And with the changes wrought by the Powers came new futures, carved as a earthquake carves its landscape. It focused on no one person, but everywhere, the grip of the Nightworld was changing, weakening in places, strengthening in others. In Italy, Amethyst Drache wiped out the last of the human ‘slayers’. In France, Deimos Firespike was killed by the men he commanded.
Around the world, the foundation that lifetimes had been built on shook and collapsed and new empires rose. Hunter Redfern began to meld power with fear and his dynasty was created with the birth of Garnet Redfern, horizons seemed closer and power within reach.
And still the old Powers waxed, coming to their peak.
* * * *
Dalia Abforth watched in astonishment from the manor tower what had happened. She had stayed there all day, hurt by Larch’s constant rejection that had become especially emphatic lately and scheming up ways to win his affection. She didn’t understand, Hunter Redfern had assured her that while it wasn’t conventional, he would bless their marriage. Well, she knew why. He wanted the Blackthorns to be less powerful, so the Redferns could have more power and try to correct the witchblood in their no longer pure line.
But Larch was not co-operating. In fact, he was being downright rude. She had tried subtlety, she had tried throwing herself at him. And all she got was an icy look and a calm comment that if she went and lay in the entry hall, there would be plenty of guests willing to tread on her.
But they would make a stunning couple, Dalia thought, preening in the mirror. She had her mother’s beautiful face, she rationalised as she flicked her long red hair vainly, and a set of curves that most women would kill for, and her father’s fiery hair and sweet temperament. And with Larch’s raven hair that seemed to reflect his black moods at the moment, and those grey eyes that were so disdainful and clear, she could just see their children now.
Dalia placed a hand on her flat belly. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spoil her figure with brats yet. First a few years of being envied by every woman this side of the mountains for her handsome husband-to-be, if he but knew. Grand masquerades, several male ‘friends’ she had picked out as interesting from the nearby estates and a life of bliss. And in time… She was lost in daydreams of marriage and life when she was startled out of her reverie by a noise from below. She leant out the window, carefully arranging her body to look like one of the ladies out of the fairy tales her nurse had told her once. Her hair tumbled artfully down her back, so it would catch in the fading sun and burn dazzlingly. Her perfect pale skin glowed subtly and she knew the effect would knock out any male who came near. She gritted her teeth, ignoring how the scowl would spoil her face. Except Larch damned Blackthorn.
And if he wouldn’t co operate…well, there were *ways*. It wasn’t only spiders who wove webs and Dalia was powerful. She knew tricks that would make the Crone herself keel over in horror.
But it wasn’t Larch riding in, it was that human wench on a skinny horse that would barely make a meal, let alone be any use for riding. And she looked angry. Even from a storey above, Dalia saw the glint of weapons on the little savage’s horse.
And she settled down to watch the show as the girl – what *was* her name? – leapt off the horse and slammed her fist against the door several times. The sound reverberated around the courtyard in hollow booms like the crack of thunder.
If she was looking for Larch, she wouldn’t have much luck. Dalia sneered elegantly. Only that oaf Rocyon was downstairs, gloating over his latest kill.
He thought he was such a man, him and his whole pack of killers every bit as ruthless as himself, killing some kids who couldn’t even defend themselves. Although…she frowned. Rocy had been very elusive about the whole business and more sullen than she would have expected after one of this massacres. Maybe it hadn’t all gone to plan. He kept saying that Larch – though what Larch was doing in the woods was beyond her – had spoiled his fun. Stopped him, but not before he got at least one good meal in.
He shouldn’t be a werewolf. Rocyon was a scavenger. One of those mangy hyena creatures that lived in the stifling heat of Africa. That barbaric country. She shuddered at the thought of the tribes and their rites. Worse than Rocyon, some of them. Yes, that one eyed moron belonged there. At least he could find some creatures of the same IQ in the jungles. She had heard there were monkeys all over the place.
Dalia turned attentive purple eyes to the drama that was about to ensue below.
