Sora's Quest (The Cat's Eye Chronicles #1)

by T. L. Shreffler

Sora wished—really, truly wished—that she had not drunk that tonic.

  Three chimes of a bell initiated the birthday ceremony. The guests had all gathered in the ballroom. The lanterns were dimmed, the musicians assembled. The stage was large and circular, crowded on all sides by rich nobility. The most eligible bachelors got the first row; as she performed, they would be admiring her grace and muscular calves from every angle.

  Lily rushed Sora onstage once the lights were low. The room was purposefully darkened so the audience could see nothing until the performance began. The bells chimed once. There stood her father, front and center, his lined, plump face drawn into a discouraging frown. Of course he's right in front. Wouldn't want to miss a wrong step, Sora thought, resisting the urge to touch her hair nervously. Any small mistake would be immediately noticeable. And thanks to the tonic, she was wobbling. Off-balance. The drink had been more than just pungent...it had been tipsy-strong as well. And the six-inch heels on her shoes weren't helping, either.

  The bells chimed again. Lily clasped Sora's hands one last time, gave her a slight squeeze for strength, then deposited her in the center of the ring. She scurried off-stage, disappearing into the deep shadows toward the musicians' pit.

  Sora readied herself, heart pounding, poised in the starting position, left foot in front, waiting for the music.

  A hollow drum began to beat a slow, meditative rhythm. It echoed around the ballroom, thudding deeply against the walls. Then a low flute joined in, weaving its way up through the drumbeats like a sleepy serpent.

  The chimes struck a third time.

  Sora stepped forward and back in measured intervals, swinging her hips slowly, rolling her body, twisting her arms into the air in snake-like patterns. It was a dance of the Goddess, of the Wind, of fertility and light, of midnight fields and deep forests. She followed the intricate melody.

  Her dress was specially designed for the ceremony. It was supposed to be peeled apart, layer by layer, as the dance progressed. The dance itself was called “The Blooming,” like a flower opening for the first time.

  As the rhythm increased, she snagged one of the cloth layers with her fingers, slowly pulling upward, unraveling the length from her body. She bunched the strip of sheer silk in her hands and tossed it to one of the onlookers, a particularly well-dressed man standing in the front row. She hadn't truly aimed, so she was surprised to see him catch it. He was tall and broad-chested, and stared at her with a strange light in his eyes, magnetic.

  She turned away, her heart in her throat. The wind instruments escalated and Sora's movements followed the tempo. She spun, smooth in the giant shoes, and glided to the opposite side of the stage. She allowed the music to direct her steps, move forward, backward, side to side, then turn, arms out, in, up....The bells chimed again, and she whirled, pulling off another layer, the dress clasping her body like a tight glove. She tossed the silk to the crowd, not caring if someone caught it.

  Now the wind was becoming a cyclone, picking up ferocity and passion. She rolled her head, moved her arms to the left, to the front. Shoulders back, look up....Her eyes landed on the skylight, the gorgeous expanse of clear glass that encased the ballroom, her father's crowning jewel. A net of stars sparkled back at her, winking, twirling.

  She had practiced the ceremony since her first blood appeared at thirteen. Now, despite her shaky balance, the moves came like second nature. She barely had to think about them.

  The third silk wrap came off a minute later. She spun around one final time and tossed the last layer of skirt into the darkened crowd. Her dress was still mostly intact, just smoother and thinner than it had been, hugging her figure.

  It seemed like a lot of to-do for such a short performance. The dance was less than three minutes long. Then the musicians entered into their final refrain, and Sora made one last turn, whirling elegantly to the cascading flutes. A few people had already begun to applaud.

  Just as the final chime was struck, her six-inch boot caught on the hem of her dress. Sora wobbled once, twice. Carried by the momentum of her fall, she felt everything spiral out of control.

  The crowd gasped as she tumbled across the stage, her ankle twisting underneath her, her boots clonking loudly against the wood. She collapsed awkwardly into a sitting position, the dress gripping her legs, the body paint smearing all the way down her left arm.

  As she looked up in horror, her gaze landed immediately on her father; his face was absolutely livid.

  She opened her mouth.

  Then, blessedly, the lanterns were doused, signaling the end of the performance. The stage was plunged into instant darkness and she was hidden by shadows.

  The ballroom was silent. Someone snorted nearby.

  A few scattered claps came from the back rows, Sora suspected from the manor staff, although she was too shaken to care. The applause built again, though not nearly as enthusiastic as before. She could detect a few outbursts of laughter and muffled giggles. Her arms trembled. I can't believe I just did that. She fell! Fell at her own Blooming! No! It was the one thing her dancing instructor had repeated at every single lesson, every single day, for the past five years. Do. Not. Fall.

