by Nyna Queen
Like most of the formal rooms in the aging two-story mansion, the reception room wasn’t used on a regular basis and the musty smell of abandonment had irrevocably seeped into the wooden paneling and furniture, despite it having been dusted and cleaned especially for the occasion.
She furrowed her brow and pondered that for a while. Quite a hassle for a single guest.
But, of course, this wasn’t just some ordinary guest. Couldn’t be. Not with the fuss everybody was making. Especially their sire.
He was acting odd. Had, in fact, been acting odd ever since that blood-sealed letter had arrived the day before. But sure enough, he wouldn’t tell his children what was going on, and no amount of puppy-eyed begging had been able to change his mind. Instead, he’d sealed himself into his study for hours and hours, soundproof sigil and all, making calls and setting up documents. And when he left his rooms he’d acted all weird and jumpy, constantly looking over his shoulder as if he expected the Jester himself to materialize behind him with a grin on his face and his scythe-shaped fool’s scepter in hand.
But nothing compared to his outburst after today’s lunch: one moment she and her brothers had been dawdling in the yard, all nice and quiet, playing whatever game had come to their minds, the next he’d burst out puffing like a raging bull and told them to go to their rooms until further notice. They’d protested, of course—it was a nice warm day and Ms. Myra had filled the little pond with glittering fishies and the rooms were sticky and soooo boring. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been favorably impressed by his kids’ complaints. To the contrary. His face had turned so red she’d feared it would pop like an overinflated balloon, the kind halfborn kids liked to toy around with. And then he’d thrown a major fit, ranting on and on about orders and disobedience and a lot of other flashy words that would result in severe seating problems. She hadn’t gotten all of it, but the gist had been clear enough: Go to your rooms. Stay there. Or else there would be hell to pay. And hell came with a long, wooden stick.
She sucked on her lower lip. That was odd, too. He usually wasn’t a man of threats or punishment, their sire, so anything that was able to turn him into a boiling teakettle was in itself enough to spark the children’s curiosity. And if one of those children could climb a wall like the spider she was … well.
Her sire stopped pacing a few feet from her hideout and she quickly slipped off the sill and ducked deeper into the curtain of ivy that covered most of this side of the mansion’s facade. She breathed in the moist, moldy scent of plants mixed with rotting wood. The shingles groaned under her weight. The whole mansion was only held together by sheer will rather than anything else. At least that was what she had heard the groundskeeper tell her sire just a couple of days ago. Her sire hadn’t said anything for a while after that and then, during dinner, he’d retrieved one of the bottles of the “forbidden liquid” and guzzled down glass after glass until Ms. Myra had taken the flask from him and locked it in the med cupboard.
The ivy rustled to her left. She turned. Tensed. Ugly yellow eyes stared her from the greens, full of unconcealed loathing. Oh, not now! She glared back at the scrawny cat, who’d hated her since the day she’d arrived at the Manor, pissed off by the presence of a superior predator in his house.
He raised his shaggy head and meowed.
“Roucus!” she hissed and made a shooing motion at him. “Buzz off!”
If he gave her away … Her sire was serious about this, she was sure of it.
He growled and swatted at her hand with bare claws, missing her skin by an inch.
Oh, just you wait! The little spider bared her true teeth and snarled. He jerked back, frozen for a second, fur puffed out at his sides, looking like a complete idiot, and then vanished in the ivy as if his tail was on fire.
Pussy!
She made a move to follow him but caught herself in mid-movement.
Wait! Mission! She had a mission. The stranger. Had to see the stranger.
If she screwed this up, her brothers wouldn’t want to play with her anymore. They’d say she was just a boring little girl and even her being a beasty wouldn’t make up for it. And then there was the stranger. Creepy, sneaky, ominous stranger. She had to see him. Had to.
She risked a peek over the sill. Her sire was still standing close by, with his back turned toward her and raked a shaking hand through his thick blond hair.
