And Viper is certainly a killer capable of this. An entire ballroom of guests convinced it was an accident? Surely the work of a master. And yet, not quite the perfect crime. A Lady was missing.
As Volcrian mounted his horse and turned toward the forest, he continued to ponder the strange situation. The girl had disappeared, but no body had been found. Had she gone with the assassin? The facts didn't add up. A creature like Viper was incapable of sparing life. He had no concept of innocence, of mercy. Lady Sora was most likely dead, her body stashed in a closet somewhere, to be discovered when the corpse began to rot.
He didn't feel sorry for the girl. Those who dealt with Viper could expect nothing less. If she had devised to murder her father—which was a common thing amongst the higher Tiers—then she deserved her own fate.
He had spoken to quite a few of the serfs mingling outside, and was all but convinced this was the case. There had been no love between father and daughter in the Fallcrest household. She was of questionable birth and had a decidedly stubborn demeanor. He could easily see the girl hiring an assassin as a last-ditch attempt to escape her nuptials. With a dead father and no husband, she would inherit the entire estate.
Volcrian clenched his fist suddenly—pain cramped his distorted muscles. His crippled hand convulsed, twitching in spasm. Just thinking of the girl's wickedness made his head throb. Killing her own father? With any luck, the assassin would use her and toss her to the roadside, a wasted shell of a woman. Better yet, the mage might stumble across her corpse within the next few days, perhaps while the blood was still fresh. Good enough to be used for his sorcery.
Volcrian shook his head slowly, leading his horse down the long gravel driveway toward the acres of fields and forest outside the gates. His own brother had been dead for two years now. Two years, and never a night's peace. Always nightmares and memories, shadows plaguing his dreams. He knew Etienne's spirit wouldn't rest until the assassin was dead. He knew, because in his dreams, that is what Etienne told him. Avenge me, his voice whispered. Finish this, and I will sleep.
At times, his brother told him other things, too...dark thoughts that played in his head, seethed within him, resurrected from beyond the grave. He had to push them away. He knew that his brother suffered, that his spirit writhed in the underworld. It followed him into the waking hours, drifting just beyond sight, the memory of those black dreams.
He finally passed through the wide iron gates and exited the Fallcrest manor. His nostrils flared, searching for a hint of a path. Now that he was certain of the assassin's presence, he knew what to look for. And he found it. The trail of a horse leaving the road, entering the tall grass. It was almost too easy.
Volcrian's smile stretched wide, his fangs gleaming in the light. Yes, Viper was in his grasp, only a day's ride away. Soon there would be justice. But Volcrian had been this close before; if he wasted too much time, the killer would slip through his fingers again. He needed to stall the travelers until he could catch up with them.
He wanted to feel Viper's blood running over his crippled hand. He needed to taste it dripping from his fangs....
He led his horse through a thicket of trees into a shallow meadow of bright green grass, nestled away from the main road. There was no movement but the gentle swish of wind. A lock of silver hair fell across his fine-boned face. He swept it aside absently, his eyes searching the underbrush. I will need a spell to follow them...to keep them busy for a while....To delay them while he caught up.
He dismounted from the horse and reached into his saddlebags, withdrawing an old journal. It had been his great-grandfather's, passed down by the men in his family, and once was Etienne's. A book of spells, of blood-magic. He knew each page, each flow of handwriting. Once upon a time, all Wolfy families had carried such spellbooks, handed down from parent to child, generation after generation, unique to each bloodline. The most practiced families had the most powerful spells.
That was hundreds of years ago, however. His own family's heritage had been destroyed long ago. This journal was a meager example of what could have been; the spells of only three generations were not very impressive. And it was always a challenge to pick the right recipe. Wolfy magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.
For any spell he needed a sacrifice, an offering to the Sea Goddess. It could be as simple and basic as putting out a bowl of saltwater and fish scales. But usually, curses and enchantments demanded something more. It could take days to find the right animal, or in rare cases, a human. Volcrian grimaced at that. Hardly ever did he need a human.
