SUNLIGHT, MOONLIGHT

by Amanda Ashley

  And then his whole being focused on a single scent.

  The scent of blood. Warm. Fresh.

  He swung around, his nostrils flaring, his mouth watering, And then he was running through the darkness, overcome by an ancient urge that he could neither control nor resist.

  The man reared back, his eyes wide with fright, when Navarre appeared at his side.

  Navarre saw it all in a glance: the terror in the man's eyes, the bright red blood dripping from the man's arm where he had cut it while trying to right an overturned cart. Blood that seemed to shimmer and glow with a life of its own.

  He saw it and smelled it, and then, with a low growl, he was on the man, his hands holding the peasant immobile while he bent over the creature's neck, his teeth, suddenly aching, piercing the man's throat, unleashing a torrent of crimson.

  The blood poured down his own throat, hot and thick and rich, carrying the essence of life. He felt the violent pounding of the man's heart, tasted his fear, felt the man's very soul ebb away…

  Navarre tossed the man aside, a cry of horror rising in his throat when he realized what he'd done. He stared at the blood on his hands, felt the blood trickling down his chin, tasted the last, moist drops on his tongue.

  Filled with self-loathing, he dropped to his knees, his face buried in his hands. What had he done? What had he become, that the scent of blood had driven him to attack a man and drain him of life?

  Sickened, he knelt there for hours, trying to comprehend the changes that had come upon him. His hearing was keen, his vision vastly improved, so that even the darkness held no secrets. And his strength… he recalled how easily he had overpowered the man.

  And the blood… Even the horror of what he'd done couldn't completely obliterate the ecstacy that had come to him when he… His stomach clenched as he relived what he had done. He had torn open the man's throat and drunk his blood. It had been like absorbing the very essence of another human being, embracing his hopes and dreams. Only he wasn't human anymore.

  Slowly, Navarre rose to his feet. And then, with no effort at all, he righted the heavy cart with a flip of his wrist. It took even less effort to lift the body and place it inside.

  Confused and afraid, he stared at his hands. He felt strong. He felt as though he could tear down mountains, as if he could run forever without tiring, as if he could fly…

  Mind reeling, he walked toward the white-domed building that held Katlaina and his son.

  Nearing a stream, he paused long enough to wash the blood from his face and hands, and then, taking a deep breath, he approached the building.

  He had no trouble getting past the guards on the first floor. No trouble finding the room that held Katlaina and the babe. The door was locked, but it was useless against the power of his hands.

  And then he was in her room, crossing the floor, gazing down at the bed where she slept, the child cradled against her breast. An oil lamp, turned low, cast its pale yellow light over the curve of her cheek.

  "Katlaina."

  Her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at him. And then she frowned.

  "Navarre?"

  He nodded.

  "But… how can it be?"

  "Katlaina."

  She sat up, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders, her green eyes filled with hope and doubt. "Is it really you?"

  He nodded, his gaze moving from her face to the child sleeping in her arms.

  She drew the blanket back so he could better see the infant. "This is your son."

  An emotion he had never known swelled within Navarre's heart as he stared at the child. The boy was small and perfect. "May I… can I hold him?"

  "Of course."

  Awkwardly, he reached for the child, marveling at how tiny it was. His son. He held him for a long while, running his fingertip over the smooth, downy cheek, stroking a lock of fine black hair, smiling as he examined the boy's dimpled hands and tiny feet.

  "Are you well, Navarre?"

  He nodded. "Why do you ask?"

  "I… you look different, somehow."

  "Different?" He stared at her over the baby's head, wondering if she could see the change in him. "How?"

  "I am not sure."

  He glanced over his shoulder at the mirror on the wall, felt his heart skip a beat when he saw that he cast no reflection in the glass. He could see Katlaina, he could see the child, but it was as if he were not there.

  "Here, take him," he said, thrusting the baby toward her.

