Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 8-4

She slashed at a man who danced within range. By chance or design, a club came arcing out of nowhere and slammed into her claw-hand. Bones snapped like brittle kindling, the claw fell to the ground. A moment later, a crush of bodies pinned her to a wall. She tried to break free, but there was a fire in her lungs now, and her legs were on the verge of buckling. The only parts of her body that did not hurt were those that were already numb.

For a long moment after, the only sound in the world was that of ragged breathing. Then Lathwi heard the snick of a blade leaving its sheath. She blinked back a salty haze of tears to see the man with the tangled beard standing in front of her. There were purpling half-moons beneath his eyes and half-clotted rivulets of blood beneath his nose.

“You’ve got a lot to pay for, b***h,” he rasped. “And I intend to take every luc of that debt out of your uncivilized hide.”

He angled a big hunting knife back and forth in front of her eyes as if trying to dazzle her with reflected moonlight, then pressed its tip into the space between her left eye and the bridge of her nose. Its edge, she noted, was very sharp.

“This is for Tomas,” he told her, and then slowly carved a diagonal trench across the top of her left cheekbone.

Her mind became a bog of pain and helpless outrage. If she had had one wish then, she would have used it to convert her fury into physical vigour so she could tear this cowardly fool into quivering shreds. As it was, she barely had enough strength to hold herself still as he set the tip of his blade to the corner of her right eye.

“And this is for Nev.”

He scored the top of her other cheekbone, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. A moment later, he shook his head as if dissatisfied and set his knife on the lower left side of her nose—the spot where flesh flared into nostril. “This is for cheating us.”

She gasped once as the blade dug into the lower half of her cheek, then again as the quickness of that breath filled her lungs with fresh fire. If only she could cough that fire up—

“This is for fighting us instead of f*****g us.”

—and spit it in this man’s loathsome face.

Stunned to near-numbness by a sudden thought, she barely felt the hunting knife’s eager bite this time. She could not spit fire, but she could summon it!

“And this one is all for me.”

As he pressed the knife’s edge to the base of her nose, Lathwi invoked the secret Name of fire. The answering mote hopped into Broken-Nose’s beard like a flea. The Southerner loosed a puzzled grunt, trying to place the smell of burning hair, then dropped his knife and shouted as his head erupted in flames. His companions rushed his aid only to catch fire themselves. In a matter of heartbeats, the whole lot of them were brightly ablaze. Without a backward glance at her, they ran screaming out of the alley.

Lathwi wanted to give chase, but collapsed into a deep, dark gulf instead.

G

“You can’t leave yet,” Jamus complained, as Pieter made ready to do just that. “It’s bad luck for the guest of honour to be the first to leave the party.”

“That’s nonsense,” Pieter scoffed, and then drained the last sip of wine from his cup. “Besides, I’m coming back, so this doesn’t really qualify as leaving.”

“But why do you have to go at all?”

“Because I locked Lathwi out of the house.”

“So?” Jamus argued. “Let her climb the fence and sleep in the courtyard. You know as well as I do that she can take care of herself.”

“She can also break a door down when it suits her to do so,” Pieter countered. “And if Liselle wakes up tomorrow to find her door in ruins, she’s going to make those nearest and dearest to her miserable for weeks to come. So you see, old man—I’m actually doing this for your benefit.”

Jamus arched an eyebrow at the insinuation, but decided not to pursue it. He would rather believe that Liselle held some sort of affection for him than know that her nephew was teasing.

“I could rouse a servant and send him over to the house in your stead,” he proposed.

“Don’t do that. Your servants have earned their rest.”

The truth was, Pieter wanted to go home so he could look in on Liselle. He felt guilty for giving her nightmares, and for going out and having a good time while she was suffering. He didn’t want to tell that to Jamus, though. It sounded too sissified. And he really had locked Lathwi out.

“Here,” he said, handing the golden-haired man his empty cup. “Fill this up, then set it aside in a safe place. That way, I’ll be guaranteed at least one drink when I get back.”

“All right,” Jamus grudgingly replied, “but don’t you be gone too long. Otherwise, I’ll move the party to your aunt’s place and we’ll sing bawdy songs in the courtyard till dawn.”

Pieter grinned at the thought, then clapped his friend on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I promise.”

He started on his way then. The air was crisp and cool, an invigorating antidote for a night of near-constant eating and drinking. He walked at a brisk clip, whistling under his breath. It felt good to be out and moving.

He was less than three blocks from home when a figure came running out of the shadows and toward him. He tensed, an reflex born of instinct and wine, then relaxed again as that figure acquired a woman’s unmistakable curves. To his amazement, she ran right up to him then and latched herself to his arm.

“Please,” she begged. “You must help me.”

Despite the darkness which surrounded them, Pieter could see that this woman was beautiful—a voluptuous, dark-haired sylph with delicate features and beguiling cinnamon eyes. He swallowed hard. Protectiveness welled up within him.