  Not only was the fall clumsy and undesirable...it was just plain bad luck.

  Sora managed to drag herself to her feet and stumble offstage, as fast as she could before the lanterns were re-lit. She slipped through the crowd of musicians before anyone could catch her eye. Now would be the perfect time to disappear. No one would expect her to show her face again after that performance....

  Just before she made the hallway, she was blocked by someone.

  She looked up, shocked. The room was still very dark, though a few lanterns were starting to glow on from the walls. Who was this?

  “A beautiful—if flawed—performance,” a voice said. A deep, masculine voice.

  Her heart tripped. “Uh, thank you,” she said, averting her eyes, and curtsied automatically. “If you'll excuse me, I....”

  “Actually, I was hoping to ask for your first dance, once the stage is cleared.”

  Sora looked up, shocked. The lights were still dim as the servants cleared the dance area and set up the buffet. She could hardly see the man's countenance, although from the glint in his dark eyes, she thought she might have recognized him from the front row. “Who....?”

  Sora was diverted from the conversation by the sound of a wine glass being struck to get people's attention. The ballroom was illuminated once again with low, romantic lighting. The crowd moved toward the sound. Her father stood at a long table. After he struck the wine glass again, the chatter dimmed and everyone turned toward him.

  She watched her father’s gray head from a distance. Ugh, a toast. No, worse, it was an apology. For her, of course. For being undesirable, clumsy and peasant-born.

  He opened his speech with some sort of joke and motioned in her direction. She was too far away to hear it, but a ripple of laughter moved through the room. Her gut lurched and she blushed. For a moment—a terrible, stifling moment—she wanted to give the whole room a piece of her mind.

  But, of course, she couldn't. The stranger at her elbow made a comment, but she was incapable of listening. A strange numbness washed over her. There was a dull buzzing in her ears from the droning of her father’s voice. Sora’s eyes drifted upward, focusing on the stars through the skylight.

  This was it. Now she would have to run away. Nobility be damned! There was no way she could show her face again before the Second Tier. Bad luck, she thought. Worst luck of all. Forget marrying into city nobility. She would be surprised if she got a suit from the horsemaster’s son....

  Then she blinked. Was it her imagination, or had she seen something move beyond the distant glass of the skylight? A shooting star, a cloud, or some sign from the Goddess....?

  One second later, the world shattered.

  Her father's grumbling voice was suddenly cut off by an ear-splitting crashhhh! The skylight exploded into a million pieces. Gla
ss shards, some as sharp and heavy as swords, rained down on the ballroom.

  Sora's mouth opened. She could scarcely breathe.

  There was instant chaos. The guests screamed and dove in every direction, squeezing under tables and dodging the deadly glass rain; servants dashed around, trying to escape. Men collided into each other, women tripped over their hems, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  Ironically, the calming potion decided to kick in again, and Sora found herself distant and fuzzy as she looked up at the broken skylight. She felt dreamlike. Part of her wanted to laugh at the outrageous sight. As though things could get any worse!

  And there stood her father at the head of it all, unmoved, a Lord to the very end. He waved his arms around and roared out orders to the servants. Doesn’t the man ever give up? she thought. Gods, this is terrible. Just tell everyone to go home and come back next week. This ceremony is over....

  Suddenly his words were cut off.

  Sora blinked in surprise. She couldn't quite see what had happened; the room was too crowded. Then people started screaming. Suddenly her father was on his knees, scrabbling at the ground, dark red blood staining his shirt.

  The room grew dim. Sora heard a dull rushing noise. She stared at the place where her father had stood, her mind replaying the scene again and again within a matter of milliseconds. Was her father injured? Struck down by the falling glass? No, it’s impossible, how....?

  What are you doing? an inner voice screamed at her. This is your chance—run!

  Automatically, clumsily, Sora turned and fled. For the moment, her father was out of commission; it was the perfect time to slip away. She was certain he would be fine; after all, he had more than 100 servants at his beck and call who were far better equipped to handle an injury than she was.

  And so, boots crunching on glass, pandemonium ringing in her ears, she dove for the opening to the servants' hall. While the manor was vast with corridors branching out in several directions, she knew every nook and cranny. She sprinted into the hall and down the flagstone corridor.

  As she ran, she ripped off what she could of her skirts, freeing up her legs. She used a strip of cloth to wipe off the face paint. This dress was an ugly garment, anyway. She headed down another narrow hallway that was barely lit by a few candles. It would lead her out the back door and into the freedom of the night.

