Barb Hendee - Sister of the Dead

Wynn retrieved her materials and, with the cold lamp and crystal in hand, stepped a short ways off to sit upon a downed tree. She gently rubbed the crystal between her palms and returned it to its holder in the lamp. Its light burst out to push back the dark and illuminate the tools of her trade resting upon her lap.

Unstrapping a flat, folded leather bundle, she shuffled the loose parchment sheets within to expose a blank one and carefully uncorked her ink vial to dip a quill. She set to documenting the vegetation they'd encountered, noting where along their path the changes occurred so they could later be referenced upon maps of the territories. It seemed she had written only a few lines when Leesil's voice broke the silence.

"Forgetful gods, Wynn!" he called. "That lamp is brighter than the fire. Put it out so we all get some sleep."

Her writing hand flinched, fouling several characters in spattered ink.

She glanced over to see mat Leesil and Magiere had settled for sleep in their bedroll and then looked down at the mess upon her notes. They had rushed all day, and now she was to be rushed through her few useful moments of the evening.

"Sorry," she called back.

Gathering her things, she closed the lamp's shutter to smother its light.

Wynn settled into her bedroll as two tears slid unbidden down the bridge of her nose. Something bumped against her feet, and she peered over the blanket's edge.

Chap panted lightly at her feet, silver coat tinged red gold in the firelight. He stared at her, translucent blue eyes full of sympathy. His tail switched once across the ground, scattering clods of tree needles and wilted leaves.

Wynn held up the blanket's edge, and Chap belly-crawled in beside her. He snuggled against her with his head pressed into the crook of her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, fingers clutching his long fur. At least Chap was constant.

Since his rise from death to a Noble Dead, Chane had never experienced true hunger. He had never before gone for two weeks without feeding. He was starving for blood, for life to fill him up once again, as he crouched in the brambles a stone's throw from a small cluster of huts.

Upon waking to Welstiel rolling on the floor, whispering to himself again, Chane knew he had to get out and hunt. He could not ride all night again with this emptiness inside him. So, he slipped away while his companion lay dormant.

He could smell living flesh… and blood… with all his senses opened wide. It was close within those timber and thatch hovels. The scent clotted his mind with memories of split skin in his teeth and salty, warm fluid spilling through his mouth and down his throat. Then followed the sound of a heartbeat that slowed and dimmed in concert to the life energy that rose inside him.

Should he wait for someone to come out, perhaps for firewood or to check one last time on the pen of geese around back? What if no one emerged?

A cottage door opened, and a portly man reached out to grab a few logs from a firewood stack. Chane tensed, but the man never stepped completely out before a woman's shrill voice stopped him.

"Close the door, Evan! You're letting in the cold."

The door closed.

Chane had not developed the mental abilities his master, Toret, had displayed, but he did have a gift for locating the "presence" of others if he concentrated. He focused upon the hut and felt the separate lives of five mortals. There were too many in one place, so he turned his attention to the next domicile and sensed only two.

He walked to the door and knocked. A wrinkled old woman with a long gray braid peeked out. Chane folded his arms around his chest as though chilled.

"Forgive me, old mother," he said, "but my horse threw me half a league back on my way to the next town. I could not find an inn before nightfall. I asked across the way, and Evan told me to see you about a late supper and a spot by the fire."

Her brown eyes were sharp, but he was clearly no brigand in his long tailored cloak and well-made boots. He hoped she would take him for a young merchant.

"No inn here abouts," she said with courtesy more than sympathy. "Evan sent you? That's just like him. The lazy lout barely cares for his own."

"Who is it, Grandma?" came a voice from inside, young and feminine, and Chane's jaw twitched.

"A young man who's lost his horse," the old woman said, chuckling; then she opened the door wide. "Best come in. We'll feed you, but Evan and Olga must put you up for the night. My granddaughter's not married, and we don't need to give idle folks any more fodder for gossip."

So many new sensations surprised Chane of late. True hunger was something he had never experienced while serving Toret, and now he felt genuine relief at being invited inside.

The interior was shabby, as expected, but the stone fire pit in the back wall was a comfort, as was the iron teapot hanging above the flames on an iron swing arm. For a brief instant he thought of fresh mint leaves, and then all such thoughts dissolved as he saw the hut's other occupant.

About fifteen years old, plump and curvy, with a smattering of freckles and wild curls of red hair, she returned his stare with curious eyes.

"Should I fetch Evan?" she asked her grandmother.

"Soon enough, Adena, dear. We'll reheat that stew first."

The old woman walked with effort, as if her bones and joints ached. Chane waited until she reached the fire pit and the girl joined her. The girl picked up a folded rag and lifted the teapot. When the two were close together, Chane stepped up behind the old woman and snapped her neck with one quick jerk.

Her body crumpled to the floor.

The girl dropped the teapot, and water splashed across her dead grandmother. Chane had his hand over Adena's mouth before she could inhale to scream.

She clawed wildly to remove his grip as he leaned close. Her hair smelled of musk and straw, until the fear leaking from her pores overpowered all other scents. He wanted to let her struggle a bit longer until that smell made his head swim with bliss, but he had been too long without the taste of blood and lost control of himself.

He shoved her against the wall and bit into her throat. One outward rip of teeth opened the wound, and he bit down on her throat again. The rush of warm blood flowed into his mouth, down his throat, filling him with life.

At first she struggled, her choked screams muffled beneath his palm. She soon grew silent and stopped moving. Normally, Chane lost himself in euphoria and did not truly taste the blood itself. This time, its flavor engulfed his tongue and gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.

He applied more pressure and fed until her heart stopped. When she died, life no longer filled him with each swallow, and he dropped the girl's corpse.

Chane paused to steady himself against the wall. His body was having trouble absorbing life so quickly. No matter what happened with Welstiel, he would not deny himself again for so long.

In this moment, his entire existence seemed one long path of obedience. First his father, then Toret, and now Welstiel. Even filled with warmth and strength from the girl's blood, he shuddered at the thought of his father, Viscount Andraso.

The man was a master of masks. Everyone outside his family and close retinue found him charming, all smiles and good humor. Behind closed doors, he wore another face. His only pleasure derived from domination and cruelty. Chane's mother was a small, bird-boned woman who loved books and music, and she was Andraso's favorite victim. Chane loved her, but every year he watched her disappear further inside herself. He feared his father so much that he never defended his mother. This failure still weighed upon him. But on the day he came into his inheritance, he fled to Bela to find a new life, never realizing what new existence would find him instead. He later learned that his mother had died by her own hand. He did not return home for the burial.