Something nipped at her senses. Her threads uncurled from her, gently probing the energetic currents in the room. Her lips curled back, revealing small white teeth. Fear. Its sharp, pungent scent emanated from her sire, wrapping him like a foul cloud. It was visible in the beads of cold sweat that built on his brow and trickled down his temples, in the throbbing vein in his neck, the hot blood pumping under his clammy skin …
If she kept still, she could feel the rapid vibration of his heartbeat, racing in his chest like a frightened rabbit. Rabbits could run very fast. She knew. She’d chased them. And received a good scolding for it.
Her eyes narrowed into slits. This wasn’t right. Not right at all. Her sire wasn’t a coward. He might not be what people considered a pack leader, but he wasn’t prey either. So why in the name of the merciful Mother was he acting like it?
The firm vibrations of approaching steps rippled through the floor. The little spider perked up. A second later, a sharp knock echoed through the room. Her sire nearly tripped over himself as he rushed over to the door.
Anticipation zinged through her and she bent over the sill, her whole body taut like a coiled spring. When her sire reached for the handle, a hot-and-cold feeling spread over her. Her hackles rose to the ceiling. If she’d been a dog, her ears would have been flat on her head, tail tucked in between her legs. Something dangerous was waiting behind that door. Her fingers dug into the sill.
The door opened and despite her instincts, she leaned forward another inch, until her nose was almost touching the glass.
And there he was, the ominous stranger, quickly crossing the room and taking a seat at the high end of the massive oak table that dominated the room, like the king of the castle, while her sire fawned over him like a dog eager to please his master. A low, angry growl built in the back of her throat.
In his late forties, she assumed, with iron-gray hair cropped close to his scalp. Despite his age, she could spot no sign of weakness on him. To the contrary, the body in that expensive black tunic suit reminded her of tanned leather: hard, lean and wiry. Not a single gram fat.
Square face. Cold eyes. They were the eyes of a hawk fixing on a mouse, she decided, sharp and merciless. And just imagining being at the receiving end of that stare made her feel like being caught red handed in the pantry, both arms full of feast day bacon.
A jagged scar ran from the corner of his left eye all the way down to his chin, making him look even more menacing.
A golden glint caught her eyes. She froze like a kitten spotting a light spot on the floor.
There, again!
Flash, flash.
Her eyes darted around, searching for the source of the golden spark.
There! Tattoos! Oooohh, yes, tattoos. Shiny tattoos, gold and black, circling from the back of the strangers’ hands around his sinewy arms. Tattoos that flashed rhythmically in the light of the slanting sun rays of the afternoon sun, as he stirred his coffee with slow, precise movements. Making them move. Making them twist. Like snakes, she thought, mesmerized by the golden glow reflecting from her irises. Beautiful golden snakes …
Forfeit.
The word came from a dark, dusty corner of Alex’s mind, as she snapped out of her memory, glowing like a beacon in the night.
Forfeit.
The word her brothers had used, all hushed giggles and excitement behind risen hands, when she’d reported back to them what she’d witnessed. She’d heard the word before and thereafter, but it wasn’t much most people knew about Death’s Servants and even less they were inclined to share—to name the devil was to summon him.
Her b
rothers, however, had only been all too eager to pass on what little knowledge they’d gathered by eavesdropping on grown-up conversations that hadn’t been meant for their ears.
Forfeit. Doomed. Deathbringer. The most mystery-shrouded caste of trueborn magically talented breeds.
Highly respected. Equally feared. Trained in special institutions where they were forged into deadly weapons. Ruthless killers, who took lives with the same naturalness as breathing. They were the state’s sharpest sword. The last resort, only called upon when every other measure had failed—and even then, only with great reluctance. Because where they walked, death was never far behind.
And, right now, one of them was standing less than fifteen feet away from her.
Fuck!
Alex stared at the trueborn at the bar and despite the sticky warmth in the closet, she felt a cold shudder running down her spine.