He and Etienne had learned from their father. Their mother died in childbirth, as was common to the Wolfy race. After his father's death from illness, Volcrian moved to the City of Crowns with Etienne. They opened an apothecary, the most obvious business for a pair of young Wolfy sorcerers. On the outside, they proved to be an honest herb shop, dealing cold remedies and aphrodisiacs to the common public. And yet, for wealthier patrons, they would do more than just sell tea. Working magic, taking that risk, cost precious money. Nobility had money.
Volcrian shook himself, trying to brush off the chill that had settled over him. He had to admit that after using so much magic, he felt...different. Cold. It was the mantle of a Wolfy bloodmage, the badge of snow, his father had called it. A certain indifference to life. A removal. Killing animals for sacrifices no longer bothered him. Once, a human sacrifice had seemed unthinkable, dirty, taboo. But even that had changed.
After practicing his craft so long, he was beginning to understand the true power of a Wolfy mage. There was more than enough life inhabiting the world, and it was all a source of magic, ready to mold to his will. Humans were especially disposable. Selfish, festering creatures. They bred like rabbits, dirtying the water, raping the fields. The weakest of the races was now spreading across the earth. Volcrian grimaced at the thought. The Wolfies should be in power now. The magic-wielders. Not the flat-footed humans, useless as pigs.
His mind turned toward the journal and which spell he would use to waylay the assassin. Something fast and simple that wouldn't take too much of a toll. Time was of the essence; he didn't have days to spend in recovery. Just a simple animal spell, enough to track down the killer and slow his pace.
He thumbed through the pages of the book, glancing over titles, recipes, causes-and-effects. A plan slowly began to form in his mind, and as it did, another twisted smile came to his lips. This time he was sure to succeed, and then?....And then Etienne would truly sleep.
Chapter 4
Sora awoke with the toe of a boot jabbing her in the back.
“Wake up, girl. We’re leaving.”
She groaned. Every fiber of her body was in pain. When she sat up, she felt stiff as an old woman and twice as sore. A light mist hung above their camp, clinging to the lower branches like a fragile curtain.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and grimaced at the retreating figure of Crash. What a rude awakening! She didn't mind glaring at him—as long as his back was turned. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and rubbed down her legs, trying to stave off the chill. It had been a cold, moist night, and although she had curled up close to the fire, she was too uncomfortable to sleep. Finally she drifted off close to dawn, but only for a few hours of true rest.
She brushed the leaves from her clothing, then paused, staring down at her hands. They were no longer tied. Her heart leapt—but quickly plummeted. Perhaps she wasn't tied up, but she was still a captive. Obviously they didn't think she could escape. She posed no threat at all.
But she would escape! She promised herself that.
Sora got awkwardly to her feet and lifted her satchel. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t care to ask her captors for breakfast. I'd rather starve! She glanced around, suddenly uncertain. The camp seemed unusually quiet.
As though reading her thoughts, Dorian's voice drifted over to her: “Women are always m
ore beautiful in the morning, especially after a night on the cold ground!” His words were sharp and crisp on the misty air.
Sora ignored the Wolfy as he entered the clearing. He was atop a pretty brown horse, which she assumed was stolen. She avoided making eye contact, even when he pulled up next to her. “Is our Lady ready to leave?” he said with a sneer.
Her cheeks flushed, but she refused to answer. Perhaps she had grown up with wealth, but she had never lorded her status above others, like so many noble-born. In fact, her only friends were servants. She gave him a stiff nod, biting the inside of her cheek.
Dorian abruptly reached down and offered her his gloved hand. She stared up at him, surprised.
“Well, sweetness? Get on!” he said impatiently. “Or do you need a footstool? Maybe a nice cushion to sit on?”
Sora could take no more. With a huff of anger, she shoved away his hand. “In case you’re wondering,” she spat out, “or in case you’re deaf, my name is Sora, not sweetness, or sweetheart, or sweet-anything! And I’m not a pampered little princess! In fact, I'd rather walk than ride on your dirty horse!” She spat at his feet, though she wasn't very good at spitting.
