When he saw me, still standing in the doorway, his eyes flashed.
“You.” It was not an accusation but a declaration.
A second later, flames erupted at the center of his body, a flash of purple fire rising from them in the moment before the flames disappeared in a muffled whoosh, leaving nothing in its place save the faint smell of burning mortal flesh.
Asher slid down the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a fine line of blood trickling from a small cut in his neck. I knelt beside him, waiting for his breath to steady and wondering if he would be angry after all. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, and I braced myself for his wrath, my arguments at the ready.
“You have good aim,” he croaked.
I nodded, my shoulders sagging in relief. “Thank you.”
I do not know how long we sat in the now-quiet room. Time had warped and slowed in the aftermath of Bael’s destruction. Finally, I could not wait any longer.
“I suppose you’ll be going now? Moving on to the next demon? Attempting to protect another family of Descendants?”
He nodded, pushing himself to his feet with effort and making his way to the door. Turning back, he managed a pained smile. “You coming?”
My heart lifted. I was at his side in seconds. He took my hand, leading me out the door and down the stairs. Opening the front door to the boarding house, the morning light was a flash of brilliance. And then, we were out of the darkness at last.
Errant
BY DIANA PETERFREUND
The unicorn hunter brought her own unicorn, which was good as none had been seen in the countryside for years. Everyone in the château paused in their duties as she entered the courtyard; they stared in open fascination at her dusty traveling cloak and the equally dusty unicorn at her side.
If they’d been expecting the lithe, elegant monster they’d seen in tapestries and paintings, they were destined for disappointment. The unicorn was a rickety, goat-like creature with a bedraggled tail and tangled, mud-caked mats in her shaggy silver coat. She was missing a few teeth, and one of her eyes had already begun to cloud over with age. But her horn was as long and proud as ever, thrusting upward from her brow in a tight spiral half as long as a man’s arm.
The hunter led the unicorn to the empty hitching post, and tied a length of chain first about the unicorn’s neck, and then around the post. “Bleib,” she told the beast, and the unicorn hung its head, its pink tongue lolling slightly from heat and thirst. The workers in the courtyard scattered. Chains and fatigue might slow the animal down, but they’d heard the stories. They knew the danger.
The unicorn hunter was shown into the parlor with little delay. Gathered there were four people: two strangers, plus the man with whom the unicorn hunter had business, and a petite girl a few years younger than the hunter, with skin the color of white roses and hair that curled softly about her face like a golden halo. She was dressed in a fine blue gown that would likely tear like tissue if she bent the wrong way, and she stared at the hunter with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.
“Sister Maria Brigitta of the Order of the Lioness,” said the unicorn hunter, giving a curt nod to the man she’d come to see. “I am here about the hunt.”
“Indeed.” His eyes widening slightly at her accent. “I didn’t realize you were German.”
“Bavarian by birth,” Gitta replied. “But I lived in Rome with the Order since my fifth year.” And she’d wager her French was better than his German.
The man’s name was Adolphe Dufosset, but as far as Gitta could tell, he was not the lord of this house. Neither was the tall, dark man in the corner, who, Gitta learned, was the Vicomte de Veyrac, the father of the young man who turned out to be the girl’s betrothed.
No one bothered to introduce the girl.
Gitta wasted no more time and laid out the terms of her services. “For two ounces of gold, I will provide a unicorn and protection from the unicorn for the duration of your ritual. That includes teaching the maiden her duties. The price increases to two and a half should the maiden not pass the test.” The Vicomte stiffened at these words, but Gitta felt no need to clarify. After all, he was not the one to pay her fee. “And the price quadruples should you wish to actually kill the unicorn.”
“A mark of gold!” the Vicomte spat. “Absolutely not.”
“Of course we must kill the unicorn,” said Dufosset. “That is the purpose of the hunt!”
“Not at that price,” said the Vicomte. “It’s outrageous.”
Gitta remained impassive. “And yet it is the price. Unicorns are scarce, in France and elsewhere, and this one has been with the Order for quite some time. She’s very well-trained. I assure you, she can feign an excellent death, should you desire.”
“I desire—” said Dufosset, “to see the creature’s head on a pike.”
“That will cost you eight ounces of gold,” Gitta replied, keeping her voice even. Outside at the hitching post, Enyo felt her distress, and Gitta sent soothing thoughts in the unicorn’s direction. She had been through these negotiations before. Officially, the price for a dead unicorn was only four ounces of gold, but these French squires did not know that, and Rome was very far away.
The Vicomte turned to the girl. “My dear, I shall not have this interloper wasting your father’s money on some trifle.”
“And I shall not allow our family tradition to be reduced to some cheap bit of playacting,” said Dufosset. “If we are to have a unicorn hunt, then by God we shall kill a unicorn.”
No, Gitta would kill Enyo, if they paid her price. Adolphe Dufosset could give her one mark of gold or twenty, but he would never deliver the death blow himself.
The girl looked at Gitta. “Perhaps,” said she, her voice trembling, “the hunter has a suggestion for pursuing this alternative. I do not relish the thought of anyone butchering an animal in my lap.”
Ah, so she was fastidious as well as soft. The perfect combination for disaster. The girl would be lucky if Enyo didn’t run her through at their first meeting. “Most families are satisfied with a symbolic slaying,” is what Gitta said aloud.
The girl gave her a look of annoyance, which Gitta ignored. Far too good to sully her silk gowns with unicorn blood, but still concerned with family pride? Ridiculous. Had the girl any real family pride she would have learned to be a hunter. But it was unlikely she had the ability to do so—so few maidens did anymore, despite what their family crests might say. And then there were those like Gitta: no surname of distinction, but still worth ten of these silk-encased porcelain dolls.
“Shall we carry symbolic spears and knives, then?” said Dufosset. “Perhaps wooden swords. Or toothpicks? Is this whole thing to be nothing more than a pageant?”
“Ideally,” grumbled the Vicomte. “Right now it is nothing more than a delay tactic.”
“I am trying to honor our family heritage, my lord. Traditionally, a de Commarque wedding is marked with a unicorn hunt. Surely you cannot begrudge my cousin and me of that, given our recent tragedy.”
The Vicomte snorted and turned away.
Adolphe smiled at Gitta in triumph. “We will pay the mark. Make what preparations you must.”
Gitta kept her face impassive. “Yes, sir. I will need a few days to prepare—the maiden.” She gestured awkwardly at the girl.
“My name,” said the girl, “is Elise de Commarque.”
Gitta merely bowed her head.
Elise de Commarque, the daughter of the former Le Seigneur de Commarque, stood before her wardrobe and frowned. The unicorn hunter had summoned her down to the courtyard to test her against the unicorn, whatever that meant. She’d told Elise to wear something she didn’t mind getting dirty.