“No,” said the innkeeper. “No, but Farmer Goldeen—out on the south reach—she found one not quite a fortnight ago. Not the wrong head, but a dead body. Her head had been cut off, and it was an awful thing. Goldeen buried her there and described her clothes, but nobody knew who she might be.”
Clara sought Istvhan’s eyes. He gave her a short, grim nod.
Whatever he’s chasing—and he’s definitely chasing it—they came this way. Our ways go together a little longer, then. She found that she was glad of that, though she wished the reasons hadn’t been so grim. Severed heads and kidnapped nuns. And a wagonload of barrels and a man obsessed with oak trees. The gods are being more inscrutable than usual.
“Well,” said Galen, leaning back. “Then you’re considerably more up to date than I am. Any strangers about? Anything suspicious?”
The innkeeper shook her head. “Though I’m glad to hear that it happened so far away, even if I wish it hadn’t happened at all. I hope that means they were moving along. You hate to think of a killer anywhere, but you don’t want them holed up nearby.”
“No blame on you,” said Istvhan easily. “That’s not the sort of thing anyone wants. I hope wherever they fetch up, there’s someone who can deal with them.”
And I am quite sure that was a lie, my fine captain. You want to know where they fetch up because you think you’re the one who can deal with them. What haven’t you told me?
Silly question, of course. Whatever he hadn’t told her couldn’t possibly equal what she hadn’t told him.
Brant spoke up then, asking if there was a forester who knew about the local trees, and the conversation went off in a different direction entirely. Clara shifted uncomfortably on the bench and decided that she was done. She got to her feet, apologizing her way past the others, and Istvhan rose as well. “A shame to leave such a fine company,” he said, “but much more ale and you’ll be carrying me to my bed. If you’ll excuse me…”
Istvhan made his apologies with only half his mind, while furiously working through the latest news of the smooth men and trying to place the location and time on his mental map of the area. How fast were they moving? He’d despaired of catching up with them, but they did not seem to be moving terribly rapidly either. Less than a fortnight. We were faster on the road than they were.
He looked up the steps and discovered that he was eye-level with Clara’s backside, which put a brief halt to his mental mathematics. Her robes did their very best to disguise anything resembling curves, but they were clearly outmatched. A man could grab onto hips like that and pull her close and—
“Thank you again, Captain Istvhan,” said Clara, when they had reached the top of the stairs.
Ah. Yes. He hauled his mind forcibly out of the gutter. “For what? Dragging you on a forced march through a nest of bandits?”
“Not just for that. For helping me stay on the trail of my sisters.” She smiled at him and his heart turned over, which was ridiculous. She’s a nun.
And you’re a paladin, however little you mention it these days. And neither of you are sworn to celibacy.
Vigil on my knees again. And they haven’t recovered from the last stretch. Saint have mercy.
The sound from the common room seemed very far away. Her eyes were warm and he could smell smoke and sage and sweat and he needed to walk away, he needed to walk away now.
“You do not need to thank me, Domina,” he said. He seemed a little lightheaded, which was frankly ridiculous, he knew women, he’d grown up with women, even as a callow boy with more balls than sense he’d never had a problem talking to them. Except apparently this one.
“You got me through the mountains,” she said. “That’s not a small thing.”
“You helped to defend my people. And I have made an ass of myself, and I can only beg forgiveness from you again.”
She actually looked momentarily puzzled, and then a flash of amusement crossed her face. “The kiss, you mean? I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“No! No, of course not—but it should never—I should never have—not without asking—I am not a man who—”
And I’m babbling. Yep. There I go. Vigil on my knees on gravel. Vigil on—
She kissed him.
She wasn’t gentle. Istvhan felt his spine hit the wall and while he was used to letting women take the lead because he didn’t want to alarm them, he was not used to having a woman take the lead who was the same size he was and could possibly break him in half. It was both slightly worrisome and terrifyingly erotic. She claimed his mouth like a conquering army and he was entirely willing to surrender.
He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She made a soft growling sound and leaned into him, her breasts soft against his chest and dear god, he had been celibate for less than a month and he was supposed to be getting some rest and instead he wanted to kick open the nearest door and drag her down onto the bed and bury himself in that softness until dawn.
And then she stepped back.
Istvhan heard himself panting. Her lips were parted and there was a definite wildness in her eyes, but she smiled again and rose onto her toes and kissed his forehead.
“There. Now we’re even,” she whispered against his skin.
He dragged in a breath and stared at her and then began to laugh.
“Goodnight, Captain Istvhan.”
“…Domina.”
She turned and strolled down the hallway to her room, leaving him with an aching cock and the definite feeling that the nuns of St. Ursa were not at all what he was used to.
Was that unkind? That may have been unkind.
Clara found that she did not regret it, not one little bit. Istvhan’s eyes had gone so wide that he looked like an owl, and for one second she was afraid she really had traumatized the poor man, but then his mouth had opened and his fingers spread across her back, each one hot as a brand. He was all muscle and strength, his hips tight against hers. It had, perhaps, not been as mind-bending as the kiss on the battlefield, but there was no help for it, you could only do so much when people weren’t trying to kill you.