  Already Sora could see her travel bag up ahead, stashed in one of the servant alcoves. She had hidden it before the dance, on her way to the Blooming Hall. Her breath heavy in her lungs, she redoubled her pace. She could hear the servants stirring, alarmed by the calamity in the ballroom. Just what caused the skylight to break like that, anyway? she thought. And what did I see before it fell? It must have been someone on the rooftop. Was it possible her father had been attacked?

  Silly, of course not. Now was not the time to scare herself with vague questions. Her father would be fine; she had to focus on escaping. Sora passed the alcove where her bag was and grabbed it without breaking her stride. She had to leave quickly before someone discovered her absence. The red carpet seemed to lead on forever, though it was only a few rooms away from the back door. Gods, I’ll never make it outside. Come on legs, move!

  Without warning, a door burst open ahead of her, and a crowd of servants flooded the hall. Sora barely contained a yelp of surprise. Flinging herself into a broom closet, she slipped deep into the shadows and prayed that nobody had seen her. Breathless, nervous and quivering, she scanned the hallway with wide eyes.

  The entire kitchen staff rushed past, hurrying to reach the traumatized guests. Some carried lanterns, illuminating her hair and face momentarily, but no one noticed. No one looked. Sora let out a slow breath, then stripped off what remained of her dress and changed into her traveling clothes, doing her best to wipe off the rest of the face paint, even though she didn't have a mirror.

  When the hallways were silent again, she allowed herself a long, slow sigh of relief. She kicked the ruined dress into the far reaches of the closet, shouldered her bag, and walked carefully to the stone corridor, checking in both directions. Nothing.

  She launched herself onto the flagstone, gathered herself and turned.

  Wham!

  An unidentified something-or-other crashed into her, hard enough to send her sprawling to the floor. She hit hard and rolled several feet before slamming into the wall. A body was tangled on top of her. She felt the toe of a boot in her back.

  Without thinking, Sora did what any sensible woman would do: she screamed.

  Immediately whoever it was jumped off her. A hand grabbed her braid and yanked her to her feet. Sora screeched, but her cry was cut off by a smart slap to the face that stunned her to silence.

  She looked at the man holding her—by her standards quite tall, around six feet. She was stunned by green eyes so vibrant that for a moment she thought they glowed.

  Then she blinked and brought the rest of the man's features into focus. Black hair darker than a raven's wing swept across his brow in a short cut, exposing two neat ears. His skin was lightly tanned, but she could make out very little of his face. Most of his lower features were hidden behind a black veil. Once again, her eyes were riveted to his gaze, sharper than a knife, his expression terrifying.

  Suddenly she felt her throat close. Dear Goddess....Was this the man who had destroyed the skylight? With eyes like that, I wouldn’t put it past him!

  Before her imagination could run away with her, he whipped out a knife and pressed it against her throat. “Make a noise and it'll be your last,” he hissed. His voice was quiet and smooth, like a snake.

  With a shudder, Sora thought it must be the voice of Death. She licked her dry lips, shaking with terror, her fingers curling up like dried leaves.

  Somehow she found the will to speak. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “No questions.” The knife bit deeper.

  “Please....” she shuddered, and the words slipped out like water. “Don't kill me. I-I won't tell anyone!”

  “Tongues talk. I should take yours.”

  “N-no!” Sora's thoughts spun helplessly, trying to think of a way to stall him. “If you don't trust me, then...t-take me with you!”

  Saying that shocked her. Her lips stayed parted, as though expecting more, her breath wheezing out in a hollow gasp. He gazed at her with those calculating serpentine eyes, traveling over her hair, her face, across her shoulders. Then his eyes lingered at her throat, close to where the knife pressed against her skin. Slowly he frowned, staring at the base of her neck. No reply.

  At that moment, a commotion broke out down the hall. There was a distant flicker of light. His eyes looked up and focused behind her.

  He grabbed her hand, turned and ran.

  Sora was so stunned, she couldn’t make her legs move. She found herself half-dragged, half-carried down the hallway. Then, with a surge of willpower, she forced her legs to work and launched into a sprint. Despite her fit condition, it was almost impossible to keep up with him.

  Dear Goddess, have I gone mad? Was she actually running next to this man? She had no answer to that. His hand on her wrist was like solid steel, but the rest of him was a shadow, a ghost flickering in and out of the lantern light, existing between two worlds. He could have been a dream, a nightmare, some corporeal spirit...she almost half-believed it. Who is he?

  They burst through a side door, one of the servants' entrances, and plunged into the freezing night. Sora felt that she'd been doused with ice water, suddenly awake. The stables were in the opposite direction and she still had her satchel. She could run for her horse...if this person would only let go of her hand.