He was one of the Bloodravens of Yst. A Soulhunter. Death breathed into human form.
Of course, those were the bloated words of two adolescent boys who also thought that pissing while standing was the latest word in masculinity. Still, there was also her sire. Maybe she could discount her half-brothers’ babble as mere big talk, but it would take a bullet to her brains for her to ever forget the sheer terror she’d felt in her sire that day.
Not to mention what the spider in her had known the moment the stranger had crossed the Jester’s threshold. There was nothing subtle about the lethality that shrouded him. He wore it like she wore her human skin: displayed for everyone to see. Kin recognized kin. And a predator always recognized her kind.
As if hearing her thoughts, the trueborn suddenly stiffened. His head snapped up and whipped around in her direction. Instinctively, Alex dashed back into the darkness of the closet, breaking through her paralysis and being halfway up the back wall, true teeth bared in a snarl before she realized the spider had slipped the leash. The threads of darkness spun around her like a coil of vicious tendrils, obscuring, concealing, fusing her with the shadows around her.
Her heart pounded in her throat. Had he seen her?
The curtain had not completely fallen shut and through the narrow slit, she could still see him: his body half turned toward her corner, his gaze slowly traveling over the curtain. Scouring, searching.
Alex held absolutely still, knowing that any kind of movement might give her away.
His gaze fastened on the slit. He cocked his head to the side and a sheen of red rolled over his irises, blood-red flames illuminating the vast darkness of his eyes.
Mother’s mercy and Jester’s grace! Alex’s claws dug into the cracks of the wall, every muscle of her body taut with strain. The Jester’s eyes! The world shrunk around her, reduced to those glowing eyes. They bore into her, burning through her skin, right into her core, ripping at her soul like a fiery knife. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into a gaping abyss with raging fires blazing deep within the bottomless depth, beckoning her to take the final step. Her heart hammered against her ribcage like a panicked bird trying to break free of its cage.
Oh, sweet Jester! He was staring straight at her. Was he seeing her? He must be seeing her!
Mitja said something.
The trueborn went rigid. A ripple went through his body, every muscle tightening under his coat. And for a blazing moment, Alex was sure that he would flip around, vault over the counter and tear into her colleague. She could see it in his eyes: something wild and insane and full of unconcealed bloodlust glared out of those fiery depths.
She gathered herself, knowing full well that she would be too late. She was fast, true, but he was closer and focused on the kill. Great Mother, he’d rip Mitja apart and she wouldn't be able to stop him.
His magic swelled and crested, licking at her skin with burning tongues. His eyes flared, two searing pools of destructive madness, and then—he pulled back.
There was no other way to describe it. A shiver jolted his body, his face twisted as if he was lifting an enormous weight, and the fire died like an extinguished candle. One moment Death grinned at her from the red depths of his eyes, ready to reap its bloody harvest, the next—it was gone.
Alex gaped. Jester’s fucking grace! All that magic boiling inside him on the verge of exploding, and he’d just sucked it up. Like slamming the lid on an erupting volcano. She knew how hard it was to control the spider when it went berserk, but to control this kind of inferno? She couldn't even begin to imagine what it must have cost him to reign himself in.
And yet, the trueborn didn’t seem any worse for wear. His mask was back in place, cold, arrogant, and slightly bored. Haughty trueborn through and through.
Alex wasn't quite sure what scared her more about it: the sheer magnitude of his power or the iron control he had over it.
The trueborn pulled his eyes away from her corner and returned his attention to Mitja, facing him with an expression of chilled courtesy. Her colleague trembled visibly and nervously rubbed his hands at the sides of his pants, leaving finger-shaped sweat stains.
Poor Mitja! Even the magically blind halfborn had some rudimentary sense of energetic currents and it clearly hadn't gone beyond him that something had been going on. Mitja looked like he was facing a wild, half-starved tiger that might go for his throat if he made any wrong move. And he wasn't so wrong there. In the animal world, he would have rolled on his back and offered his throat to the dominant predator.