* * * *
It was hard to believe the woman lying like a broken statue was alive. Or even that she had been vigorous and happy once. Not with the silvery hair that showed a little grey from the recent strains and the tears that shone in her eyes like diamonds. Nor with the baffled hurt in her eyes, like a child who cannot comprehend why she was struck.
She was a shade of what she had once been, an empty shell that reflected sorrow as a mirror might. A husk of sorrows, beautiful and untouchable. She was a fallen goddess, stripped stark of any illusions and time was nothing to her. Days melted into pain and more pain widening on top of it. She had lost all without even gambling and now she was nothing.
Alys Ysandron sat motionless for a few moments after Sica left, her hair flowing lustrous onto the floor, eyes downcast and solemn, every nuance of her body showing grief and regret. But in truth, she was afraid, she was remembering an old vow that spun in her head like a death-knell.
“You won’t forget me,” he had seethed, eyes burning with hatred though there was still dark desire mixed there. “One day, little Alys, when you are alone again, I’ll come back for you and this time, I won’t just hurt you. I’ll kill you.”
She seemed to be deep in contemplation, a faint sadness in her eyes and a set of her jaw that made her look both vulnerable and dangerous. A curious mixture, yet that was how she had always been. That was what had made the men chase her and foolishly, she had encouraged them with flirtatious glances and coy smiles.
That was why she was so fearful now.
She had lost her protection from the danger, she had lost Rob, dear Rob who had loved her as much as she had loved him. And now she had lost the only thing that might have given her mercy, her children, swept away into the void with her husband.
She remembered summers seven years gone, seven years since she had shattered the looking glass, but those years had been only happiness, the constant worry pushed into the dark parts of her mind. The summer when the handsome stranger had come to the village and as was her right as the local belle, she had met him, smiling sweetly. A mere girl with sunbeams in her eyes and innocence in her heart.
And it had all come tumbling back on her with one mistake that could have proved fatal.
He had no name she could remember, but the village girls all knew him as Phobos. Later, when Alys met Sica she learned what it meant. Sica was educated, taught by a man she referred to only as the Master. Her eyes always flickered with affection when she spoke of him. Only once had Sica explained what an assassin’s life meant.
“My training was finished when I killed him.” The girl had her face turned away from Alys. “Don’t ever hurt anyone you love Alys, because the pain will never go away and maybe one day…justice will be taken.”
But Phobos had been handsome beyond dreams, a shadow of Lancelot she had fancied, come to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the sunset. Phobos with his clean-cut features in a sharp face and muddy brown hair that rippled in the sun, Phobos with the imp’s mischief to match his looks and the strength hidden beneath a deceptively slight frame. Phobos who had beguiled her with his charming words and quick wit.
She had thought nothing of Sica’s advice then. Yet in the way of the world, those words had become part of a spiral that had threatened to drag her down into the vortex.
He had pursued her ardently for weeks and Alys had succumbed, walking with him often, laughing and chattering. She had been so young and naïve then, a scant eighteen year old who thought she knew everything and in fact, knew nothing.
And then one evening, they had gone walking out further than usual, until the village was out of sight and mind and he had proposed, in a clearing with the sun setting gold on his hair, just as Alys had always dreamed. But she had refused – she was so young and knew she could afford to wait those few years, to have fun and enjoy her youth knowing that she would still be desired by men even when she was past twenty. However, Phobos had taken her rejection hard and turned on her in a blazing anger she had never seen.
Nothing she could have done would have stopped him. She ran, lord knew she tried to get away, scrambling through branches that caught on her dress and tugged her hair painfully. But he was too fast, too strong and Alys learnt that love was not always sweet. And what she had mistaken for his love was desire.
And as the night closed in, bringing the dark with it, he had raped her, nothing she could do and he would have killed her if Rob hadn’t come along, Just a sturdy young man then, barely two years older than her. Rob who had fought Phobos and carried a sobbing Alys back to the village. He had been so kind and when she saw the gentle adoration in his face, Alys had clung to him for protection and married him in a week. It was a decision she never regretted and never would.
But she never got over her fear of the darkness, she never watched the sunset again.
But always she would remember those words that Phobos had spat at her before he had run.