“What goes on here, lady?” he asked.

“Forgive me for being so bold,” she replied, entreating him with those fascinating eyes, “but I am being followed by a trio of men who wish to do me harm. May I walk with you a while?”

“Of course.” The idea of refusing such a request never crossed his mind. “If you wish, I’ll gladly see you home.”

“No!” She tightened her grip on his arm. “If you take me home, those rogues will know where I live. I’ll never be safe again.”

Her distress was both endearing and curiously exciting. He patted her pretty little hand and soothed her with a soft shushing sound.

“If you don’t want to go home,” he said then, “we’ll go elsewhere instead. Where would you, lady?”

She leaned into him like a caress-hungry cat, then eyed at him through her lashes. “Is your house nearby? If it is, perhaps we could go there. Those footpads wouldn’t follow me into another man’s house.

“Please?” she asked, when he hesitated. “I’ll only stay until I’m sure I’m safe. And believe me—your kindness will not go unrewarded.”

That veiled promise triggered a whirlwind of delight and disbelief in his head. This sort of thing happened to Jamus, not him! He thought of Liselle then, and her profound sleep. She’d never know; and what she didn’t know wouldn’t irritate her.

“As it so happens,” he told her, “I live just down the road from here.”

Minutes or hours later, they came to a stop in front of Liselle’s door. The woman had clung to Pieter every step of the way; and was clinging to him still. He was puff-chested and giddy, high on his good luck. As he eased the door open, he pressed a finger to his lips.

“Quietly now,” he whispered. “My aunt is sleeping.”

The woman took a step toward the doorway only to stumble backward. Her upper lip curled into an unbecoming pout then. In the scant light, it looked like a snarl.

“I cannot enter,” she said, as she reclaimed her hold on his arm. “There is a forbidding here.”

“Really?” He squinted at the door. “It looks the same to me.”

“I would like to meet your aunt,” she said then. “Call her.”

“Not tonight,” he replied, more than a little confused by the request. “Like I said, she’s sleeping—Yeow!” Her grip had turned suddenly painful. “Ease up on my arm, lady. You’re apt to tear it off otherwise.”

“Call her.”

The woman’s smile was too large for her face now. Too large and too toothy. And the hand that was wrapped around his arm was no longer slim and finely boned, but gnarled like an old tree branch. A terrible realization formed in the pit of his stomach then: this was the secret fear that he’d seen in Liselle’s eyes, the reason she had been behaving so oddly. Dreamer! Why had she not said anything?

“Call her. I will not tell you again.”

“No,” he whispered.

There was nothing womanly about its face anymore. Its cheekbones had shifted, becoming flat and hard; its nose had receded into mere slots above a wide strip of pointed yellow teeth. As he gaped at it, it began to twist his arm into an agonized starburst.

Absurdly, all he could think of was Liselle. Desperate to protect her against this walking nightmare, he lunged for the doorway. The creature pulled him back, but not before he jerked the door shut and flung his keys into the darkness.

“Fool,” it said, scorning his heroics. “She will hear you nonetheless.”

With that, it yanked him off his feet and into a fetid embrace. As pain shot down his spine and into every fibre of his being, he spent all of his strength on one last desperate cry for help.

G

The naj slunk into the torchlit chamber and up to the foot of The Cripple’s dais. There, reeking of human blood and entrails, it waited for permission to speak.

Malcolm did not need to question the gore-flecked naj to know that his ploy had somehow gone awry—its downcast eyes and unusually submissive air were far more eloquent than any words. Even so, he proceeded with the interrogation just for the spiteful satisfaction of seeing the demon squirm.

“Well?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

No clarification was necessary. The naj knew all too well who the she in question was. It glanced at the cripple through hooded eyes and nervously licked its chops.

“I do not have her,” it admitted. “She would not come out of the house.”

“And why was that? Didn’t you follow my instructions?”

“I did everything you told me to do,” it replied, on the verge of grovelling now. “But while her kinsman screamed for his life, she did not make the slightest move on his behalf.”

“Really? How interesting.” And annoying. This Recluse was proving to be a woman of unusual strength. “I’ll have to try a different bait. Or maybe just a different servant,” he added, half-turning to eying the naj slyly. “Maybe you’re no good for anything more than fetching and carrying.”

The demon lordling bristled, then drew itself up to its full height. “I did not catch The Recluse tonight,” it said, “but I did learn something that might be of use.”

“Do tell,” Malcolm urged it. “If it’s as useful as you say, I might spare you the punishment you deserve for failing me.”

“I learned a name,” it told him then, eager to avoid The Cripple’s magical lash. “Her kinsman shouted it out before I killed him, so it must belong to The Recluse.”

“What is it?” Malcolm asked, truly interested now.

“Lathwi,” it replied.