"Well.” His thin lips twisted into a smile, or at least a close fascimile. “What have we here? A damsel in distress, perhaps?"
His presence was like a chill wind that froze her skin as he approached. It took everything she had not to quail in terror before him, not to sink to her knees and beg wildly for mercy, though she sensed there was no mercy in him. He belongs to the Hunter, she told herself. The Hunter won’t hurt me. He promised.
He came very close, so close that she could feel his breath upon her hair. The red eyes studied her—all of her—and as he glanced down at her chest with a smile, she realized that the Hunter’s assault had left her half-bare, one breast and a shoulder exposed to the night. Did the white man stare at her in that way because he thought it would frighten her? Maybe in another time and place it would have. But she could still feel the Hunter’s grip upon her arm; she could still taste the terror of that moment. She could still feel his power, death-born, demanding, and a desire inside herself so terrible, so all-consuming, that it was all she could do not to offer herself up in sacrifice to his hunger. What was the mere gaze of one ghostly creature, compared to that? Fleshborn or fae-spawned, he was a servant of the Hunter. And the Hunter had promised that none of his people would hurt her.
"I need to know the way out,” she whispered. Her voice was weak, and hoarse from thirst. “Please."
The ghost-man laughed; it was a cruel sound. “Do I look like a tour guide to you?” He reached out a hand toward her face, and she forced herself not to back away. Fear hammered in her chest, but fear was what he wanted; she refused to give him the pleasure of seeing her give in to it.
"Such a pretty toy,” he mused. The white hand cupped the side of her head, caressing her roughly; where his thumb pressed against her temple there was a searing pain, so sharp that it nearly made her cry out. “Such a shame, to discard it now."
Terror welled up inside her with numbing force, but with it came fury. Had she run for three nights from the Forest’s demonic master, feeding him with her blood and her suffering, only to yield up her hard-earned survival for this ghostly creature’s amusement? “No,” she whispered. She pushed his hand away from her; her temple burned like fire. “No!” She thrust the amulet into his face, held the bloodied disk inches in front of those cruel red eyes. “He promised me safety. He gave me his word.” There was no fear left in her now, nor room for any to take root. Fury had filled her to overflowing, and brought with it its own dark strength. “Take me out of here,” she commanded. The pain in her temple was intense, nearly blinding, but she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing her react to it. “Or leave me alone until someone comes along who can."
The wolves behind her growled, and she heard one of them pad closer. She did not turn around. It was impossible to read the ghost-man’s expression, or to guess at his intentions. She felt something hot trickle down from her temple, where he had touched her skin. Was it blood? Did he thirst for that, too, like his master did? If so, the bloodied amulet was doubly challenging. She held it higher, demanding that he acknowledge it. She was not afraid now, not at all. The Hunter had claimed all the depths of her fear, and no other man—or beast—might inspire such emotion again.
Then she sensed, rather than heard, the nearest wolves withdraw. She saw something in the white man’s expression change. And then he, too, stepped back, and caught up the amulet from out of her hand. He was careful not to touch her again, she noticed. Wary of doing any more damage to the Hunter’s prize?
"Come,” he said shortly. He turned from her, and she dared to draw in a long, deep breath. Behind her the wolves fell into line; she could hear them sniffing at her bloody footprints as she began to walk. “Move quickly. It’s almost dawn."
Only a little while longer, she promised her bruised and battered feet. Her muscles burned, but she forced them to move. Only a few miles more. A few hours. Then sleep.
Staggering along as best she could, she let the ghost-man lead her out of the Forest.
8
Damien walked streets until long after midnight. Through the Street of Gods, where countless deities vied for man’s worship. (How many of them were Iezu? he wondered. Did any of them know or care about Calesta’s plans?) Past the Inn of the New Sun, where he and Ciani had shared their first dinner, so long ago. Down through the mercantile district, to where the Fae Shoppe had once stood—
It was gone now. More than gone. Its rubble had been carted away, its foundation reinforced with new concrete, and a three-story building had been erected in its place. That was high for a city plagued by constant small earthquakes; most architects preferred to keep their ambition under tight rein on such risky ground. But he could see the lines where resilient hask-fibers had been used to reinforce the walls, and a host of quake-wards marked every door, window, and potential weak point. God help Jaggonath if its wards ever failed, he thought. God help them if they were ever as helpless as Earth had been, in the face of an earthquake.
Domina was overhead when he began the long walk back to his hotel. The Patriarch had offered him a room in the Annex-more out of custom than genuine courtesy, he suspected-but under the circumstances he thought it best that his lodgings be separate. Not that it would keep the Patriarch from knowing what he did, he thought bitterly. Hard as he racked his brain, he could not come up with any explanation for the Holy Father’s detailed knowledge of his sins. Sure, Calesta would like him to know, but how could the demon present such knowledge to a man like the Patriarch without him rejecting it utterly just for its source? Thus far Damien had not dared a Knowing, or any other form of Working, to try to uncover the truth. Because if he did that and the Patriarch found out there’d be no staunching his rage. Maybe Tarrant, with his more subtle skills, could manage it secretly enough. Maybe.
It was nearly one when he climbed the steps to his rooms. The lodging house was deserted, and only a faint chill clinging to the banister gave any hint that an unhuman presence had passed that way. But he knew that chill by now, and its owner, and therefore it was no surprise to him when he unlocked the door to his small apartment and found the Hunter waiting.
“I’d have thought you’d be keeping an earlier schedule by now,” Tarrant challenged.
“Yeah. Well.” He pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, then made his way wearily to a well-worn chair. Dust gusted up from the cushion as he sat. “I had a bad day.”
He could feel the force of the earth-fae sucking at him as the Hunter’s Knowing reached into his brain for surface details. Let him. It was easier to endure the invasion than try to capture the day’s humiliation in words.
“I’m sorry,” the Hunter said at last. Regret, not apology.
Damien managed to shrug. “I guess it could have been worse.” He looked up at Tarrant, noted that as usual he looked neither tired, distressed, disheveled ... nor human. “How’s the Forest?”
It seemed to him that the Hunter hesitated. “Safe enough,” he said at last. “But our enemy’s workings can be subtle, and I wouldn’t bet my life on such an assessment.”