She never had forgotten him, for his memory came back to haunt her nine months later. When Rafik had been born, but because he had been a week or two late, no one had wondered why the child of Rob and Alys had curious muddy brown hair and sparkling blue eyes that could turn cold in an instant. He had none of her features, Phobos in miniature. The same deceptively lean build that would lead to trouble in later life. Or would have led, she corrected herself sadly.
A promise and one that in her grief-befuddled state came back to haunt her. She was alone now and he would return, just like he had said and she would die horribly, so horribly. Her eyes darkened with fear, then her face set in crazed determination. She could escape him, there was a way out.
She would never have to be afraid of the dark again.
It didn’t take long, a rope and a tree. Then a short climb and a drop that seemed to stretch to infinity. She perched on the tree branch, the rope tight against her neck, fervour in her eyes and always fear pounding with her heartbeat. In the shadows of the setting sun, she thought she saw a tall figure, one come to haunt her from seven years ago. She looked down to where the ground swam in a haze of tears. She just wanted to see them again, to have her children, her love and her life back. Forgive me, she thought to her sister.
She jumped and felt a sharp pain before the darkness caught her up, spiralling and choking, spinning into light that was radiant beyond dreams. It was finished.
And a woman’s body swung in the breeze, her arms broken wings, he neck falling as a swan singing it’s last sonnet might, a noose around her neck; a promise fulfilled and revenge exacted.
* * * *
Sica hammered on the manor door in a white-hot rage that smouldered through her body in burning energy. She knew what that *animal* would see when he opened the door; an angry human with long brown hair pulled back and eyes that fires raged in. But the first thing he would see was the gleaming axe that she cradled like a child.
Rocyon opened the door with a lazy smile, but his lanky body was tensed in pounce mode. The patch was off now, displaying two perfect eyes that glowed green-yellow, like a cat’s. Sica hefted the axe she meaningfully and saw his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in a movement she would not have noticed if she hadn’t been watching.
Without missing a beat, the boy stepped back and bowed mockingly. “Come to chop wood, my *lady*?” he sneered in rough accents that were a far cry from the arrogant tones of earlier. Rocyon was no noble. A roving bandit more like, one of the mercenaries for hire in any downbeat tavern.
Sica leaned forward and rapped her knuckles on his head before he could move away. “Sounds like it,” she said calmly, hiding all the anger she felt. Fury sang through her blood.
His eyes narrowed, but the ‘wolf showed no anger. He merely smiled coldly and stepped away, into the hall. “I’ve always wanted to,” he ran his eyes over her body appraisingly, “*encounter* an outlaw.”
“Enjoy having axes shoved into your head, do you?” she said on the same conversational tone as he used. It seemed unreal somehow, but traditional. The insulting of opponents before the fighting started for real. “Funny, you seemed the type to run from a fight.”
Eyebrows curved upwards. “Who said anything about *fighting*,” he said. “You’re a woman, my dear. And they are only good for three things. Food, fetching and,” he smiled slyly, “f—”
He didn’t get to finish before Sica brought the axe round in a warning curve that swung an inch past his nose.
“Funny,” she said mock-thoughtfully. “That’s what all they say mercenaries are good for too.”
“Enough chatter,” the ‘wolf said impatiently, eyes glinting with anger. “You’re here to fight, not to banter. Come in or take flight while you can.” He laughed as if in private amusement and waved a hand in a ‘come-in’ gesture. His nails seemed to long and crusted in something thick and dark.
Sica stepped inside, the axe felt good in her hands and she was prepared this time. She was probably walking into the devil’s lair but who cared? She wasn’t here to mess around. This would be out and out murder and she didn’t give a damn. Her feet fell silent on the stone floor as she followed him in an easy glide that mimicked the noblewomen’s movements but was more of a stalking motion.
They were in the hall, where Larch had brought her the first time and where the trouble had started. This time, no fire flared merrily in the hearth and daylight streamed in through the windows like sharp lances. Rocyon faced her, seeming totally relaxed, only his sharp eyes flicking to the axe occasionally.
