Larch turned suddenly cold eyes to her, eyes the colour of sleet. “What do you know, girl?”
Oh god, she thought. He’s one of *them*. They all are. It was something she had never told anyone, that night when she had gone hunting in a village a few miles away.
There had been a run of strange deaths, old legends and superstitions reappearing again. People found drained of their blood, others with their innards missing. Scenes from the tableau of hell that decorated church walls, and it was too easy for Sica to see grinning demons thronging those bodies. She had felt only a pity for them, a terrible pity that they had been so utterly destroyed. The village people had asked Sica to find out what was going on…finally she had trailed a boy called Theo Rasmussen, saw him meeting with a girl. Saw him tip back her head, sink two teeth that no human had into her pretty white throat.
He had finished with the girl, pretty half-witted Darcia. Sica had followed him as he walked off, to a cave a few miles away. Filled with his kind. Beautiful inhuman creatures. Women who lit candles from their fingers. People who became wolves, wild cats, birds of prey.
Sica had been maybe two years and ten then, no more. She had run back to the village, told no one. But she asked around and soon learned how to deal with their kind. She had almost forgotten her experience – only the satisfaction of putting a wooden knife between the ribs of Darcia’s killer remaining.
And now, again, the world turned and suddenly there was only the horrible knowledge that it would never be the same again, that nothing could ever be ordinary. That there was something out there hardly imaginable, as wild and inconceivable as dragons and centaurs. As beautiful and fatal. It was a fervour, an energy fuelled only by fear. They were *real*.
Larch Blackthorn’s voice snapped her back into the present. “You’re right, Rocyon. She knows.” He raised his eyebrows at the werewolf – that was what the boy had to be. “Question is, *how* does she know.”
Rocyon glared at her, green-gold eye glinting in the dim light. “She’s the girl who shot me earlier.” His glinting eyes promised he would not forget. And that she would suffer.
Larch looked at her, face interested and Sica stared back evenly, controlling her emotions, squashing them away. “You shot him?”
“He was a growling furry…thing at the time.” She was tempted to remark on the similarities between them, but decided that might not be a good idea – and besides it wasn’t true. She felt hopelessly trapped, pinned into a cage of her own making and now it was as though a tiger had been thrown in with her.
Now the aristocrat turned icy eyes on Rocyon. “You were stupid enough to let vermin see you. What am I supposed to do with her now?”
Sica got the feeling it was a rhetorical question – and that she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Dalia,” Larch said calmly. “Heal her arm.” An order, not a request. One used to authority.
The redhead shot a look of confusion at him. “But….”
“We’re going to have a hunt tomorrow.” His smile was bright and cold. “And it’s always more fun if the prey tries to fight.”
The witch smiled back at him, perfect understanding. Then she walked over to Sica and put her hands on her broken arm. Sica felt something like a rush of energy, sharp pain as her bones clicked into place, and then the bliss of knowing her arm was fixed. The witch nodded at Larch and left.
Rocyon leaned and tapped his eye. “I won’t forget this,” he spat. “An eye for an eye, human.” He was so close she could smell the stink of meat on his breath, smell the death that followed him. “You are mine.” He strode off and she put him out of her mind with a shudder now that he was out of her sight.
Sica flexed her arm a couple of times, amazed at how it was as if the pain had never been. She looked up to find Larch watching her with those unfathomable eyes. “Well, girl,” he murmured, tone dangerously soft, “do I get the pleasure of your name? Or do you die with an unmarked tombstone?”
“Die?” Did he know who he was up against here? “You plan on killing me?”
Innocent smile. “I don’t have much choice really, but at least it should be fun. You strike me as a fighter.”
Oh, she’d strike him all right, knock those high-born brains so hard he’d get the nobles senility a few years early. But for now, the pretence mattered. She stared at him. “What have I done to you?”
The raven haired boy shrugged, features blank. He was, she realised, young. Not much older than herself surely, but he carried a maturity that came only from some rite of passage. “You trespass on my land, you shoot my guests and you know too much about…us.”
Sica snorted. “You mean wolf-boy out there? God, I’m glad I didn’t try anything daring, like stealing a loaf of bread.”
“Your name girl. *Now*.” He wasn’t put off by her attempts to side-track him.
She swallowed. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Sica Aldernik.”
Deadly silence. She avoided his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was contemptuous.
“Sica Aldernik, otherwise known as the Dagger. A formidable assassin who fights for the people.” He looked at her wolfishly, something black and fatal in his eyes. “I’ll be doing everyone a service to kill you.”
“No,” she retorted, “you’ll be doing the high and mighty lords a favour. Like you said, I fight for the people, the ones you use as slaves and god knows what else.”
His eyes glowed pure silver then and Sica could hardly believe what she was seeing as two delicate fangs appeared. “Do you see any slaves?” he hissed. Oh lord, he was a *vampire*. He bared his teeth at her. “What’s wrong, not what you were expecting?” Fangs, a serpent’s fangs with the same grace and coolness. Evil’s mark, a sign of humanity lost.
