Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

He drew in a deep breath, slowly. Trying to calm himself. “If the Forest is no longer my refuge, then no place will ever be. I could hide myself away with my books and my conjurings for a month, a year, a century . . . but the threat would always be there. Will always be there, until I deal with it.” The pale eyes fixed on Damien. “You understand?”

“I think so.”

“You’ve always distrusted me . . . which is appropriate, I assure you. But the day may come when that will be a dangerous luxury. Our relationship has been strained even here, on this ship, and I know you’ve had your doubts about the wisdom of our alliance. That’ll only get worse as time goes on. Our enemy seems adept at reading our fears and turning them against us—perhaps even feeding on them—and so I thought it best if you understood why I was here. How much is at stake for me in this venture. I thought that knowledge would be worth more than anything I could say about trustworthiness, or loyalty.”

He could feel the power in those pale eyes as they studied him, weighing his soul for reaction. And for an instant—just an instant—it seemed to him that he could sense the uncertainty that lay hidden within their depths, the terrible vulnerability within the man. Because when all was said and done, the Hunter was no more comfortable with their alliance than he was. It was a sobering thought.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

I swore I’d kill him. He knows that when this is over I’ll try. How fragile is the thread that binds us together? Even more important: how fragile does he perceive it to be?

With consummate grace the Neocount swung himself over the ship’s railing and onto the narrow rope ladder beneath. The natural grace of a predator, Damien thought. As repelled as he was fascinated by the insight. When Tarrant’s feet had caught a rung he paused, and looked at Damien. “Expose my quarters,” he commanded. “Tear down the walls that guard it. Bring my possessions into the daylight and expose them as well, so that nothing remains of my power.”

“I imagine we’ll expose the whole ship when we reach port—”

“Now, priest. Before the locals contact us. Our enemies also shun the sunlight, remember? Best not to confuse that issue.” A hint of a smile, ever so faint, creased his lips, “Trust me.”

“You once cautioned me never to do that,” he reminded him. “But I’ll take care of it.”

“At dawn.”

He winced, and counteroffered, “Early. I promise.”

Tarrant chuckled. “Good enough.” He began to make his descent—carefully, lest his ankle-length garments get caught between his feet and the rungs—but Damien stopped him.

“Tarrant.”

The Hunter looked up at him. And for a moment Damien saw in him not the cold-blooded murderer he was, but the man he once had been. A man of infinite vision. A man of faith.

That’s still there, inside him. It has to be. But how to bring, it out?

“Thank you,” he said at last. “For telling me.” And he added, “It helps.”

The Hunter nodded. His expression was grim.

“Let’s hope it’s enough.”

Rasya. He dreamed of her, and woke to find himself stiff with longing. They’d had such a good time together when the journey had first begun, what with his energy and her? exuberance and a good bit of sexual know-how on both their parts. A perfect match, it had seemed. He’d hoped it would last. But then, as their navigational instruments began to fail, she grew increasingly restless. Tense. He made the mistake of thinking it was because of her work, By the time he realized the true cause, it was too late to salvage what they’d shared.

I’ve got wards to keep me from getting pregnant, she’d told him, but what if they go, too? Hell of a time and place to be having kids, don’t you think?

And then there were the volcanos of Novatlantis and the flood tides of the Eastern Gate and the time never seemed quite right to suggest that there were more mechanical means they could resort to. Because they were beyond that, really. They’d fought enough over trivial things before her real fears came out in the open that recapturing those moments of intimacy would be all but impossible. Women were like that.

Too bad, he thought. It was good while it lasted. That’s all you could really ask for, wasn’t it?

He turned over to go back to sleep, half hoping his dream would pick up where it left off. Then a soft knocking on his cabin door reminded him of what had woken him up in the first place.

He fumbled for the lamp, managed to get it lit without setting himself on fire. Then bunched up the blankets where it mattered most and called out softly. “What? Who is it?”

The door creaked open, ever so slightly. A slender figure slipped inside, draped in a coarse seaman’s coat. With bare legs, he noted. Shorts, in this weather? How like her.

“You up?” Rasya asked.

It took all his self-control not to make the obvious wisecrack. “I am now,” he managed. “Tarrant gone?”

She nodded. “Dissolved into night, as the poet would say. Quite an impressive display.”

“Yeah. He’s an impressive guy.”

Her blue eyes were fixed on him. Sparkling. Mischievous. God, he still wanted her. “You up to some company?” she asked softly.

“Why? Has something happened?”

“Not yet.” She smiled, somewhat tentatively. “But I was thinking maybe it might.”

She came to the bed and sat down on it. By his side. Close enough that he could feel her warmth through the blanket.

“What about your wards?” he managed.

She grinned. “His ex gave them a boost for me when we reached shore. Why else do you think I rowed him there?” The coat slid off one shoulder as she spoke; she wasn’t wearing very much under it. Maybe nothing at all. “The way I figure it, we’ve just about completed the second most dangerous voyage on the face of this planet, and so I’m about due for a little celebrating. Right?” She cocked her head and studied him. “Of course, if you’re not interested . . .”

Women. Don’t even try to understand them. You’re just not equipped.

“Hell I’m not,” he muttered, and he reached for her.

It was only later, in the depths of the night—much later and after considerable exertion—that he thought to ask her “What’s the first most dangerous voyage?”

It was too dark to see, but he thought he sensed her smile.

“Going home,” she whispered.

It was Sara’s first time out.

Behind her, before her, all about her, the grim sentinels of the One God kept watch for faeborn dangers. As they did so they prodded her forward, pushing her when necessary, cursing her stubbornness under their breath even as they muttered the prayers of the Hunt. She was so afraid it was hard to move, the terror constricted her limbs, she found it hard to breathe . . . but that was good, she knew. Fear would draw the nightborn. Fear would manifest demons who were otherwise invisible. Fear would enable the Church to do its holiest work . . . and she understood all that, she understood the value of it, she just wished it didn’t have to be her in the center of all this, marching numbly at the heart of this macabre procession while the faeborn gathered just beyond the reach of their torchlight, eager for the promised feast.

Her.

With a constant litany of prayers upon their lips, the hunters of the Church wended their way through the depths of the untamed forest. The thick darkness parted grudgingly before their light and closed up behind them, hungrily, as soon as they had passed. She had never seen such a darkness before, a dank, heavy blackness that clung to the trees like syrup, dripping thickly to pool about their feet. The mere touch of her feet against the nightclad ground made her shiver in revulsion. And in fear. Always, always fear . . .