  “Enough,” she grunted. She had joined him willingly, but she didn't intend to travel with him, not at all! When she tried to pull her hand away, his grip tightened.

  Her fighting instincts kicked in. With a jerk, she yanked hard, trying to free her arm. His fingers clamped down like iron, shocking her with their strength. She winced.
That's going to bruise.

  “Hey! Let go!” she demanded, still pulling away from him, though it wasn't very effective. He moved her along at a rapid pace, half-lifting her from the ground, hardly sparing her a glance. “Where are you taking me?” She dug her feet into the gravel driveway, skidding across the loose shale.

  His fingers gripped a little tighter, but other than that, he ignored her. There was no one around; no servants, no lawn workers, no maids. Everyone had gone to the ballroom. She was caught, helpless.

  Then she had a terrible thought. Would anyone notice her disappearance? With all of the distraction inside the manor, she highly doubted it. The guests and servants would think she was hiding in her room, shamed by her deplorable performance. Ha! The Blooming hardly seemed like much of an ordeal now.

  The man in black continued to drag her up the driveway and then into a thick outcropping of bushes. He's going to take me to the middle of nowhere and kill me, she thought, something like an icy fist seizing her chest. I'm such a fool. She should have died in the manor by letting him slit her throat; at least then her corpse wouldn't be ravaged by animals.

  She dug her heels into the ground again, tossing herself to one side, almost yanking her arm out of its socket...but there was no way she could fight his strength. He adjusted easily. With a light tug, she was sent stumbling forward, completely off-balance.

  Then, through the murky, leafy darkness, she saw a horse. An ugly, awkward animal by what she could make out; dull gray in color, like the gravel beneath them, and built only for speed. Before she could protest, a powerful arm snaked around her and forcefully threw her into the saddle. A yelp of shock and outrage came from her throat, but quickly stopped when he jumped up behind her, the knife still glinting in his hand.

  Now Sora really began to panic. All her nerve disappeared. “Help!” she screamed desperately. “Help me! I'm being kidnapped! Help!” With wild abandon, she tried to throw herself from the horse, but the dark man grabbed her as she started to fall. He jerked her back against him and the knife was at her throat a second time. She winced. Her shoulder ached and throbbed from the struggle.

  “Silence!” he growled, pressing the knife hard against her throat, enough to draw blood. “You can die now, if you'd like.”

  Sora could feel the sting of the blade. A thin, hot trickle of blood crept down her neck. She would have gulped, but she was afraid of splitting her throat.

  The man pressed against the horse, which had been pawing the earth impatiently, and the beast leapt into a gallop. Sora couldn’t see how fast they were going since she was surrounded by darkness. From the wind in her face and the feel of the steed beneath her, she figured it was a formidable pace. Her suspicions were confirmed when they passed the gates of the estate in under ten minutes.

  The night was bitingly cold, sinking through Sora’s clothes and into her skin. There was a cloak in her satchel, but no way to pull it out. Her captor was like a furnace behind her, she could feel his heat through the back of her thin shirt.

  The man turned off the front drive into a wide, open field, scattered with ferns and small bushes. The ground changed, now soft and muffled beneath the horse's hooves. Sora squeaked in surprise as the horse stumbled over a hidden rock, but the man righted the beast immediately. She clutched her satchel desperately and sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. How did this happen? I was supposed to be running away!

  And who was this intruder? A common thief? More than that—someone deadly. She thought back to Lord Fallcrest, lying wounded in the ballroom. Had the disaster been more than an accident? Had her Lord father been hurt intentionally?

  Was he even...alive?

  The thought sent her spiraling into panic. She had the sudden, horrible feeling that the birthday party had been sabotaged on purpose. Lord Fallcrest had been gone for quite a while at the City of Crowns. Who knew what enemies he had made...and in what kind of business he had been dabbling?

  The knife blade was lowered, though it stayed in her peripheral vision. She swallowed hard, tamping down her fear. No, she was overreacting. Her father was still alive—only slightly injured, like several of the other guests. This man was a thief, a lowly criminal. That's it. He just wants me for ransom!

  Her thoughts were strange, surreal. She felt oddly disconnected. Then a fragile calm settled over her, like fine mist. She had to think logically. Whether Lord Fallcrest was alive or dead, nothing changed. If she ran back home, she would still have to take suits, marry, start a family. Be realistic. You can't run an estate by yourself. If anything, that thought terrified her even more than the man behind her. There was no avoiding that life, not after tonight.

  No, she wasn't going home. She couldn't. Not after making it this far.

  Which meant she would have to escape her captor.

  She gripped the satchel before her, fingers cramped with anxiety. The ever-constant motion of the horse was almost soothing, the man behind her was momentarily silent.