And if he went away aroused and frustrated…well, now he knew how she’d felt.
The heat of desire filled her more kindly than all her rage and sorrow had. Clara welcomed the respite. She wondered if he’d knock on her door, and what she would do if he did.
You know damn well what you’d do. Probably not on the bed, because you can barely fit one person on it. On the floor then. Hard and fast, at least the first time. They could take their time later. If there was a later.
Best to do it now, whispered a small, nagging voice. Do it now before you find your sisters and the truth comes out. There’s no chance at all afterward.
She grimaced as she got ready for bed. No, there never was any chance afterward. It was why Clara had resigned herself to a lifetime of casual relationships. She’d learned that lesson once, learned it hard, and did not need to be taught it a second time.
Istvhan was a handsome man. He made her laugh. He cared for his men. There was depth and warmth and concern behind his good humor. If she was the sort of woman who fell in love, she’d be halfway there already. And suppose you did go to his bed, and then he learned your secret? Do you really want to see that horror in those big brown eyes?
She’d seen it once. One lover. A passionate man with a poet’s eyes and a way of biting his lower lip that had undoubtedly brought more than one woman to her knees. It had certainly worked on a much younger Clara. He’d talked of traveling together on the canal, selling the convent’s wares. A lay sister could not marry, but they were certainly allowed partners. She’d allowed herself to dream.
Well, there was no sense dwelling on it. It was an old pain, long since scabbed over. She’d spent about six months moping and then another six months screwing anything with two legs and a cock, and life went on.
Clara did wish occasionally that she was the sort of woman who could love another woman as more than a sister. It woul
d have made her life a great deal easier. Sister Rose and the Sister Apothecary, for example, had been devoted to each other for over a decade. But it was not in Clara’s nature and St. Ursa called only women, so there was nothing much to be done.
He did not knock on her door. She slid between the covers, her body still half-aching with desire, and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.
Thirteen
“A gnole suspects we have a problem,” said Brindle, reining in the mules.
Istvhan and Clara both looked up. “Oh hell,” said Istvhan. “Not more bandits. Not again.”
They had left the town behind two days ago, and things had been easy. Easy enough that Clara’s back teeth had unclenched and Galen hadn’t screamed in his sleep last night. Easy enough that they’d actually made good time and Clara had entertained a brief hope that they might be getting a little closer to the raiders who had taken her sisters. And now this.
There were seven men on the road, all of them on horseback. Clara narrowed her eyes, scanning from face to face, and then stopped on one so unobtrusive that she remembered him immediately.
“I don’t think these are ordinary bandits,” she said. “Third one on the left was at the inn the other night when we talked about the nuns.” Istvhan grunted.
The leader kicked his horse forward. Istvhan rested his hand on his sword hilt. Behind her, Clara could hear Galen quietly giving orders.
“Captain,” said the leader. “I have a proposition for you.”
“You’re not my type,” said Istvhan.
The man smiled tolerantly. “We have no quarrel with you, captain, nor your men. The woman with you, however, is of great interest to us.”
Clara could feel the sudden weight of eyes on her. Galen. Brant. Brindle. The mercenaries. She could almost hear the thoughts. Why do they want you? What have you been hiding? Only Istvhan was not looking at her. Istvhan stood beside her and she heard his breath go out softly, and then the next sound was the scrape of steel as his sword left its sheath.
He took a step forward, getting his shoulder in front of Clara. “I’m afraid that she is not for sale.”
“I was not offering to pay.” Another tolerant smile. “There is no need for weapons. She will be quite safe, Captain. I have no interest in harming anyone. And I am certain that she is eager to be reunited with her sisters.”
Clara felt her breath hiss through her teeth. He knows where they are.
In her head, the beast roused. This one? Now?
Not yet. Down. There was still a chance they might get out of this. A small, infinitesimal chance, but if she could get information… “Where are my sisters?” she asked.
“Come with me and you will see them.”
“Somehow I do not trust your good intentions,” said Istvhan.
The man shrugged. “I will take her to her sisters. I give you my word.”
“Where are my sisters?” Clara repeated, hearing a growl rattle the edge of her voice. Calm was finally deserting her. Not yet, dammit. Talk. Talk your way out, get information, and you will not have to wake the beast and Istvhan will never know…
“They are honored guests.”
A second man rode forward, his hands filled with gray rope. Clara recognized a net and felt the rage building in her chest, a rage that no catechism could contain. A net. A heavy net for beasts.
You know where my sisters are.
You know what I am.
It was all slipping away. It would be over soon. Everyone would know.
“Ropes?” asked Istvhan. “Is this how you treat honored guests in Morstone?” Even through her anger, Clara recognized that he was fishing for information.
“For our safety and hers.”
“Tell me where they are, and whatever you are being paid, I will double it.”
“Oh, I doubt that, highly.” The leader gazed at Istvhan, then gave a short, surprised laugh. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what? Why you kidnap nuns?”
