Celia Friedman: Black Sun Rising

There was a touch on his arm. Light, like the wingstroke of a bird. “Are you all right?” she whispered. And suddenly he could neither strike out at her, nor laugh at the total incongruousness of the question—but was caught somewhere between the two expressions and thus frozen. Unable to react.

At last he managed, “We were betrayed. Both of us.” He turned back to her, tried to still the tide of hunger that rose up within him at the sight of her. So very, very delicate . . . he swallowed back on that impulse, hard, and said, “I promised not to hurt you. I promised the Hunter would never hurt you.”

Son of a bitch!

The rage, hot inside him, was finally overwhelming the hunger. It allowed him to think. “Here.” He pulled his medallion out of his shirt—on a new chain, made to replace that which Ciani had torn from his neck so many weeks ago—and handed it to her. “Take this. Hold onto it. None of my people will harm you while you have it, and the beasts . . . they obey my will. Nothing will hurt you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Confused, as her fingers closed about the thin disk and its chain. “I don’t understand—”

“You don’t want to,” he assured her. “Ever.”

With effort, he managed to step back from her. The smell of her blood was like a magnet to his hunger—but she no longer feared him, and that helped immensely. Even as it amazed him, that it was true.

“I’ll send you help,” he told her. “Someone to get you safely out of here. You wait, with that . . . someone will come. You show him that. You’ll be safe.”

Calesta, you bastard . . . you’ll pay for this indignity. And so will whoever or whatever spawned you. I swear it!

He turned to go. And he felt her fingers on his arm again; there was fear in her touch.

“Do you have to go?” she breathed. I mean . . . please.”

He turned to her in amazement, saw the desperate hope in her eyes. She was afraid—not of him, now, but of the Forest. His creation. He was her island of refuge in a vast sea of terror, the single creature whom she did not fear in all of his domain. The concept was so bizarre he could hardly absorb it.

“I have a score to settle,” he told her. And then, because it seemed to suit this bizarre new role that he had made for himself, he added, “You’ll be all right.”

I promise you.

The harbor at Faraday was bustling with activity, longshoremen swarming across the open docks like insects on honey. By now most of the tugs had put out to sea, and the small skiffs that would transport passengers across the shallow harbor waters were already making their way toward their motherships, whose vast sails and steady turbines stood ready to tame the dangerous eastern waters.

The captain of the Golden Glory looked out over the docks and snorted sharply. Then he climbed to where Damien stood, on a shelf overlooking the harbor. And put his hands on his hips, facing the man.

“Tide’s going out soon,” he informed him. “Another hour.”

The priest nodded.

“It’s a hard double, this time. Best we’ll get. It could take us past the Shelf before anything from outwater could hit us—you listening to me?”

“A hard double tide,” Damien repeated. “One hour. Anything else?”

“Only that we’ve really got to leave, this time. The investors won’t stand for another delay—and neither will I. You want a safe crossing, we start now. Otherwise you can find yourself another captain, not to mention another ship.”

Damien smiled faintly. “And you think that pack of gold-seekers on board will let you quit, just like that?”

The captain grinned, displaying several broken teeth. “You got me there. Reverend. But look: it’s you who got it all together, right? You who found enough bodies willing to cross the sea, to get us some investors to pay the backing costs, to buy yourself a good safe crossing . . . so why waste all that? I don’t want to be out there in storm season and neither do you. Whatever you’re waiting for . . . it’s had its fair chance, all right? Let’s take this one and go.”

He waited a moment for an answer—and then, receiving none, shook his head in exasperation and began the long climb down. “One hour!” he called back. “Be there!” Damien watched as he negotiated the dangers of the rubble-covered slope, finally down the last twenty feet or so to the level of the piers. Then he looked up, back toward the road from Faraday proper—and froze, as a tall, lean figure and a single horse stepped out into the moonlight.

He climbed up the remaining slope quickly until he stood face to face with the man. The Hunter’s gaze was as cold as ever, and considerably more confident than when he’d last seen it. The pale eyes blazed with anger.

“If you say one smug word about this,” Gerald Tarrant warned, “—at any time—anything like ‘I told you so,’ or, ‘What took you so long?’—I will sink that miserable crate to the bottom of the ocean, and swim home if I have to. Am I making myself clear?”

He carefully avoided all the obvious rejoinders, and said only, “Of course, your Excellency. Infinitely clear.” And bowed, with only a hint of mockery.

The Hunter glared at him, as if about to speak—and then simply shook his head in exasperation, and began to walk toward the harbor. The night-black horse, laden with several travel bags, followed obediently behind.

Damien watched as the figure faded into darkness, disappearing behind a turn of the switchback road. And then shook his own head, smiling slightly.

“Welcome aboard,” he whispered.