Celia Friedman - Black Sun Rising

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with infinite slowness, the pale eyelids opened. The dark fae parted as the Lord of the Forest spread his fingers, flexing his hands into motion once more. Stretching his arms, likewise. After a moment he levered himself to a sitting position—and though he winced as though in pain while doing so, it was clear from his movements that the worst of the sun-spawned damage had been repaired.

“Forgive me,” the albino said. “I know you didn’t want to be disturbed—”

“How long has it been?”

“Nearly a long month, Excellency.”

“So long.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath slowly, as if savoring the air. “You wouldn’t bother me without a reason, Amoril, I know that. What is it?”

“You have a petitioner, my lord.”

The pale eyes shot open. Their depths sparkled violet in the fae-light. “Indeed? What manner of petitioner?”

“A demon, Excellency. High-order, if I read him right. He said that you would know him, and respect his business. He gave his name as Calesta.”

For a moment there was silence. Then the Hunter said, softly, “I know him. And I think I know his business, as well.”

“Is he the one you fought, in the rakhlands?”

He swung his legs over the side of the table, and tested their strength against the floor. “He was a symbiote of the one that I fought. And that kind can’t last long, without some kind of human partner.” He chuckled softly. “I’m surprised I still rate that designation.”

“Partner?”

“Human.”

“You think he wants to link himself to you.”

“Let’s say I consider it possible.”

“After what he did?”

“Demons aren’t whole people, Amoril. Like animals they know only blind hunger and a channel to the hand that feeds them. And the desire to survive, as passionate as anything humans might experience.” He eased himself onto his feet, until he was standing free of any support. “Calesta’s symbiote is dead. His enemy lives. It’s to his advantage to placate that power which might still destroy him—and perhaps even court it. Demons rank themselves according to such alliances.”

“And would you ally with him?”

The Hunter’s expression grew dark. “I haven’t forgotten what he did to me. But we’re in my realm now, playing by my rules. Let’s see how well he adapts to that, shall we?” He brushed at the silk of his shirt sleeve, binding enough dark fae to smooth out the wrinkles. “Have him come to the audience chamber, and await me there.” And he warned, “I may leave him waiting some time.”

The albino bowed. “Excellency.”

Darkness. Absolute. He let it fill his eyes and his heart for a moment, let it seep deep into his soul to where the sun-born wounds still throbbed. And then he let himself See, and Hear, and breathe in the power of the Forest. A symphony of power rising up out of the earth, all dark and cold and rich with his signature. So beautiful, he thought. So very beautiful. He felt the presence of the trees that dwelled there, remade to serve his special need; the predators that stirred above and below the earth, responsive to his will; the blood-filled life that hovered at the edges of his domain, all restlessness and greed and human recklessness. Their nearness awakened a hunger in him so intense that for a minute it seemed the whole Forest was filled with their blood, and all its air was ripe with the smell of their fear. And the music of their mortality, almost painful in its intensity.

How long ago had it been since last he’d hunted? He ached for the sweet taste of a woman’s terror, for the boundless pleasure of hunting in a land where all life responded to his will—where the land itself could be reshaped, if he so desired it, to force his prey back upon her own path, into his waiting arms . . . he shivered in hunger, just thinking of it. Too many days. Too many nights of rakhene fear and disembodied blood and a need so powerful that it had nearly overwhelmed him. Now there was no need for him to deny himself. Now he could choose his prey and set her loose in these woods, and feed as his nature demanded. Wash his soul clean with killing, until the taint of his contact with humankind was nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

Until you come for me, Vryce, he thought. Until you do what your nature demands, and try to put an end to me. In my domain. On my terms. He chuckled darkly. You haven’t a chance in hell, my friend. But I’ll enjoy watching you try.

Dark fae swirling about his feet, silken robes brushing the floor as he walked, the Neocount of Merentha headed toward his audience chamber.

Black floor and dark draperies: they soothed the eye and calmed the heart, nourishing his nightbound soul. His visitor was a different story. Though the demon’s chosen body was also black, his form was riddled with flaws and sharp edges that caught what little light there was and magnified it, making it bright enough to sting the Hunter’s newly-healed eyes. His voice was likewise irritating, a thing of life and hidden sunlight and the ceaseless cacophony of day.

“Excellency.” The demon bowed. “Allow me to—”

“You’re a guest in my domain,” the Hunter interrupted. “And not a very welcome one. You can design yourself a suitable form for this audience or leave. Now.” When the demon failed to respond he added sharply, “I’m prepared to Banish you, if necessary.”

Calesta stiffened. “Of course, my lord.” The glittering edges of his obsidian flesh began to pulse—and then melted, into a smooth, rippling surface. His voice became a whispering thing, all night air and cool darkness. “Is this better, Prince of Jahanna? Does this please you?”

“It’ll do,” the Neocount said shortly. “What’s your business?”

“Exactly what you expect, my lord. I saw what your vengeance did to my Mistress. I have no wish to suffer a similiar fate.” The black form bowed deeply. “I’ve come to make an offering. A gesture of conciliation.”

“With no strings attached?” the Hunter asked dryly.

The demon laughed softly. “You’re not the fool that she was, my prince. You know the world, and its workings. Let’s say that it would please me if you accepted my offering. It would please me very much.”

“I’m listening.”

The demon glanced toward the window; faceted eyes glittered in the fae-light. “I’ve found you a woman. A rare delight. A beautiful, delicate flower of a girl, whom the gods must have designed with you in mind. A fragile spirit and a strong young body married together in perfect unity, so that the one might suffer while the other endures. She could pleasure you for hours, Hunter. Not like the others. This one was born to be devoured.”

“And where is this . . . jewel?”

“In your realm, prince. I took the liberty of bringing her here while you slept. I anticipated that when you awakened you might be . . . hungry. See for yourself,” he whispered. “It’s all there, for the Knowing.”

The Hunter gathered the dark fae about him and bound it to his will. Tendrils of power stretched forth, and touched the fleeing woman. He tasted the memory of her looking into a mirror, felt the absolute certainty of her beauty reverberate within him. And that soul! As fragile and as fine as porcelain in its tenor, but utterly resilient in its substance. He stroked her brain tenderly with his power, savoring her capacity for terror; she responded to him on at least a dozen levels, from the personal to the archetypal. A finely tuned instrument, that might produce whole symphonies of fear. It would have been a delight to hunt her under any circumstances; now, with the abstinence of a month or more sharpening the edge of his hunger, she was doubly irresistible.