Don’t tell him. Don’t…oh hell, it doesn’t matter. He’s going to find out in the next few minutes anyway. Clara felt an unexpected stab of anguish for what she was about to lose. Should have knocked on the door that night at the inn, Istvhan.
No, perhaps it was better this way. The shock would not be nearly so great as if he’d bedded her.
“Give us the nun,” said the man in the lead. “Give us the nun and we walk away. We have no interest in you.”
The beast growled in her head. Now? Now?
Seven of them. Some of our people are wounded. All of his are mounted. Saint’s teeth, maybe I should let them capture me. They’re determined to take me alive and I’ve got a better chance of learning where they’re holding my sisters this way.
“You should probably give me up,” she said in an undertone. “They want me alive.”
“Domina,” said Istvhan, just as quietly, “they will have to go through me first.”
“But—”
“Come and take her,” Istvhan shouted, and stepped in front of Clara. His sword was held upright and he looked like a knight, doomed and gallant, not like a mercenary. He was going to die.
The leader kicked his horse into a run.
Now? Now? The world was dim, her vision slipping, but she could still see Istvhan standing in front of her, brave and foolish and utterly mad, and he was going to die because of her and there was only one way that she could stop it.
Now?
Shit. Yes. Now. She threw down her sledge, took a deep breath, and turned into a bear.
Istvhan saw something happen in the corner of his vision. A ripple. He jerked back, fearing the enemy had somehow launched an attack from that quarter, and instead of Clara standing next to him, there was a mass of fur and fangs.
He had lived for a good many years and had a number of experiences. He had still never been so close to a live bear.
It was gigantic. It towered over him, a behemoth bigger than a horse. Behind him, he distantly heard the mules screaming.
The bear roared. Its teeth were longer than his fingers. It took two steps forward toward the raiders, and the lead horse, which had been running toward Istvhan, suddenly decided that it would rather be anywhere else at all. It spun on its hind hooves. The rider tried to get his mount under control and sawed on the reins, but the horse was maddened, throwing its head back, until the bear roared again and the animal reared, plunged, and threw its rider clear.
He landed in the road. Istvhan noticed, with the last shreds of his attention, that his neck was not at an angle found in living men. The other horses had broken and run, and their riders, less foolish or more fortunate, were letting them.
And just like that, the road was clear, except for the dead man and the dust and a bear bigger than anything he’d ever seen.
Where the hell is Clara? Did she fall? Did it come down the hillside and attack? What the hell is going on?
She was nowhere to be seen. He looked for her under the bear’s feet and saw her robes. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The bear dropped to all fours. It was as high at the shoulder as a horse and twice as massive. It turned its head toward him.
It appears I am going to die.
The tide was not rising. He did not look at the bear and think of all the ways to kill it. He had no idea how to kill it. The black tide, which had carried him against men and monsters, was apparently just as flummoxed as he was. The bear had trampled Clara and it was probably going to kill him in very short order and he had no idea what to do.
Of all the ways I could have died, I did not see this one coming.
Perhaps if he wounded it in a way that slowed it down, it would leave the rest of his men alone. Perhaps he could get in one last strike for a woman that, under other circumstances, might have been more than a friend. He commended his soul to the Saint of Steel, lifted his sword, and stabbed the bear as hard as he could in the leg.
The results were not all that he could have hoped for. The shag
gy coat threw off his aim and the stab turned into a slash that hit hide and fat and nearly bounced off. Saint’s balls, what are bears made of? The damn thing’s practically wearing armor under there!
The bear swung its head around with a guttural snarl, swatting at the sword. It ripped the blade out of Istvhan’s hands and he watched it clatter into the dust. Then the bear roared.
This is it. The last thing I see. He looked straight down the bear’s gullet, a red tunnel framed by massive teeth. Black lips curled back and he staggered back a step, not even thinking to run, waiting for those jaws to close over his head.
The bear’s breath smelled like salt and sage and one very tiny part of his brain thought that was odd and the roar went on and on and sounded like “Graaughhharrr….aaa….fuck,” and that was even odder and then the bear seemed to ripple and got a great deal smaller and Sister Clara was naked on her knees in the dirt, clutching her shoulder while blood poured down her arm.
Fourteen
Istvhan went to his knees in front of her. Had he taken a blow to the head? Had the bear knocked him unconscious? He looked around wildly for the bear and there wasn’t one, or rather, there was Clara, and she was kneeling in the wreckage of her robes and bleeding and his sword was still on the ground, and that meant…that must mean…
“You’re a shapechanger?!”
“You’re quick,” she said, in a voice that still had quite a lot of growl to it. “With the sword, too.”
She was a bear.
She had turned into a bear.
He’d kissed a very large bear with teeth like daggers.
He’d stabbed a woman who had fought beside him.
He had ten thousand different things to say, questions to ask, curses to utter, and could think of none of them. Reflex took over. He swung his cloak off his shoulders and over her body, then grabbed for one of the torn sleeves of her robe to bind the wound.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. I thought the bear had trampled you.” He spared a glance down the road and saw that the men on horseback were long gone. “I’m so very sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Domina.”
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