  "What is it?" she asked, placing the baby on the bed. "What is wrong?"

  "Nothing. Nothing."

  Feeling suddenly cold all over, he lifted her from the bed and drew her into his arms. She was as warm and soft as he remembered, and he needed her warmth as never before, needed to be held, to feel the reassurance of her love.

  Murmuring her name, he covered her mouth with his. Desire rose up within him. Desire for her sweet flesh. Desire for…

  He shook the thought away, repulsed. What kind of monster had he become, to crave the taste of her blood?

  "Navarre, what is it? Can you not tell me?"

  He shook his head, horrified by the hunger rising within him.

  He felt his teeth lengthening, felt his fingers digging into her flesh. Almost, he could taste of warmth of her blood trickling over his tongue, down his throat…

  "Navarre! Navarre, stop, you are hurting me!"

  Abruptly, he released her and took a step back, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

  And then he saw her face, as pale as the moon, the wary expression in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Forgive me."

  "Navarre… what has happened to you?" He was puzzled by the horror in her voice, the growing terror in her eyes.

  "What is it?" he asked. "What do you see?"

  "Death." The word whispered past her lips.

  He reached for her, but she recoiled from his touch.

  "Katlaina…"

  "There is death in your eyes, Navarre," she exclaimed softly. "They glow like the fires of hell." Her gaze swept over him as if she had never seen him before. "There is blood on your trousers, and in your eyes. Navarre, what have you done?''

  "Katlaina, listen to me, please." He took a step toward her, then paused. She was afraid of him. He could see it, smell it. "Katlaina…"

  With a sob, she grabbed the child from the bed and backed into a corner. "Go away, Navarre," she begged, clutching the infant to her breast. "Go away, go away."

  She was screaming now, the same words over and over again.

  He heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor, voices calling to each other.

  He hesitated a moment more, the fear in Katlaina's face searing into his mind and heart, and then, without thinking of what he was doing, he jumped out the window.

  He landed lightly on his feet, momentarily stunned that he had jumped from a second-floor window and landed, unhurt, on the ground below.

  He could hear Katlaina crying incoherently, the voices of the guards as they questioned her. He saw a light at the window and he melted into the shadows, knowing, as he did so, that it wasn't necessary. They couldn't see him unless he wished it. He didn't know how he came by that knowledge; he only knew it was true, that he could mask his presence from mortals.

  Mortals… Fear's icy fingers wrapped around his heart. He didn't know what he had become, but he knew he was no longer mortal, no longer part of humanity.

  Filled with rage and fear, he ran back to the Temple of Shaylyn. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he tore the doors from the hinges, then stared down at his hands, amazed at how easily he had brought the doors down. Strength flowed through his arms, his hands, his back and shoulders.

  Sobbing Katlaina's name, he began to pull down the stones of the temple. With preternatural speed, he destroyed the walls, the windows. He smashed the coffin, ripped the lining to shreds, overturned Shaylyn's throne.

  In the distance, he heard the sound of runn
ing feet as the priests of the temple came running to see what was happening.

  Like the angel of death, Navarre rose out of the rubble.

  A dozen priests knelt on the ground a few yards away. Behind them, Navarre could see villagers gathering. And then, coming from Stone Hall Abbey, he saw the High Priest, followed by Markos.

  Effortlessly, Navarre vaulted onto one of the huge stones. He had donned the black cape, and it swirled around his ankles like thick smoke.

  "No more sacrifices," he shouted, and his voice echoed and re-echoed in the stillness of the night.

  A murmur swept through the crowd. He heard the priests whispering together, wondering what had happened to Shaylyn, wondering what great wrong had wrought the destruction of the temple.

  "The goddess Shaylyn has abandoned you," Navarre said, his voice rumbling like thunder. "And I have come to take her place." He fixed the priests with a hard stare. "No more will you sacrifice living flesh. Do so, and I will return, and my vengeance will be terrible to see."