The trueborn leaned forward a little, making Mitja flinch, and spoke to him in a calm but urgent manner. Alex saw his lips moving, but all she heard was the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears, while her heartbeat was sprinting a vicious race in her chest. Her whole body was trembling from the effort to keep her awkward position at the wall, but she didn’t—couldn’t—relax even one inch.
Her colleague swallowed hard enough to make his larynx wobble and replied, gesturing with shaking hands as if he was pointing out directions—or reasons why the other one should not kill him. The trueborn nodded several times, while the fingers of his left hand idly tapped at the bar top, nails grazing the battered, alcohol-soaked wood. Alex imagined those nails running along her skin and shuddered violently.
The trueborn nodded again, a small inclination of his head, and then, with a quick movement, he swiped up his gloves and pivoted on his heel like a dancer. His eyes grazed her corner for the briefest of moments, flaring red like a cigarette drawn upon in the dark. They held her captive for another painful one, two, three seconds, and then he was gone, and she felt the soft echoes of his steps shivering over her skin.
Alex still didn't move or breathe, although every muscle in her body was on fire as if it was punctured with burning needles. Only when she felt the door closing, its vibration translating through the floorboards in a final ripple, she finally dared to take a breath. It filled her lungs with a dizzying rush of oxygen that made her head swim. All strength seeped out of her body and she slid down the wall, almost toppling over when her shaky legs refused to support her weight.
The reality slammed into her with the force of a bulldozer.
Not for me!
A tiny sob escaped her lips and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
Not for me. Safe. She was still safe.
Relief sucked the last bit of marrow out of her bones and she sagged against the stone wall. Some piece of clatter pricked her thigh, but she barely noticed it.
Not for her. The trueborn hadn’t come for her.
Well, of course not! Now that the panic slowly abated and pulled her mental truck back onto the road of reason, she could see that. They wouldn’t send one of Death’s Servants to eradicate one annoying little spider. Now that was assuming too much credit on her own behalf. Sure, she’d had her intercourses with the law, but she’d never been a major player in the game and she’d always made sure to keep her cards closely hidden.
The usual: maintain a low profile, cover your tracks, and don’t mess with those who really matter. Sti
ll, there was no doubt that there was a good number of people who wouldn’t mind seeing her floating face down in a river. That’s how the business operated: eat or be eaten, as plain as nature’s most basic rule. It sure as hell wasn’t a kind of life to win you friends. In fact, it was a long and deserted path toward lonely-town.
Alex’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her fingers still trembling from the after effects of the shock. It had never been the kind of life she had enjoyed much. At the time, however … She closed her eyes. Bright green eyes winked at her from the dark, dazzling, teasing. So many promises and none of them kept.
She breathed deeply, regaining control over the thought-horses running wild on her. Yes, at the time, it had seemed like the only way out of her misery. The only way to fill that void in her middle, that kept eating her up from within, like a nasty parasite. It helped for a while, but in the end, the pain you inflicted on the outer world didn’t smother the pain inside. It had insidiously hollowed her out.
When she had realized that, she had been walking down a dangerous road that led to a point of no return. But somehow, she’d managed to cut herself loose and draw a line under this less glorious chapter of the pathetic story that called itself her life.
Yes, she reflected with bitter irony, she’d drawn that line. But this kind of life was like a stray dog you’d once tossed a bone. Which was why she was always looking over her shoulder, her feet always halfway in the running shoes. There was an emergency backpack in her apartment, fully packed with the utmost necessities, ready to be grabbed in an instant, if she had to beat a hasty retreat. Always reminding her that she could never fully settle down. That she was never really safe, no matter how secure she might feel in a certain moment.
So yeah, the trueborn might not have come for her today. Didn’t mean that someone else wouldn’t come for her tomorrow. Or the day after that.
Always on the run. Not safe. Never safe. Boy, she was so sick of it!