  Well, she finally figured, I need a plan. Sooner or later they would have to stop. Simple is best. When her captor dismounted, she could knee him in the groin and run into the woods. It was the most logical thing to do. Then she would continue on her way to town. She didn't know the road, but she could ask anyone for directions....

  And she still had her satchel, her lifeline. She had enough money to buy a horse and be gone before anyone thought to look for her. She would leave this killer and her ill-fated manor in the dust. Then she would begin the hunt for her mother. Local house servants, newsboys, the county recorders might know something. A Lord's business was everyone's business, after all.

  It was admittedly a flawed plan, but the best she could do for the moment.

  She reached up and touched the necklace that dangled beneath her shirt. The stone felt warm, even through the thick linen.

  A line of trees appeared in the distance, a forest. Sora felt a sliver of doubt. She had explored much of her father's lands, but had never gone this far out. They had been galloping for almost an hour. This proved that she was thoroughly lost. The horse whuffed and panted, a sheen of sweat on its thick gray neck.

  They reached the treeline and entered the forest. It was dark and overgrown, menacing, far different from the acreage around her manor. The branches overhead blocked out the stars, obscuring all hint of light. Sora leaned forward in the saddle cautiously, hit by another wave of sickly terror.

  Without warning, the man grabbed her head and forced it down below a branch, drawing a muffled shriek from her lips. She thought for sure she would be beheaded. When she sat back up, she was not only breathing hard, but trembling and flinching at every small shift the horse made. Did he put the knife away? she wondered, still regrouping.

  Sora looked ahead, peering between the darkened trees, as though they held an unseen solution. She was determined to be prepared for whatever came next.

  She squinted. It seemed that there was a slight flicker of light ahead, the telltale signs of a campfire. A nervous grin came to her lips. What kind of idiot leaves a fire burning untended in the middle of a forest? Maybe this would be easier than she had first thought.

  They reached the fire quickly; her captor halted the horse just outside the circle of light. Then the man dismounted smoothly, then grabbed her with firm hands and lifted her down next to him.

  Sora found herself standing on a soft cushion of pine needles. She looked up at her captor, trying to see him clearly in the darkness, though he was almost invisible. Finally, she made out his shadowy, intimidating face.

  Gathering her wits—here it is, my chance!—she launched herself at him, trying to attack him as she had planned. She fumbled, attempting to knee his unprotected groin.

  He caught her easily and held her hands up by the wrists, barely concerned by her sudden action. Her lips parted, the air taken out of her, shocked by a sudden sense of failure.

  That went well, she thought sarcastically. All hope left her and Sora sagged in his grip. Her strengt
h seemed to have drained out through the soles of her feet. She was lost.

  Then she noticed the rope he was carrying. She watched numbly as he tied her hands in front of her. When he was finished tying her, he shoved her into the firelight without ceremony.

  She looked around the camp, truly unsure of herself. The clearing was small and neat, a mere pocket of light and warmth amidst the trees. A rabbit was roasting over a modest fire, the delicious smell of cooking meat rich in the air. A heap of saddlebags rested to one side of the fire. She let out a breath. A dangerous-looking sword leaned against a tree, glinting in the firelight, and several other weapons were laid out alongside it. Next to that were two bedrolls.

  Sora’s breath caught. Two bedrolls?

  Then her eyes saw a figure sitting on the opposite side of the fire, half-obscured by shadow. In this light, she wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. The fire danced, casting peculiar shadows. The person's nose was small and pointed, the lips not overly generous; there was a thin jaw with wide, exaggerated cheeks. Feminine. Yet a thicker neck, muscular shoulders and a flat chest. To her mind, the stranger was completely androgynous. He or she looked youthful, only six or seven years older than herself, and yet the hair was at odds with the age. The locks were pure silver, pulled back in a thick braid that trailed to the ground. Sora had never seen such a brazen color, like concentrated starlight—not even on her most elderly servants.

  The figure shifted, scratching its back against a tree, then said wryly, “Bringing home stray pets, Crash? You know we can’t keep it.”

  “Quiet, Dorian,” her captor said, still the voice of Death. “I ran into her in the halls...couldn’t just let her go, could I?”

  The silver-haired Dorian snorted in response. “Couldn't you have killed her?”

  Her dark captor remained silent.

  “I see,” Dorian murmured. Sora guessed it was a man by the name and his wide shoulders, but the voice was evenly pitched and could have gone either way. There was a slight accent to the words. It reminded her of the North, thick and rounded. “I trust that the job went well?”