  The priests stared at him, their faces as gray as their robes. Slowly, they bowed their heads, their voices lifting as one. "It shall be as you say."

  "Markos."

  The guard stepped forward.

  "From this night forward, this man shall be chief advisor to the High Priest." Navarre turned his gaze on the leader of the priests. "You will heed Markos's words as you would heed my own. He is to have a house of his own, land of his own."

  The High Priest lifted his head in defiance. A faint smile touched Navarre's lips as he let the full force of his gaze rest on the man's face.

  "It shall be as you wish," the High Priest said, and then, to the astonishment of everyone present, he dropped to his knees before Navarre.

  "The woman, Katlaina," Navarre said, "shall be returned to her own people, and her child with her."

  "I will see to it personally," Markos vowed.

  Navarre acknowledged the guard's promise with a slight nod and then, moving too fast for mere mortal to see, he vanished into the shadows of the night.

  He ran tirelessly, effortlessly, soundlessly, the cloak billowing behind him like Satan's breath. Driven by fear, by a sense of exultation that made no sense, he fled through the darkness, until the village and the priests of Shaylyn were far behind him.

  And still he ran, his senses reeling, filling with the scents and sounds of the night. Only when he sensed the coming of dawn did his footsteps slow. A part of his mind wondered how he knew that dawn was approaching; another part warned him to find a place where he could pass the daylight hours.

  He sought shelter in a copse of trees, digging his way deep into the earth where the sun couldn't find him.

  Lying there, waiting for the darkness of oblivion to come upon him, he thought of the man he had killed, of the superhuman strength he now possessed. What had he become? He didn't breathe, but he had life. He cast no shadow, no reflection, but his body still had mass and substance. The sun was his enemy…

  He closed his eyes, and Katlaina's image rose to haunt him, her face distorted with fear, her eyes wide with fright.

  There's death in your eyes, Navarre, she had said. Death. It came to claim him in waves of darkness, enfolding him, stealing his thoughts, his consciousness. He fought it, still afraid to surrender to the darkness, but it overpowered him, dragging him down, down, into an endless sea of nothingness…

  He woke at dusk, emerging from the earth like a moth from a cocoon.

  He shook the dirt from his clothing, combed his fingers through his hair, and walked out of the woods to the road beyond.

  Ahead, he could see the conical shapes of thatched roofs. He needed food. A bath. A change of clothes.

  Feeling stronger with each passing moment, he headed for the village.

  The townspeople eyed him warily. He was a stranger in a place visited by few outsiders. Some nodded at him, others drew away. An old woman dressed in black made the sign of the cross when he passed by.

  He paused at the entrance to a small inn, drawn by the smell of roasting meat. A young woman stood in the doorway. She wore a long red skirt and a white blouse embroidered with flowers. A riot of red-gold curls peeked out of a dark blue kerchief.

  "Good evening, sir." Her dark brown eyes moved over him, obviously puzzled by his attire, or lack of it.

  "Good evening, miss." His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of meat and fish. "I'm hungry."

  "Come in," she invited. "Mama is just serving dinner."

  "Thank you."

  He followed her inside, sat at the table she indicated.

  "What would you like to eat?" the girl asked.

  "Venison, if you have it."

  "And to drink?"

  He stared at her, confused. Save for the drugged wine the priests had given him the night he was to be sacrificed, he had never had anything to drink other than water.

  "We have wine," the girl said. "Or dark ale."

  "Ale," he decided, reluctant to taste wine again.

  "Ale, it is." She smiled at him in a way that made him suddenly conscious that she was a woman, and he was a man. And then, with a wink, she turned away and went into the kitchen.

  He sat at the table, feeling strangely out of the place as other people entered the establishment. The sound of their voices, their laughter, seemed loud in his ears. The combined smell of so many people in such a small place was overpowering.

  A short time later, the girl set a platter and a tankard of ale before him. The aroma of roast venison and boiled potatoes filled his nostrils.

