Daughter of Dusk

by Blackburne, Livia

  Before he could move again, Kyra jumped on his back and snaked her arm around his neck. A wave of battle fury hit her, the thrill of it as strong as the smell of his fear. Kyra had an overwhelming urge to tighten her grip further, to hold the choke and not let go.

  “There’s something moving back there,” said a voice on the other side of the hedge.

  Kyra jumped back from the fallen soldier, trembling at how close she’d come to wringing his neck. As the man fell forward, coughing, she drew his sword and threw it away from both of them.

  “Go,” she hissed. “Tell your comrades to flee. This in’t worth dying over.”

  She was ready with her dagger as he regained his feet, but he took one last look at her and fled around the hedge. Yells sounded from the other side. Commands. They were planning the best way to surround her. Kyra heard the scrape of swords being drawn, and she cursed the discipline of Palace troops. Soldiers appeared at the ends of the hedge.

  “Stay back,” she yelled again, but they only raised their swords.

  Kyra tossed out one last desperate wish for control before she pulled off her shoes and threw her cloak to the ground.

  When the shouts and screams first started, Tristam held rank with his fellow Red Shields. They stood at attention along the side of the road, scanning for any signs of resistance and bracing themselves for the rush of people that would surely come when the execution cart passed their stations. He didn’t pay much attention to the ruckus at first. It was an execution, after all—a fair amount of rowdiness was to be expected. And frankly, he didn’t have much energy left in him for alarm. He hadn’t exactly slept well the night before.

  Tristam had stayed awake long after Kyra left, unable to forget how she’d felt in his arms and how desperately she’d kissed him back. It had been such a relief to act on his feelings for once, to stop being the responsible son if only for a moment. But once the dust had cleared, things remained the same.

  I can’t. And neither can you. He saw Kyra saying that, her eyes still bright, but grounded now with regret.

  Kyra was right, of course. Tristam was to have dinner again with Cecile in another week, and he had no idea how he would look her in the eye, let alone discuss their marriage. Tristam had been brought up with the expectation of serving his family through this type of alliance, and he’d long made his peace with it. But he’d never realized just how hard it would be. He shouldn’t have kissed Kyra last night. It only made things worse. But somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

  Tristam might have remained lost in his thoughts, but gradually the commotion around him increased until he could no longer ignore it. Tristam pushed his worries aside and peered up the street. The execution cart wasn’t here yet, though it should be close if everything was running on schedule. He exchanged a glance with the soldier next to him, who was also starting to look around.

  “Think they need reinforcements?” asked the Red Shield.

  “I’ve not heard a call for them,” said Tristam.

  Then he started to make out words. “Girl…rooftop…monster…”

  “Kyra,” he whispered. And he knew something was horribly wrong.

  “What did you say?”

  Tristam stepped out of formation and ran up the road.

  Getting to the cart was easy. The road had been cleared, and his fellow soldiers were holding the crowd at bay. Quite a few Red Shields turned in confusion as he ran by. Someone shouted his name, asking him what he thought he was doing, but he just ran faster. The orderly ranks of soldiers broke down as the wagon came into view, and the shouts of the crowd grew deafening. Tristam caught a glimpse of James, hanging limply from the crossbeams. Dead.

  Tristam stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief. Shouts of “girl” and “monster” still rose up at random around him. “Girl crawled out from under the wagon,” said an old man. “Gutted him like a fish.”

  Had Kyra done this? Had she planned to? And why? Tristam grabbed a man in the crowd. “Where did the assassin go?”

  The man pointed—at the rooftops, naturally. Tristam gritted his teeth and pushed his way into the throng. It was slow going. Even with his official livery and his height, the mob could only part so quickly. He took a rougher approach as he grew more impatient, throwing elbows and ignoring angry comments.