The expression on Dorian’s face made her words worth it, and Sora braced herself for the swing of a sword, or a kick from his boot. At least I’ll die happy. Then, much to her surprise, the creature threw back his head and let out a barking laugh, his pointed ears twitching with mirth.
“So the girl has some spirit after all!” he shouted. Then he reached down, grabbed her forcefully by the arm, and dragged her onto the horse behind him—his strength made her gasp. She struggled into the saddle with little choice. “Dorian’s the name, thieving is the trade, and perhaps this won't be such an agony after all.”
She stared at the back of his head, still shocked. Shouldn't he be trying to kill me now? She thought of Crash's threats from the night before and the pink scratches along her neck.
“Uh, yes, perhaps,” she said carefully.
He was still laughing. “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” he said. With that, he tugged on the reins and whirled the horse around, setting off through the trees. Sora had to grab his hips for balance; it was awkward, and she tried to touch him as little as possible.
He seemed to be in a good mood, though she couldn't imagine why. The Wolfy hummed to himself as they started through the forest, an old woodland tune known to the area. Sora had heard the yard workers sing it during long afternoons, while they were trimming the grass or weeding the flowerbeds. Its familiarity was soothing and reminded her of home.
After a few minutes, she cleared her throat. “Uh...thanks for untying my hands,” she said. Stupid. She shouldn't speak to him; he was her enemy.
“It was the most practical thing to do,” the thief replied. “Don't see how you could ride otherwise. But if you try anything stupid, Crash will have to put you down. I'd hate to lose such a pretty new pet.”
His words were a sharp reminder of her position, as though she needed one. Sora shut her mouth, her sense of relief dissipating. Pet? she thought in disgust.
Still, perhaps it was a good sign that he kept talking to her. She wasn't as scared of Dorian as she was of Crash. She got the feeling that he was warming up to her, which could be used to her advantage.
So he thinks I'm pretty, huh? she thought with a little smirk. She glanced down at her stained shirt and felt the unexpected urge to laugh. How refreshing to be in day-old clothes! She hoped she would get dirtier before the day was done.
“Git!” Dorian clicked his tongue to the horse, who moved into a smooth, fast trot. Sora wasn't expecting the sudden change of pace, and held on tighter. The horse found a trail and they followed it through the woods, ducking under low branches, picking their way around rocks. She could only assume they were following Crash's lead, though she hadn't caught a glimpse of him since waking. With any luck, she wouldn't see the killer until nightfall.
Almost an hour passed in dull silence. The trail moved through dense forest and hidden meadows strung with wildflowers, yellow and blue petals scattered throughout the shade. Sora tried to entertain herself by bird-watching; she counted twenty-three species before losing track. There were dark-winged crows, skinny red robins and blue jays. A few plump yellow finches kept following the horse. They flitted quietly from branch to branch, waiting for seeds to fall, or crumbs.
Then the path opened up and joined with a main road. Golden wheat fields stretched out to their right while the dense forest stayed to their left. The trees fell away, as did the birds, leaving a broad, seamless sky and a hawk-like speck on the horizon. She wondered how far away she was from her father's house—probably quite a ways. She had never seen farmland like this before.
“Where are we?” she finally asked, her curiosity loosening her tongue.
“Don't you know?” Dorian sneered. “These are Fallcrest lands, all twenty-thousand acres...or thirty miles, if you're not a farmer. Your serfs work them and pay a seasonal tax.”
Sora blushed, then glared at the back of his neck. “Of course I knew that!” she lied. “I just meant, where are we going?”
“A good ways from here, I can assure you,” Dorian answered vaguely.
Sora gritted her teeth. She tried again. “There is a town on my father's land, is there not?”
“Oh, did your servants tell you that, too? My, my, you are clever.” His voice trailed on, decidedly bored. “Yes, my girl, we are going to Mayville. A certain assassin needs to collect his payment.”
Sora stiffened, her breath catching in her lungs. Assassin? Her fingers tightened on Dorian's waist. “W-what?”