  The meat was well-done and left the taste of ashes in his mouth. He took another bite and felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Afraid he was going to be ill, he bolted from the room.

  "Wait!" He heard the girl cry after him. "You haven't paid—''

  He darted around the corner into the woods beyond. Dropping to his knees, he began to retch violently.

  When the spasm passed, he sat back on his heels, panting softly.

  He heard her footsteps long before she appeared. Rising to his feet, he wiped his mouth on the hem of his cloak, then turned to face her.

  "What do you want?"

  "I… Papa sent me to see if you were ill. You ran out so fast… and didn't pay…"

  He frowned at her. "Pay?"

  "For the meal."

  "I don't understand."

  Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "I don't know where you come from, sir, but here, it is customary to pay for one's meal."

  He shook his head, the weight of all he didn't know settling on his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

  She stared up at him, her expression softening. "Are you sick?"

  "No."

  "You look very pale." She lifted a hand to his cheek. "Your skin is cold…"

  But her hand was so very warm. The heat of it, of the blood beneath her skin, burned through him like sunlight.

  "I'd better go," she said, her voice rising. She started to take her hand from his face, then screamed when his fingers closed over hers in a grip like iron. "Please," she begged. "Please, don't…"

  "Don't what?" He held his hand against her cheek.

  "I don't know. Please, let me go."

  Dark rage bubbled up inside him as he saw the fear in her eyes, felt it in the trembling of her body. Smelled it on her skin. What did she see? he wondered. Katlaina had seen death in his eyes when she ran from him in terror. Did this girl see the same?

  "You're afraid of me," he said, his voice hard and flat. "Why? I've done nothing to you."

  "Please let me go!" She tried to twist out of his grasp, cried out in pain when he tightened his hold on her wrist.

  "Why are you afraid of me?" he demanded.

  "Your eyes… they're red." She stared up at him, her gaze trapped by his. "Glowing. Inhuman…" A sob rose in her throat. "Who are you? What are you?"

  He felt the power coalesce within him, felt it in every fiber of his being. His gaze held hers, his eyes seeing into her thoughts, impr
isoning her mind until she had no will but his.

  She stopped fighting him, her body suddenly limp. As if in a daze, she cocked her head to the side. Her hair fell back, exposing the length of her neck and the pulse beating there.

  He felt the sharpness of his fangs against his tongue, and then he was bending over her, enfolding her in his arms, hiding her in the voluminous folds of his cloak. She stood motionless in his embrace, her arms at her sides, her eyes vacant.

  "Forgive me," he whispered, and then, unable to help himself, he pierced the vein in her throat, his eyes closing as her life's nectar filled his mouth.

  Laughter. Dreams. Of a home, a child. The ache of a love lost. The joy of a love found… He drank in her thoughts as he drank her blood, heard the pounding of her heart as it sought to beat in rhythm with his own, hers growing weaker, his growing stronger…

  With a cry of self-loathing, he withdrew. She would have fallen but for his arms around her.

  "It will be all right, Lydia," he said, his voice soothing, hypnotic. "You will go home now. And you will remember none of this."

  "Home," she parroted the word without inflection.

  "Yes. Go home."

  He gave her a little push, and she stumbled forward. He watched her walk toward the village, her steps uneven, wondering how he had known her name, marveling at the power of his mind over hers.

  He had so much to learn. About himself. About the world. She had expected payment for the meal. What sort of payment?

  He glanced down at the stained cloth-of-gold trousers he wore. He needed clean raiment. Boots. Where did one find such things? Food and clothing had been provided for him since birth.

  Food… He grimaced as he recalled the taste of the meat he had consumed earlier. The memory of eating cooked animal flesh sickened him as the thought of partaking of blood would have sickened him only days ago.

  Shaylyn. He had to find her, force her to tell him what he had become. But how? Where did one look for a goddess?