  Red Shields ran along the rooftops and dropped out of sight farther on. They had the right idea—the crowd wasn’t going to get any thinner. Tristam gave up on the street and pushed his way to a nearby wall. He jumped for an overhang and pulled himself up. Most of the Red Shields he’d seen were gone by now, but he had a vague idea of where they’d disappeared to. Tristam ran, his steps landing too heavily for comfort on the well-crafted roof tiles. He’d heard enough from the crowd to know that they’d recognized Kyra for who she was and what she was. There was no way this could end well.

  Tristam was halfway there when he heard the roar, and the blood drained from his face. No. She wouldn’t.

  He redoubled his speed. His way was once again directed by screams and shouts, and it was easy to find the courtyard where chaos was breaking loose. He skidded to a stop dangerously close to the roof edge and took in the scene below.

  She was there. Tristam had seen Kyra twice in this form now—dark brown fur, slender muscular body—and she was backed into a corner by four Red Shields. Tristam’s first reaction was relief to see that they wielded swords rather than spears. But then Kyra growled, a deep-throated snarl that sent shivers down his spine, and he wondered if he was worried for the wrong party.

  He lowered himself off the roof and crept closer. Jump over them, Kyra. Knock them aside and make for the forest.

  Just then, two of the Red Shields attacked. One of them managed to cut Kyra’s flank, and she roared in fury. She leaped into their midst, scattering them like pebbles. There was murder in her eyes.

  “No!” Tristam shouted. He ran in front of Kyra, holding up his hands. “Kyra, it’s me. Don’t do this.”

  She fixed his eyes on him, and what he saw froze him to the core. Last time, after she’d killed Santon, Tristam had still been able to see some humanity in her. He’d spoken to that, and he’d reached her. But this time, he saw none of it. No sign at all that Kyra recognized him. No hint, as she advanced on him, teeth bared, that she even knew who he was.

  Tristam drew his sword. Bad idea. At the first flash of steel, Kyra launched herself at him. He dove out of the way and turned to find her engaging now with the other Red Shields. Things were spiraling out of control.

  Tristam tossed his sword to the side. It would only make things worse. And then, without stopping to think lest he realize his foolishness, he ran and threw herself onto her back.

  Kyra’s reaction was immediate. She twisted and snarled as Tristam looped his arms around her neck and hung on for dear life. “Don’t do this, Kyra. It’s me.”

  Kyra gave no sign of understanding. She rose up on her hind legs, doing her best to toss him off. Tristam continued talking to her, shouting words he couldn’t even make sense of himself. But finally, his grip failed, and she tossed him onto the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of him. He groaned, willing the spots to clear out of his vision. The courtyard had gone quiet. Kyra was staring at him, still growling, tail swishing.

  “Leave the city, Kyra,” he said. He breathed in dust from his fall and coughed. “Get out of here.” Was she that completely gone? Would she kill him right here and now?

  A door opened into the courtyard, and new soldiers rushed in, some with spears this time. Kyra whipped around to face them, and Tristam braced himself for what was to come. But then she turned abruptly and ran up a tree. It bowed under her weight, and just as Tristam thought something would snap, Kyra launched herself onto the rooftop and ran for the city walls.

  T W E N T Y - F O U R

  Kyra ran with a speed born of madness. As she leaped off the rooftop and onto the street, people screamed and scattered in her wake. She was tempt
ed to chase them, but Tristam’s voice lodged in her mind and she kept running. She cleared the city wall by climbing another tree, then tumbled down the other side. She landed on her feet.

  Houses changed to farmland, then gave way to the shelter of the forest. She dodged branches and tree trunks, zigzagging her way through. A pent-up frustration drove her on, a feeling that if she stopped or slowed, she would explode. Kyra spied a raccoon and gave chase, killing it with a snap of her jaws and tearing into its flesh. Only then did her blood cool. Only then did her wits return. She couldn’t stay in this shape, but she would freeze if she changed back now.