  “It did...though unexpectedly,” Crash murmured. Sora thought it was a strange name. Crash. Perhaps not his true name at all.

  “So what are we going to do with her?” Dorian asked.

  Crash left the fire to unsaddle his horse. Sora stood awkwardly, wondering if she should sit.

  Dorian spoke again. “This doesn’t make our position any better, you know. We should just cut her loose, let her go.”

  “Volcrian will find her,” the dark man replied. “And...she might be of some use.”

  “Right,” Dorian replied. A lopsided grin split his face. “But I don't share my women.”

  Crash cast a cold, pointed look at the silver-haired man. Sora shuddered, catching the gist of their conversation. She knew she was in a vulnerable position—they could do whatever they wanted to her, and she wouldn't be able to stop them.

  Then Crash spoke again. “Her necklace,” he grunted.

  “What's that?” Dorian cocked his head to one side, then looked back to Sora, a curious glint in his eyes. His gaze fell to her neck. “Is it worth much? Let's see it, sweetness. Where is this necklace?”

  Sora frowned. She was loath to pull the chain out into the open; what if they stole it? It was the only thing remaining of her mother. But one look at Crash changed her mind. Better her necklace than her throat. She pulled the piece of jewelry out of her shirt, dangling it in the open.

  Dorian squinted for a moment, then his eyes widened. His brows shot up to his hairline. “Is that...?”

  “Yes. I am almost certain of it.”

  “Ah.”

  And the two fell silent.

  Sora dropped the piece of jewelry back into her shirt. She raised a hand to her neck self-consciously. She wanted to ask what they were talking about—demand that they explain themselves—but she was too terrified. They could still kill her. Why keep her alive, just for a necklace? Just count your lucky stars, she told herself, biting her lip. At least they haven't disposed of you yet.

  “So...is that the plan?” Dorian asked again. “We just bring her along?”

  Crash was staring at her. His face was hard and cold behind the black veil. All she could see were those cool green eyes, like flecked algae, oddly unblinking.

  And yet there was a sudden, inexplicable connection, an almost-understanding. She was reminded of her words in the hallway, desperate, breathless. Take me with you.

  With an abrupt move, the dark man crossed the campsite and grabbed her satchel, easily yanking it from her grasp. Sora practically dropped the bag, she was so surprised. He ripped it open, spilling the contents to the ground, and she gasped, looking down in despair.

  A sudden flush of embarrassment crossed her cheeks—of all things! There lay her humble loaf of travel bread and a small lump of dried meat. Her shabby gray cloak, still fine next to her captor's grimy clothes. The coin purse and flute. She glanced up, quickly meeting Dorian's eyes, then looked away. A tension settled on the camp.

  Sora gazed at her belongings, trying to remember all she had packed. Her knife? Where had her knife gone? Her eyes darted around in the shadows and she finally saw the glint of a blade, half-obscured by a gnarled tree root. She looked away quickly, trying not to think about it, to alert her captors.

  But the two men were still staring at the spilled contents of the satchel.

  "Well," Dorian said after a moment. "It seems that we have a runaway.”

  Sora's face paled, turning a stark white, humiliated to no end. Did he have to say it like that? Like she was a child sneaking off into the woods?

  Crash picked up the bag of coins and tossed it to Dorian. It made a heavy sound in his hand. Then the assassin wordlessly sifted through her belongings, tucking away what he could use—very little. When the satchel was passed back to her, all it contained were a change of clothes and her wooden flute.

  “Quaint,” Dorian murmured, raising an eyebrow. “But quite a bit of coin. Seems unlikely that a servant would carry this much. I doubt you are a commoner, my dear. And you don't appear a thief. By the way, what is that all over your face?”

  It took Sora a moment to realize what he was talking about—and that he expected an answer. “M-My face?” she echoed. She raised a shaky hand to her cheek, then pulled it away, only to see smudges of red paint across her fingers. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.” Dorian echoed.

  “It's...eh...well,” Sora bit her lip. Should she tell them the truth? Who she really was? Or would that endanger her even further? She was nobility, after all, even if it was only Second Tier. She could be worth a hefty ransom....

  Her eyes slid to the man in black. He had been in the manor, had witnessed the Blooming, or had at least known of it. Her identity was no secret. They were playing a game.

  “Sora Fallcrest,” she said, resisting the urge to raise her chin. It felt strange to say her name without the “Lady” attached, but she was leaving that life behind. For good.

  “Hmph. Fallcrest, eh?” Dorian raised an eyebrow and looked at Crash. “Our new pet has a pedigree?”

  The dark man didn't reply.

  Dorian continued, looking back to Sora. He spoke mockingly. “Well, then...it was your birthday, was it not? Happy birthday, my dear.”