The werewolf beamed in what seemed like amusement. She saw the glimmer of uneven teeth that were too sharp for any human. Teeth caked in rusty dried blood. “I take it you’re here for revenge?” he queried as if this happened every day. Considering that barbarous killer, it probably did.
“No,” she smiled icily. “It’s a social visit. The axe is just for display.” And to cut off his head. This would be one of the most satisfying fights she had ever had.
An eyebrow arched as he raked hands back through disarrayed hair that looked soft and furry. “A little arrogant, aren’t you?”
She met his cool gaze with a brash confidence tat she didn’t feel inside. “As always.”
“Any last words?” His cool request boiled her anger to the point where a grey haze began to settle over her thoughts.
She pretended to consider his offer. “How about…*heel, boy*!”
The rage that flitted over his sharp features for an instant thrust doubt into her. Her chest clenched , her muscles tensed as she forced herself to relax. But maybe she wasn’t going to walk away from this fight.
“Ah, humans,” he sighed mournfully. “Always so…” and he looked up, the predator glaring at her from his eyes. “…stupid.”
He leapt.
His body seemed to shake in mid-air, until it was no longer a boy leaping, but a wolf, a night black wolf with sharp teeth and slashing claws.
Sica swung the axe and heard it connect before she felt the shock that knocked her backwards a couple of paces, jarring up her arms in a bruising pain.
The wolf twisted around so it landed on all fours. Then it seemed to ripple and to her horror, seemed to *stretch* in ways that weren’t possible, the sounds of popping joints and bones cracking erupting from him. She closed her eyes for an instant and when her eyelids rose unwillingly, Rocyon was crouched there, hair falling wildly over his face, a gaping gash that should have been fatal sliced across his chest like a red smile. His hands were clasped over the wound, turned gory in an instant.
She stared as he stood up. Grudging respect swamped her. If he could stand through that, even while he…was…*not*…dying? Frozen to the spot, hands clutching the axe in a death grip she could only wait for the horror fate would throw at her next. Force herself to stay at his mad laugh as he threw his head back and howled, sending cold shivers down her spine in a very different way from Larch.
Then the werewolf raised his head slowly until he was staring into her eyes, the green gold iris almost covered by his pupil, the stare of a wounded creature, hands around the cut that sent blood everywhere in a healer’s nightmare. And smiled very slowly, echoing his wound. “Nice try,” he said in his deadly melodious voice with the common accent that rang familiar on her ears.
He took his hands away with a satisfied hiss and she saw in astonishment the skin was smooth, pale and unblemished, something she *knew* with every ounce of knowledge was impossible. No human healed like that, but then, he was no mortal. He had to be a devil, or a minion of his.
Involuntarily she felt her features spasm in horror as he began to lick the blood from his hands.
“Sorry,” Rocyon drawled, “but it has to be silver to harm *me*, my dear.”
Her fleeting, terrified thought before panic and instinct took over was simple, a cry for help that would be neither heard nor answered. *Larch*.
An image of him flashed into her terrified head; tall, dark haired with an arrogance to his stance that screamed aristocracy. His fangs, his protective arms, the scent of autumn air and his smoky grey eyes. Help, she thought, you’re the only one who can help me now.
Then her common sense kicked in and she wondered why she had thought that. A little supernatural strength would be useful right now, but the only thing *he* was likely to do was sit there and smile in that infuriating scornful way. The only person to rely on was herself. But she got herself into this mess and Sica knew she had to get herself out. Only, she thought, I don’t think I going to walk away from this one. My luck just ran out.
Rocyon grinned, baring two rows of wicked teeth. “This will be fun,” he snarled in a growling voice that was not far removed from a growl. He opened his mouth and teeth seemed to leap out in long canines. He was slavering everywhere, a human-shaped monster and she heard the sharp cracks that signalled the beginning of his change.
“Your teeth,” she gasped, feeling the axe clatter from her nerveless hands. Sica turned to run, even knowing it would be futile for he was fleet as the wind and merciless as the elements. She was dead. Dead without hope.
And she thought she heard a growl, a last threat before the hideous black wolf sprang after her fleeing form.
All the better to *eat* you with, my dear.
* * * *