  She limped her way to her cave. The winter air swirled around her as she finally shrank back into her skin. Her limbs ached, and she was covered with cuts and bruises, including one long gash across her ribs. Nothing life-threatening, but they made every movement painful. Kyra stumbled inside, shivering violently, and dressed herself as quickly as she could. This was her last spare tunic.

  She crumpled against the sandy cave wall as the memories came back to her. The fight against the guards—had she killed any of them? Then there was Tristam. Tristam. How badly had she hurt him?

  Kyra’s hands were still crusted with James’s blood. Somehow, through all the transformations, fighting, and fleeing, it had stayed on. Kyra stared at her fingers until her eyes blurred. What had James been to her? At different times, he’d been a Guildleader, an infatuation, an enemy, and a co-conspirator. And now he was dead at her hands. He’d wanted her to be an assassin. Today he’d been her mark.

  Kyra saw again the pain in his face as he’d died. Why had she stabbed him in the stomach? She’d meant to cut his throat, but then the Red Shields had come after her, and she’d simply acted. Kyra had thought to kill him as an act of mercy, but had there been a part of her that sought revenge? Maybe she hadn’t been ready to let James forget the pain he’d caused her.

  Snow crunched nearby, and Kyra held her breath. Outside, the forest had fallen unnaturally silent. She grabbed her dagger and ran to the cave mouth. Someone stepped out of the trees.

  “Tristam?” Kyra asked. Her voice shook.

  He stepped fully into view. “You left a trail. I tried to obscure it as best I could.” He held out a cloak and a pair of boots—hers. “I don’t think anyone saw me grab these.”

  “Thank you.” She came out of the cave and took her things, tucking them under one arm. Tristam’s eyes flickered over her, taking in her ragged appearance. He didn’t look too good himself. There was dirt on his tunic, and the skin on one side of his face looked raw. But the worst was the caution in his eyes, the way he stood as if he expected her to change shape at any moment.

  “I’m so sorry.” Kyra’s voice broke.

  He didn’t respond right away, and Kyra wondered if this had finally turned him away from her forever.

  “Are you…back to yourself?” he finally asked.

  She nodded, closing her eyes. “The Red Shields. How many…?”

  “Four had minor injuries to be treated. One lost a great deal of blood but should survive.”

  Her knees buckled with relief, and she touched a tree for support. “Thank you for stopping me.” When she’d faced the soldiers, they’d seemed nothing more than nameless enemies, helpless targets. But they’d had families and children.

  “You’re shaking,” Tristam said. He took her hand and led her back to the cave. She was grateful for his touch and that he didn’t refuse to be close to her. But still, he was so careful in the way he moved, so on his guard.

  “I thought I could control it,” she said. But was that even true? She’d been scared, hemmed in by soldiers, and taking her other form had seemed her only way out. Her life or theirs. She’d made her choice, though there had been eight of them and one of her. “I don’t think I should change shape again,” she said.

  He didn’t argue. They sat just inside the cave entrance. The afternoon sunlight came in at an angle and illuminated the dust in front of them.

  “How many people have you killed, as a soldier?” she asked.

  “Two,” he said quietly. “The first time, we happened upon brigands attacking a trade caravan. The second was near my manor. It was the same thing, except they were looting a farm.”

  “How did it…make you feel afterward?”

  He took his time answering, as if he knew how much hung in the balance. “It was hard, looking into the eyes of someone who was dying and knowing it was my doing.”

  Did he feel a rush of power when he killed? An overwhelming desire to draw more blood? She couldn’t ask, but she suspected she knew the answer. “James held my eyes when I killed him,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me look away.” Of course James would know what those last moments were like. Of course he’d insist on that last connection.

  “Why did you do it?” asked Tristam. “That much planning, that much risk, just to spare him the last few hours?”

  “I couldn’t let him die like that.” It didn’t make sense. Even Kyra didn’t quite understand the common thread of purpose that bound James and her together. They’d hurt each other so many times, yet some part of her had felt she owed him this. “He said something to me before he died. He told me to choose my fight.”