Sica looked around desperately. But the doors were shut and there were no windows to speak of. Truly she was in a cage, no matter what the walls were made of. An old prayer sprang to mind, unbidden but her lips moved in an unconscious, silent reflex.
If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul should take. If I should when not in sleep, I give the Lord my soul to keep.
But how did you fight something with no soul, nor wish for one? She quelled the shaking in her legs by sheer will and focused in on his face, aware of the shivers down her skin which told of that inner fear.
Larch grinned, which had a bad effect with those teeth. “You won’t get near enough to any wood to do me damage, girl.” He had misinterpreted her look.
Sica sized him up cautiously. He had a slight height advantage on her, but Sica wasn’t short and was stronger than she looked. Then again, he was a *vampire*. Superhuman strength and all. She could see muscles rippling smoothly under his skin as he walked towards her with fluid strides.
Then the scary predator was gone, just the arrogant young man in his place. He stepped closer and ran a finger along her throat. “The famous freedom fighter, caught by little me.” Distantly Sica noticed he still hadn’t taken off the gloves.
He was close enough. Sica brought her knee up, enjoying the look on his face. He had good as *shown* her how to kill him, she realised, showing his nature to a poor, innocent *capable* girl like herself. Before he could retaliate, Sica picked up a carved candlestick, snuffed out the flame and hit him with it.
He slumped unconscious to the floor, blood on his head. Sica watched him carefully, grinning to herself.
“Oops,” she said aloud. “How clumsy of me, dropping the candlestick like that. Right onto your oversized aristocratic head, too.”
She hit him again, just to make sure he didn’t come round for a while, then went over to the door. Unlocked.
“Oh, Larch,” she sighed. “You underestimated me.” Sica was about to leave when she remembered Rocyon, her forest friend. There was a silver goblet on the table. Perfect.
She walked out, armed to deal with Rocyon if he ran into him
* * * *
Lucky for her, Sica didn’t meet Rocyon. No sign of either of them, the werewolf or the sneering redhead. She hoped they had gone far away, somewhere where she wouldn’t run into them when she was weaponless again. Back home to Hell preferably.
She stopped in the woods to pick up the deer she had gone through so much to get – no way she was leaving it now – and headed back to Alys’ house.
It was late now, the moon was high in the sky and far behind her, Sica heard the distant sound of wolf calls, chilling as ever. She was glad to see the little cottage with its thatched roof that was starting to leak – Rob should have mended that, but Alys’ husband always managed to put things off. He was a master at it.
She walked in to see Alys’ Ysandron half-asleep in a chair, the tiny woman’s face unworried for once. Sica dumped the deer on the floor and winced as the floorboards clattered noisily. Alys woke with a start and her cornflower blue eyes widened as she saw the deer.
“Greetings,” Sica smiled at the woman who was rubbing sleep from her eyes, almost like a child.
“Sica,” she breathed softly, “you shouldn’t have…how are we going to hide it?” The woman looked over at Sica who had hurled herself into a wooden chair that groaned ominously under her weight.
“Start skinning, Rafik and Mari can have rugs for the bed and you won’t be going short of veal anytime soon.”
Alys nodded and fetched a sharp knife to begin skinning. Sica watched her in faint amusement, ignoring the twinges in her aching limbs. She had known Alys’ for some years now. The woman had been left by the soldiers because of a huge birthmark that disfigured her face. A birthmark that was nothing more than a salve made by Althea, their wisewoman. And much to everyone’s amusement, Alys’ had grown up to be the most beautiful woman for miles around.
Sica had heard some wild stories about Alys’ many suitors. But to the great disgust of many a young man who Sica would gladly have gone walking with in May, Alys’ had married Rob, a childhood friend and sweetheart.
The babes had both inherited Alys’ delicate bone structure that gave Mari that curious look of elfin innocence, a look heightened by her mother’s slivery blond hair, a great rarity in the area. The five year old had a fragile beauty that was marred only by her eyes, which had once been a startling green but now were white and blank. Mari had been blinded in an accident, relied on her brother Rafik to look after her.
Rafik was the elder of the two children with a face like a mischievous sprite and bright sparkling eyes the colour of midsummer skies. He always had been the more outgoing of the two, getting into trouble with the few other children who remained hidden away and giving his mother frequent heart attacks. He was only eight, but devilish and manipulative, so much so that she wondered where he had got his adverse ways from. Muddy brown hair capped his head and a lean build that seemed to belong to neither parent and nor did he have but not, unfortunately, Rob’s patience or Alys’ good humour.
Sica had a feeling Rafik was not going to turn out as the ideal son.
But now, both of the children curled in sleep, they looked strangely innocent. Sica sighed softly, wishing she had that same simplicity in her character, but she had seen too much.
She knelt to help Alys finish skinning the deer and they bundled everything into the loft. Sica pulled out a worn rug that she was sure had seen better days and bedded down in front of the fire.
