Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

The chain no longer chafed at her ankle. The cuts on her face no longer burned. There was nothing in her universe but those eyes, those terrible eyes, and the cold burning hunger behind them. As the great bird scanned the surrounding countryside once more—taking the measure of its enemies, it seemed—she knew with utter certainty that the men of her city were as frozen as she was. Mesmerized by the force of this demon’s presence.

“Take me home,” she whispered. No longer certain who she was talking to. No longer sure what she wanted.

Wingtips curled to catch the night air, it lowered itself with consummate grace to the boulder at the clearing’s center. She caught the flash of ruby talons closing about about the thick steel ring, silver eyes scanning the woods for enemies. Transfixing them? Then a chill light seemed to rise up from about its feet, so bright that she had to shield her eyes or be blinded; silver-blue flames, that licked about the creature’s flesh. She felt a thrill of pure terror as the mass that was within those flames melted, transformed, reshaped itself. Into-

A man. Or rather, a demon in man’s form, whose flesh embodied the very chill of the night. The silver-blue power poured down from him like water, lapped at the base of the rock that supported him, ran outward in a thousand tiny rivulets that laced the ground like veins, until the whole of the clearing was caught up in the web of his power. The form he wore was breathtakingly beautiful, features as fine. and as delicate as the numarble statues which flanked the I great arch of the cathedral—but cold, as a statue’s substance is cold, and utterly unhuman. She shivered, knowing that her fear had summoned something as far beyond the mere beasts of the Dark as the angels were above mere men. Wondering if the Church’s hunters would dare to fire at such a creature.

Apparently one of the men had found his courage, for a dark, slim shape shot forth from the darkness. The demon did not turn to confront his attacker, nor otherwise acknowledge the assault—but power, brilliant, laced up from the ground like lightning, and sizzled as it struck the blessed shaft. A moment later the quarrel reached the place where he stood, but its course had been altered so that it missed its intended object by inches and continued onward, into the thick darkness of the forest beyond.

The clearing was silent now. Utterly silent. She could feel her heart pounding as the demon-man stepped down from his perch, coming toward her—and she knew that he could hear it, that its fevered rhythm drew him like sugar would draw an insect. Helpless, fascinated, she made no effort to flee, but lay frozen in a reverie that was as much yearning as it was pure terror.

Then something stirred at the edge of the clearing—and she nearly cried out, recognizing its source. One of the men was going to try to save her. She knew in an instant that his sword would be as ineffectual as his quarrels, that by entering the clearing he was opening himself up to attack . . . but her voice was frozen in her throat, and she lacked the power to warn him.

The demon’s eyes never left hers, but they narrowed. Something in them flickered, and power shot up from the ground like lightning. It consumed the man in an instant, licking at his flesh like fire—and leaving frozen flesh in the place of ash, that shattered into a thousand glassy bits as he fell to the ground at the demon’s feet.

All around her unnatural bonfires flared, leafless trees silhouetted against silver-blue unfire. She heard one of the men scream out, another trying to flee—but the demon’s power claimed them all, and at last there was nothing left of the Church’s special warriors but a silver flicker that played across the ground, outlining bodies as still as the earth itself.

Then, slowly, he came toward her.

His eyes were mirrors that reflected back at her all the terrors of her childhood. His essence was hunger that drank in her fear. His presence embodied the night, with all its special threats: The faespawned. The undying. The Dark. And something else, that she now hungered for as desperately as she had once hungered for freedom.

Eyes shut, lips parted, she sank down into the sea of his hunger, and the bittersweet ecstacy of dying.

Pounding. Rhythmic. Pervasive. It dissolved the dream from around Damien and substituted reality, in all its claustrophobic glory. The closeness of his cabin. The creaking of the deck. And a banging on his door, too forceful to ignore.

“Time to get up, Rev!” Pounding. On the door, or in his head? The dream fog dissolved slowly. “Captain said to get you out here if I value my hide, so rise n’ shine! Time to go to work!”

With a muttered curse he grabbed his blanket from off the bed and wrapped it around himself in an improvised toga. He’d just as soon answer the door stark naked—it’d serve the man right if it bothered him—but there were a few passengers on board who wouldn’t handle it well if they saw that, and diplomacy, as always, won out. Sunlight streamed through the porthole, piercing through the thick lawn curtain: early morning, he guessed, although he couldn’t have said whether it was the angle of the sunlight or its hue which gave that away. He’d been keeping Tarrant’s hours for long enough that even with the bastard gone he still missed the best of the daylight hours. That’s got to stop, he told himself firmly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Soon.

“Coming,” he muttered, even as he pulled the door open.

The first mate was stopped in mid-motion, his fist raised high. “Good morn, Rev.” The fist opened slowly, as if only gradually becoming aware that the door was no longer within reach. He was wearing his uniform jacket, a stiff woolen shortcoat that smelled strongly of mothballs. And shoes. He was wearing shoes. Damien shook his head, trying to absorb that fact. When was the last time he’d seen the crew shod? “He said to wake you up as soon as we were sure, and it looks like we’re sure now, so you need to get on deck.”

“Sure about what?”

“Company.” A nervous grin betrayed two missing teeth. “Just come into sight half a hour ago, but the captain said to wait until we knew what it was for sure—”

And suddenly it all made sense. The shoes, the uniform . . . full port dress, the captain would have called it. But there couldn’t be a port on this stretch of coast, could there? If not . . . then what?

“A ship?” he asked. Hearing the excitement in his own voice. And the tension. “Another fortress? What?”

“Aye, all sails and steam and armed to the teeth. A ship, Rev,” he added, as though Damien hadn’t just figured that out. “You’d best come and look for yourself as soon as you’re decent. Captain’s wanting you now for sure. Up at the bow.” He nodded sharply toward the middeck. “I got to go.”

A ship.

God in heaven . . . enemies, allies, what?

He pulled on the nearest pair of breeches—yesterday’s, not really clean, but that couldn’t be helped—and a fresh linen shirt that he’d laid out the night before. Not fancy, but it would do for the moment. In deference to the morning’s style he pulled on a pair of soft boots as well, though he had long since adopted the crew’s custom of going barefoot on the rough wooden planks. Then the deck canted beneath his feet and for a moment he slid as the smooth leather soles fought for purchase; it took him a minute to steady himself, and then a few minutes more to learn to walk steadily again without the reassuring grip of ten toes to anchor him. Stunned, he managed to make his way from the cabin.

A ship!

The other passengers were gathered at the port rail, grouped predictably. In the long months they’d spent together, Damien had learned to recognize all their little cliques, and to draw voyeuristic amusement from watching how each little outbreak of emotion—a lover’s spat, a partner’s suspicion, even the fallout from a particularly ruthless game of poker—reshuffled the forty of them into new configurations, each with its own special stresses. The pettiness of it all was part of the reason he’d preferred to keep Tarrant’s hours, feeding on the man’s special knowledge as surely as the adept fed upon his dreams. And it was addictive, there was no denying that. He would never have thought of knowledge in those terms before, but Tarrant had taught him otherwise. A dangerous addiction, all the more so because it seemed so benign . . .