  Her eyes widened. In all of the panic, she had almost forgotten. “Oh. Yes.”

  “Did you perform the Blooming?”

  Sora was surprised by his knowledge of her, and more than a little insulted by his tone. He spoke as though she were five years old. Her brow lowered. What else did they know about her? Had they watched her family for some time? She didn't know much about the ways of criminals. It was very unnerving.

  Her mouth was clamped shut. If they knew this much already, she wouldn't tell these bastards anything more. For all she knew, they had conspired to harm Lord Fallcrest, and she could well be next.

  Dorian grinned at her silence, a sly, t
errible look. “Any chance of a rendition?” he asked wickedly. “I've never seen a Blooming, but I hear it is quite...provocative. About fertility, you know.”

  Gross. Sora glanced down, focusing on the fire. Her face turned even whiter with anger. The Blooming was a sacred ceremony. Young girls were prepped as early as eleven. They practiced for years...and here he was, scoffing at it like a jester's act.

  Crash moved away from them, back to his horse. He finished removing the saddle and began brushing down the steed.

  Dorian seemed to grow bored with her silence and let out a long yawn. “Sit down, girl. You’re making my neck ache,” he finally growled, and waved his hand.

  Sora obeyed tightly, seething on the inside. Better to sit, she told herself firmly. Her legs were shaking from a mixture of fear and outrage, but she was trying to hide it. She sat as close to the hidden knife as possible. The dirt was cold and damp beneath the trees, and the chill crept straight through the seat of her pants. Good thing I thought to bring a cloak. She picked up the thick fabric from the ground, trying to drag it across her shoulders, though she was limited by her bound hands.

  Dorian seemed to notice her discomfort, and another sneer pulled at his lips. “I suppose you’re used to soft feather beds and warm meals, eh? Well, don’t expect anything like that around here. You'll be sleeping on dirt until we find a way to get rid of you.”

  She ignored him, though the words circled around in her head. Get rid of me. Would they kill her? Dispose of the body? Or worse, sell her? She glanced again to the man in black, who had finished with his horse and was now sitting at her far left. He held a long, thin sword across his lap, and his fingers moved over it expertly, turning and flipping the blade in his hands as he polished it with an old rag. He worked deftly, silently.

  “Ah, the meat’s done,” Dorian said, and leaned forward to poke at the rabbit with a wicked knife. His face finally came into full view, brightly illuminated by the orange fire.

  Sora drew in a sharp gasp. Two long ears protruded from his hair, elegantly sloped, pointed. Ashen skin and brilliant blue eyes, the color of an arctic sky. Dorian caught her stare and cocked his head slightly to one side. Twitched one long ear. His large, pale eyes met hers.

  Then he showed his teeth—no, not teeth. Fangs. The man had fangs. Dear Goddess, fangs!

  He chuckled and speared the meat from the fire in a vicious movement. “What's the matter, sweetness?” he said, addressing her stare. “Never seen a Wolfy before?”

  “A...a Wolfy?” Sora stuttered, eyes growing wider. Now she didn't know what to think. She would have laughed if he hadn't been holding a sharp knife. “A Wolfy! That's impossible. You're kidding...!”

  His look made her fall silent. She glanced at Crash, who was still polishing the sword, ignoring the conversation. “But...the Wolfy race....They've been dead for centuries....”

  “Obviously not, since you're looking at one,” Dorian responded wryly.

  Sora couldn't think of what to say.

  “Rich and ignorant. Typical,” he grunted, and went back to slicing meat.

  Sora couldn't help herself. If there was one thing she had earned in life, it was an education. “I'm not ignorant!” She burst out. “I've...I've heard about your kind, but only as legends. Not even in history books,” she tried to explain. There were countless mentions of Wolfies in the tales of Kaelyn the Wanderer, but those were stories from ages past, before magic had been lost, before the great War of the Races....

  And could she truly believe this man? He was an outlaw, a common thief. He might be playing another game...but his ears, his unusual hair...his fangs....

  Dorian turned away from her toward the menace in black. “Seems like she'll be very useful,” he said, and offered Crash the first slice of meat. Sora heard the sarcasm.

  Crash ignored the comment, as he seemed to ignore everything. His silence was not comforting. It caused a sense of foreboding, like a dark cloud hanging over their camp. Sora wished he would speak; she couldn't guess his thoughts. The lack of insight made her breath quiver. I'm of no value to them. Would they kill her after all? It was only a matter of time....

  Crash lowered his cowl to eat. She stared in rapt attention, trying to glean some sense of the man. And again, she was surprised.