* * * *
“Larch?” He heard a rich voice through a mist that was nothing but dull pain. “Larch, wake up.”
His eyes flew open to see the smooth face of Dalia looking down anxiously at him with false fear. He sat up, hissing in pain at the throbbing in his head. That girl had got him, and got him good too.
“Are you all right?” the witch said gently, stepping back as he stood up.
Larch turned irritated eyes on her. Her company had been pleasant at first, but now that constant whine of self-pity in her voice was grating on his nerves. And the false concern just heated his blood further.
“Yes,” he snapped, “I’m fine. That’s why I was unconscious on the floor, purely for relaxation. I often invite strange women in to hit me over the head. *Of course I’m not fine, you idiot witch*!” he yelled and was pleased to see her cower slightly.
“I, I” she began to stammer, losing some of her poise, he was relieved to see. Larch turned away and next minute was startled to feel her arms slide around his waist and her head on his back. “It’s okay,” she whispered silkily, “I know you are in pain. You didn’t mean it.”
His head was pounding like a thousand axes were hitting it. Larch pushed her away, wishing he had never invited the predatory witch. “And I thought *I* was the vampire,” he muttered softly. Vamp she was, no doubt about that.
“Larch, darling,” she purred, caressing his arm softly, her hands moving like snakes. He glared at her, the beautiful flame haired woman. Her hair tumbled down her back like liquid fire, the red dress accentuating it and her peach skin, clinging tightly to her. He was positive fashion didn’t dictate that people were supposed to see so much of her cleavage. And he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing any corsets from the slinky way she walked. “I know why you invited me here…you’re the most eligible bachelor this side of the mountains.”
“No,” he snapped cruelly, “I invited you because Lord Redfern wanted to get you off his hands,” and no doubt other parts of his anatomy, Larch added silently, “for a week or two.” Her pouting mouth had fallen open in shock. “And for god’s sake, go and change out of that dress before you fall out of it,” he snarled.
She gasped and swept out, covering her face with her hands. He could hear her sobbing and it only annoyed him further, particularly when it stopped as soon as she thought he couldn’t hear. Dalia was a constant drain, emotionally and financially. He turned around to see Rocyon lazing in front of the fire, laughing his head off.
“I don’t know what you find so funny,” he said dangerously, “considering you’re the one who landed us all in this mess in the first place. And don’t forget, that girl knows what you are, Rocy.”
The ‘wolf stopped laughing abruptly. “I’ve sent out a ‘request’ for her,” he said pleasantly. Larch rolled his eyes in exasperation. Wonderful. Now the girl would have time to escape. Since his parents had died, he seemed to be surrounded by imbeciles without any clue of how the peasants looked after one another.
Rocyon Lupine was one of the worst and sometimes Larch felt like dropping the werewolf in liquid silver. Now was one of those times.
He told Rocyon to get out of his sight for a few days or, Larch added in a perfectly even voice, he would tell Hunter Redfern *exactly* what had happened to his youngest niece in the woods. Why that stake was positioned where it would kill her quickest. Why she was missing her vital organs.
Finally Larch was left on his own to think. The girl had surprised him. Sica Aldernik. She was pretty, not beautiful, her features too uneven for that, but eye-catching in a fierce way, with the long brown hair that shone with hints of gold in the firelight and eyes that were warm brown when she was surprised and gold when she was angry. She was more like a Nightperson that Dalia or Rocyon. The same carefree manner and careless walk.
Larch smiled to himself. He had liked her, for all that she had given him this cursed headache. There was no way he was going to find her now, though. Pity. She would have made an interesting meal.
* * * *
“Sica!” Alys frightened voice woke her from pleasant dreams of hunting. “Oh, please wake up!”
She sat up, instantly alert and saw her friend’s face was streaked with tears. She was holding a ragged piece of paper that had obviously been circulated from house to house.
“Let me see,” Sica ordered calmly, hoping her business-like tone would assuage Alys’ fears, whatever they were.
Sniffing, the blond woman passed over a notice that had been drawn up quickly, from the scrawled words and frequent blots. It was a simple message. Lord Blackthorn was looking for one Sica Aldernik, also known as the Dagger, for poaching, thieving and, Sica grinned, attempted murder. Attempted! If she had wanted him dead, he would be, but Sica had hoped to return here. Not anymore, at least not for a month or two.
Her eyes fell to the price and she whistled in astonishment. “That’s a pretty price to pay just for one girl!” she said in awe. “You can bet anyone with a daughter looking like me will be up to the manor today.”
She got up and pulled back shiny brown hair in a knot, grabbed what she would need, just a little coin and a few weapons. A good pair of boots, some clothes. Then Sica said her goodbyes to a weeping Alys and her forlorn children who looked at her with big baffled eyes.
“I won’t be gone long,” she said to them, “just long enough that the rush dies down.” A couple of months maybe. Sica straightened up and gave them a cheery wave before she strolled off into the wilderness.
* * * *