The Wolfy stiffened as well, his shoulders going rigid. “Forget I said anything,” he grunted.
Sora shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “No, wait, you can't just leave it at that! What assassin? What payment?” Her stomach had turned to rock. She suddenly felt sick and oddly deceived, even though Dorian was not her friend. Her heart pounded. Assassin. Suddenly her thoughts were racing, memories of the previous night, of her father falling to the ground, injured. Perhaps worse than injured. Perhaps....
“Lord Fallcrest is dead,” she said numbly.
Her captor didn't answer immediately. Dorian sat as though stuffed with straw. He clicked to the horse, who then moved into a faster trot.
“It's Crash, isn't it?” she said, her words coming far too quickly. “He's the assassin. He's who you're talking about. Someone paid him to be in the manor. Oh, dear Goddess....” And her mouth went dry, realizing that the entire party had been a trap, that Lord Fallcrest had been a target. Her Lord father.
Don't panic, she thought, tears pressing their way to the surface. Don't cry!
“Who?” she demanded, forcing herself to stay composed. “Who hired him?”
“I've said too much, and you need to stop asking questions,” Dorian said briefly.
“Who?” she repeated, the panic rearing up again. She grabbed the Wolfy's narrow shoulder, wrenching him around in the saddle. “Who did this?”
“Get off me!”
“Answer me!”
Dorian flung her aside, shoving her back. Sora lost her balance with a yelp. Struggling to stay on the trotting horse, she tumbled out of the saddle, landing gracelessly in the dirt. She winced; her hip and shoulder were bruised.
“Dammit!” Dorian yelled, and brought his steed to a skidding halt. He whirled on her, reining in the horse only a few feet away from her. With a strange expression on his face, he looked down at her. “Don't run!” he said. “If you run, I'll have to kill you.”
Sora was still recovering from the fall. She sucked in a breath of air, then rolled to one side, climbing painfully to her feet. It had been a hard, unexpected impact. “Blast you,” she cursed. “Murderers. The both of you. You deserve to be hanged!”
Dorian dismounted and stood next to his horse, who was upset, pawing at the earth and flicking its ears about. He ran a hand over the horse's nose,
holding it firmly by the reins.
“Don't run,” he repeated to Sora, watching her in alarm.
“Why not?” she balked, already moving back to the treeline. It would be better to run, truly. Even if she was to be taken by an arrow or a knife in the back, at least she wouldn't be traveling with this lying scum. And to think, she had been warming up to him. “You killed my...Lord Fallcrest,” she grunted, her gut churning again. It was difficult to say “my father.” He had been so little a father to her, more like a distant employer or a landlord. Still, the tears swelled up again, clogging her throat.
“I don't want to kill you,” Dorian said. But suddenly she noticed the knife glinting in his hand. He held it up, following her gaze, as though trying to prove his good intentions. “You're not a bad sort, Sora. You're quite spirited, for a spoiled noble. Trust me, I'm not the one you have to be afraid of. Just don't run.”
Sora glared. His words almost won a laugh from her. “Trust you?” she choked. “Trust you? After all you just said? No bloody chance!”
“There are worse people out there than an honest thief,” Dorian replied earnestly. He actually looked concerned.
“You take me for a fool?” Sora demanded, almost to the treeline. Only a few more feet, and she could dash into the underbrush. “I'll report you to the nearest patrol and have you arrested! You'll be sent to the King's prisons! Murdering nobility is as good as treason!”
“Like I said, I'm not the one you should be afraid of,” Dorian repeated. Why wasn't he following her into the forest?
“Oh? And who is that? My father's assassin?” she spat.
“Yes.” The voice came from behind her, soft and lethal.
Sora gasped.
Arms grabbed her from behind, easily swooping under her shoulders and around the back of her neck. She was clamped against a tall body, lean and hard with muscle. Her arms were locked and a painful pressure was applied to her neck. Her eyes met Dorian's, full of fear, but she saw no pity on the Wolfy's face—only a solemn frown.