Celia Friedman: Crown of Shadows

“I can track her,” Forrest said at last. “I can get your children and bring them back to you. I can see that she never interferes in your life again. The price is one hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. Do you care if your ex-wife is injured?”

“I-” For a moment the words wouldn’t come; he had to force them out. “I’d rather not. If that’s possible.”

“One hundred and sixty, then. Payment due in full when the children are returned to you.”

He offered his hand. The man stared at it for a moment, then took it. And shook it, hard.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when the work is done, Mer Helder.”

He indicated the packet of papers in his hand. “I have all the information written down here, including the reports of the men I hired. Charcoal portraits of the children—”

“Leave it,” Forrest said quietly. “I’ll go through it tonight. For now, go home. Forget you ever came here. The next time you see me will be when I bring you your children. If you seek me out before that, I’ll consider our contract null and void. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” he whispered. Trying not to think about what special techniques this man must employ, that he took such care to keep his workings secret.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mer Helder.” Forrest nodded what was obviously a dismissal.

But the man didn’t move. “Do you think-” he dared. “I mean, can you—”

“Prey is prey,” he said. “The fact that it’s human in this case makes the game more interesting, but not necessarily more difficult. Intelligence, like instinct, can be anticipated. Manipulated.” He took another sip from the cup, his gaze never leaving the man. “If your children are still alive, then I guarantee results. If not ... then you haven’t spent anything, have you?” The black eyes glittered; in the lamplight they seemed strangely inhuman. “Good night, Mer Helder.”

He managed to get to his feet and head toward the door, even though he longed to beg for better reassurance. Was there really a chance for him to be reunited with his children? Could this strange man succeed where so many had failed? But it was clear from Forrest’s manner that he was no longer welcome in the office, and so he hurried out. The last thing he wanted to do was anger the only man who could help him.

He’ll get them for me, he thought desperately. He will. I know it.

Repeating that thought like a mantra, he made his way out of the strange shop, and started the long walk home.

For a long time after his visitor left, the man called Riven Forrest was still. Waiting for the air to clear, it seemed. Waiting for the psychic dust to settle. At last, when he judged that the atmosphere was right, he reached out and put his hand on the packet the man had left behind. Just that. He could breathe in its contents in images, which was faster and far more satisfying than reading. What were words, anyway? At best they only hinted at the exhilaration of the hunt; at worst, they muddled and obscured it.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes and envisioned the task at hand. She would be afraid even now, after all these months. He would dissect that fear. Fear was what made animals run, and the shape of that fear was what you used to divine their path. Do it right, and the fae itself would vibrate in harmony with your pursuit. There was no escape after that. Not when the planet itself was your collaborator, and every living thing on it an extension of your will.

At last, when he was satisfied that he had absorbed the emotional essence of this new case, he smiled. Plans were already forming in his brain. Patterns were already being sketched out, tested, and adjusted within him, in a process far more natural than breathing. He was in his element now, and he loved every minute of it. Was there any sweeter challenge to court than the hunt of intelligent prey?

He picked up the cup before him. The liquid inside was thick and red, and carefully heated to body temperature. He liked it best that way. Traditional.

The painting which loomed over the fireplace was a portrait of the Hunter. With a smile, the creature called Riven Forrest raised the cup up toward it; the red liquid sloshed thickly inside.

“Here’s to you, Dad,” he whispered.

And he drank.

Damien thought, I can’t believe he’s dead.

People were shouldering their way past Damien in anxious haste, as if afraid that the world might change again before they could profit from it. Newsmongers and merchants and sorcerers and tourists and even one or two who labeled themselves “Earth scientists,” going from south to north in search of new knowledge, or north to south seeking profit for what they had already gleaned, or else staying here, at the midpoint of the journey, to sell their fellow travelers whatever they’d be willing to buy. Human enterprise at its best.

Let it go, Vryce. Just let it go.

The first week he had been here he’d told himself it was because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. In a way, that was true. The priesthood was closed to him, not because he couldn’t get himself reinstated if he wanted to—the Holy Mother in the West would surely respond positively to a heartfelt appeal-but because the Patriarch had been right, damn him. The clarity of faith which had once been Damien Vryce’s hallmark was gone now, and what had taken its place might be made to serve the Church in a thousand ways, but it wasn’t appropriate for a priest. There were other things he could do, of course, such as bodyguarding couriers and explorers or taking on such commissions himself. For all that the fae was “tame” now, there were enough demons left over from the time before that it would be quite a few generations before anyone felt safe traveling alone. In token of which ... he half rose out of his seat as something dark and winged swept down from the smoke-filled sky, swinging his springbok up as he thumbed off the safety-but it pulled up sharply into the thin winds and was lost behind a cloud before he could track it and fire. Lucky beastie. Between his own sure aim and the handful of trigger-happy tourists who fished for demons in the smoke-filled valleys, damn few things made it through. He had shot down over a dozen himself this week, and collected a fair bounty on each from the tavern’s owner. A good deal, all around. That and the free ale made it possible for him to put off certain decisions that he would rather not make ... like what he was going to do with himself when this was all over. Like when the hell he was going to acknowledge that it was all over, and get his shit together and start living again.

With a sigh he emptied the mug of ale, and waved away the server who offered to bring him another. Black Ridge Tavern. He looked about it in amazement, at walls and chairs and beer-taps that would have been unthinkable mere weeks before. The place was crowded as always, and the rough space was filled with the smell of fire, sweat, and sawdust as tourists and tabloid artists and self-appointed ambassadors to the Iezu made their best attempt at conversation. Overhead roof beams were being nailed in place even now, and the sounds of saw and hammer added to the overall din. With a sigh he finally rose up from his seat, and made his way out of the crowded common room. Onto the deck which wound over and about the mountain’s crest, offering men a firm path where once even horses feared to tread.

Black Ridge Pass. Once it had been a windswept corridor from one world into the next, known only to those who cared about such desolate places. Now it was a veritable hothouse of human activity. On the northern flank of the ridge there were already three inns finished and two more under construction, and never mind that the walls weren’t painted yet and the indoor toilets weren’t working. How many people got to hike past a live volcano on their way to the outhouse? On the south side there was little permanent construction, for the most interesting part of the view wouldn’t last more than a few months at best, but a narrow wooden deck had been constructed that led half a mile along the sloping mountainside, so that tourists could drink their fill of the spectacle at hand before it died down forever.