  “Your fight?” Tristam echoed. “And what is that?”

  She rubbed at her fingers to get the blood off. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He was right. Kyra wasn’t as naïve as she used to be. She knew more about the city now and its workings. James had wanted to bring down the entire Council. She wasn’t sure what he’d had in mind after that. Anarchy? Establishing himself in power? He hadn’t seen fit to share his plans with her, and Kyra suspected she wouldn’t have agreed with them. But neither was she happy with the way things were.

  “Willem’s got to go. It’s not enough simply to stop the Demon Rider offensive. I want him out of power.”

  Tristam was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke again. “I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  He’d spoken so calmly that it took a while for Kyra to recognize the implications. But when they finally sank in, she looked to him in alarm. “Tristam, this is high treason. You’ve been working so hard to get back to good standing in the Palace, and you’ve got your marriage negotiations to think about.” He’d given up so much for her already.

  Tristam stared at the dust swirling in front of them. “You know, before I met you, I never gave much thought to my station in life. I knew I was fortunate, but I didn’t really know what it meant. But I have to think now that my good fortune comes with some measure of responsibility, whether it be taking up arms to protect the lowborn or trying to make changes where we can.” He paused then. “I suppose we all have to make our choices. This is mine.”

  It was the type of decision that should have been announced with trumpets and rousing speeches, but instead it was just the two of them hiding in the mouth of a cave, bruised, dirty, and exhausted.

  “I won’t stop you,” said Kyra. “But if you have doubts at any point, you need to tell me.”

  “What next, then?”

  She looked up at him, and their eyes met briefly. It seemed she was always looking at the space between the two of them. Measuring it, wishing she could bridge it. “James told me once that Willem must be disgraced before he’s brought down. I think he’s right. We need to discredit him.”

  “Orvin’s mystery messenger, then?” said Tristam.

  Kyra nodded. “We’ll need to think how best to do it. Flick might be able to help. He’s good at flipping pockets.” She started going through the possibilities in her head, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Too much had happened in too short of a time. She wasn’t ready to get back on the warpath just yet. “We’ll make plans, but can you give me a moment? I can’t think straight.”

  He looked her over again, and there was a softness in his gaze when he nodded. She leaned her head against the cave wall and closed her eyes. She�
��d only meant to rest a little, but a while later, she was groggily aware of him laying her down on the cave floor and tucking his cloak around her. She reached out and took his hand. His grip felt so comfortable, so solid. And yet, there was caution in his manner that hadn’t been there the night before.

  “Tristam,” she said. “It’s not just Cecile that stands between us, is it? Even if I were higher-born, it wouldn’t matter. You’re scared of what I am.”

  He didn’t answer right away, and his hesitation spoke more than any words he might have said. For a moment she could see it in his eyes, his lingering fear and mistrust of the Demon Riders, something he’d done an admirable job of hiding from her but was nonetheless still there. Kyra looked down, trying to ignore the tightness that had arisen in her chest. “I’m not completely blameless in Santon’s death. I hoped he would attack me, and I pretended to be vulnerable so they’d give me the excuse I needed. Part of me liked tearing Santon apart. I’m not proud of it, but I won’t hide it from you. I owe you that much.”

  Tristam looked down at her hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy. “I don’t envy you, Kyra. I might have done the same or worse had I been in your shoes.”

  He was offering her empathy, understanding, friendship. And though a selfish part of her wished for more, Kyra supposed that they didn’t have that luxury. Tristam brushed her hair away from her face with the back of his fingers. The feather­light touch left a pleasant tingling on her scalp, and she let her eyes close. “Should you be getting back to the city?” she asked him.

  “They won’t notice my absence for a few more hours. Sleep for now. I’ll be here.”

  T W E N T Y - F I V E

  Flick was getting better at spotting Demon Riders in the trees. Or at least he thought he was. He caught hints of movement in the corners of his eyes when he walked near the forest, though when he turned and looked, he never saw anything for certain.