite courtiers.
A small crowd of serfs had already formed on the back steps; many had brought copies of their land contracts and a few even had swords. Lily didn't know where to start with them. My Lady! she admonished in her mind. Where could you have gone? She felt as though her younger sister had disappeared. She had known Lady Sora almost since birth, and knew her better than anyone. Her mistress rarely had both feet on the ground. Had she fled the manor? Taken a fright? Or perhaps, more likely, run away from the humiliation? Lily chewed her lip, determinedly examining the situation. There were no horses missing from the stables, and no one had seen her outside....