  His features were almost pleasant to look upon. His face was clean, without a hint of stubble. A straight nose rested evenly above hard, unforgiving lips. A tight jaw, stern brows and deep-set eyes. She would have described him as a rogue fox or a wolf, ruffled from the wilderness yet strong and sleek. He appeared in his mid-20s, around the same age as Dorian. His skin was tanned by the road, creased by the sun. His form was lean and wiry, fit but not bulky, clothed in black leather and a well-used belt. She caught sight of a wide silver scar traveling down his jaw into his shirt. It looked like it had once been a ghastly wound. She shuddered.

  He stared boldly back at her. She looked away quickly, only to give another jump of surprise. Hovering before her face was another slice of meat, proffered by the...the self-proclaimed Wolfy.

  "Come now, sweetness," Dorian said, with a slight bite to it. “Plain meat not good enough for you?”

  Sora glared at him, thinking all sorts of horrible things. She forcefully grabbed the piece of meat, though it was hard to hold with her tied wrists. She bit into it and chewed through, trying not to grimace at the burnt flavor, the stringy, tough sinews that caught between her teeth. It was, in a word, disgusting.

  The man snorted and sat back, then took a healthy portion of the rabbit for himself. “'You're welcome,'” he said, mocking her once again.

  Sora refused to rise to the bait. She concentrated on eating and kept to a stubborn silence. She didn't want their attention, so she wouldn't ask for it.

  Eventually, her two captors finished their meals. They shared a glance, then stood up, moving away from the fire. They paused somewhere just beyond her line of sight, hidden by a thin curtain of foliage, conversing in quiet tones. She obviously wasn't supposed to overhear their conversation.

  Sora glanced around, wondering if they had a clear view of her. She was absolutely certain that they were discussing her death. In that moment, she was ready for anything, especially the worst. I won't sit here like a docile sheep! She scooted to the side and curled up, as close to the thick tree roots as she could get. She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. She waited for some sign that they were watching, but there was none. Carefully, she stretched out.

  The knife was only a few inches from her hand.

  Her fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  She snatched the blade up into her palm, slipped it between her hands and started cutting one of the bonds. The rope was thick and tough, unexpectedly resistant. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, tight with the effort. She glanced up again, squinting against the glare of the fire, trying to glimpse the two figures between the leaves....

  There was a blur before her eyes. A shadow flitted above her, a sudden rustle in the brush.

  Then the knife was taken effortlessly from her fingers. Sora gasped. It was as though she had been holding a feather.

  She sat up, shocked, to find Crash glaring down at her. The look made her heart stop.

  "I don't make idle threats, girl," he hissed, and her blood turned to ice. “I spared you once. But we don't need you alive."

  Thud. The knife struck the ground, less than a half-inch from her foot. Sora flinched. Her eyes widened. She looked from hilt to hand, to the hilt, then back to his hand. She hadn't even seen him move.

  Crash turned and walked away. She watched his broad back, the ripple of muscle thinly veiled by his black shirt. His strength was shocking. The knife was fully embedded in the dirt, buried up to the hilt. She remembered how he had lifted her onto and off the horse, how he had effortlessly dragged her from the manor.

  He crossed to the other side of the fire and sank back into the treeline, his sword once again in hand. Then he sat near the base of a tree, all but rem
oved from her line of sight; so still that, after several moments, he seemed to blend into the woods behind him. The shadows rose up, licking at the edges of his body, ready to swallow him whole.

  Sora didn't know how long she stared at that tree. The man wavered in and out of sight, like a ghost. Finally her eyes turned to Dorian, who had returned to his position across from the fire, sprawled in plain sight. He had a deck of worn yellow cards and was playing a game, throwing the cards down in a circular pattern, then occasionally flipping a few over. She was thankful when he didn't return her look. She had had enough threats for one evening.

  She turned to her satchel and folded it, plumping up her change of clothes. Then she stretched out and laid her head against it, a makeshift pillow. If she pretended to sleep, maybe they would leave her alone.

  Well, at least I'm not dead, she reminded herself, wrapping herself in the heavy cloak, trying to ignore the cold moisture seeping up from the ground. The forest sounds were loud and forceful, not soothing like she was used to hearing from her bedroom window. Bird calls seemed harsh and grating, the crickets like rusty violins. The fire snapped and crackled, eating at the air. The wind clawed and hissed through the leaves, branches cracking together. There were strange rustlings in the underbrush, the heavy bodies of four-footed animals. She tried not to flinch at every sound, not to groan with fear. Will we be attacked by wolves? A bear? Dark terrors seemed to loom between the trees, staring down at her.

  And every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father drop to his knees, heavy as stone.

  CHAPTER THREE