Barb Hendee: Thief of Lives

To think of this creature as a Noble Dead was a constant source of disquieting irony. But when Toret looked at her, Chane saw in his master's hungry eyes that she might as well have been the queen of the Fay. It was nauseating, and reminded Chane of a childhood time when his family's cook served a salmon left unprepared too long in the summer heat. Chane had spent three days kneeling over a bucket.

"Splendidly?" Chane said, masking the sarcasm in his voice. "Did you learn a new word today?"

Both Toret and Sapphire blinked once, and she pretended he hadn't spoken. Chane knew his companions often had difficulty distinguishing whether he was being polite or insulting.

"Not shopping," she said to Toret, smiling coyly with a tilt of her head as she fingered the front of his tunic. "To my dressmaker. Charlotte got in some lovely mustard-yellow silk, and I've had a new gown made. Of course, her ideas for the cut were dull, so I've insisted on alterations."

No doubt, Chane thought, trying not to imagine what overtly provocative choices passed for style in such a creature's thoughts.

Chane had managed to find bankers, merchants, and dressmakers who remained open for business far into the evening. Appropriately handled, such requests weren't suspicious in a city the size of Bela. Half the gentry he'd known slept all day and spent all night in social politics or discreet debauchery. Toret and his companions were simply "eccentric" for their late business hours. They paid well, and no one complained.

"Have you fed yet, my dear?" Toret asked Sapphire. Clasping her hand, he pressed its palm firmly against his mouth, closing his eyes halfway.

"No, I was waiting for you." She smiled at Chane and added, "For both of you."

Chane nodded as coldly as possible without appearing rude. No matter how badly he treated her, she played the coquette with him, though never openly enough to annoy Toret. She believed all men found her charms irresistible and constantly played up to this self-image.

"I want to go to the Rowanwood," she announced quite happily.

Toret shook his head. "It's too soon."

Sapphire had a penchant for elite prey, a dangerous indulgence, from Chane's perspective. She fed on the rich as often as Toret allowed. The Rowanwood hosted wealthy patrons, if not the most sophisticated. Chane did appreciate its lush atmosphere, suitable for upper classes looking for a less stuffy night's entertainment. But frequent hunting near a prestigious establishment gained unwanted attention.

Sapphire's smile faded, replaced by a pout, and Chane steeled himself. It was time to repeat the ritual of manipulation.

"Well, where do you want to go?" she asked Toret, her voice pitched so high it hurt Chane's ears. "Some dockside tavern to feed on stinky fishermen? Do you want to smell ale and sweat all night? I don't. I don't! I want to go someplace nice!"

Toret sighed, walking to the cellar's far wall to place his sword back in the rack.

"Did you hear me?" Sapphire called, astonished at being ignored. "Ratboy! Did you hear me?"

Toret froze in midstep. When he turned, his face was a tight mask of rage, and his dust-colored skin appeared to turn hoarfrost white.

Ratboy? Chane had no idea why she called him that. Perhaps some peasant's insult? Indeed, it had an unimaginative sound. During frequent fits of temper, Sapphire called Toret all sorts of names and threw herself into sorrowful pouts until he relented to her whims.

Toret snatched a parrying dagger from the rack and closed the distance to Sapphire. Before she could dart away, he gripped her by the throat and pressed the blade's point under her chin.

Chane felt something near to astonishment. It was quite pleasing. He'd never once seen Toret lay a hand on Sapphire in anything besides affection or desire.

"We discussed this," Toret hissed. "I made you, and I can unmake you. You will never call me that again. Understand?"

Sapphire's eyes widened as one tiny drop of dark fluid ran down the blade from under her chin.

Chane felt a moment of pure pleasure at the open terror on Sapphire's face. The evening was not a complete waste after all. The little bitch had given up something new to consider.

Ratboy.

Whatever the meaning, it displeased Toret more than anything Chane could recall, and this was worth remembering.

"I'm sorry… Toret," Sapphire stammered. "We can go anywhere… anyplace you like… I'm sorry… anywhere."

Toret lowered the blade and slowly released his grip on her throat. He then looked troubled, of course, perhaps realizing he would later pay for his actions. And pay he would.

Chane kept his sigh of boredom silent. So tediously predictable.

"It's all right, my dear," Toret said, his abrupt calm a counterpoint to his rage from a moment ago. "We can't go to the Rowanwood again so soon… but we haven't been to the Damask Throne in a while."

Daggers and threats forgotten, Sapphire's face lit up. "Oh, yes, the Damask Throne? That would be… splendid."

Chane inwardly groaned. She had learned a new word. After changing into suitable attire, complete with evening cloak and gloves, he went to fetch a covered carriage for hire.

In the far-past time of the first king, Bela had consisted of a castle stronghold. Over time, villages close by spread into towns and then into a surrounding city. The castle itself grew. As the city spread outward, new fortification walls were erected for its defense. The king's city of Bela now consisted of three walls that ringed the city at nearly equal distances from its center castle grounds. Most banks, municipal buildings, wealthy homes, and upscale establishments existed within the inner ring wall, where they were best protected. Though there were main avenues of commerce and city life running from the center of Bela to the waterfront docks, such as Harbor Street, as one moved outward from the city's center, one moved downward in society.

The night air was crisp with a rare seaward breeze that pushed back the odors of wood, rope, fish, salt mill, and other harbor smells. It was a short ride from their home until the carriage stopped near the Damask Throne. Toret assisted Sapphire from the carriage while Chane paid the driver.

Even with large, burning street lamps positioned every thirty paces, the night felt comfortingly dark. Chane looked his part of protector in a long wool cloak with the point of his sheathed sword just visible at the bottom. Toret and Sapphire appeared a wealthy couple.

The carriage moved off down the street, and Sapphire walked toward the luxurious inn while Toret and Chane waited outside-a typical game played many times over. Chane crossed his arms and stood in the shadows. He rarely spoke to Toret unless spoken to first. Toret sighed, watching Sapphire disappear inside the Damask Throne.

"She is lovely, isn't she?" he asked.

"Yes, master," Chane answered flatly.

In a short time, Sapphire emerged from the inn with a young couple. A female victim in the mix surprised Chane, as Sapphire usually brought out only drunken men, all ne'er-do-wells and blueblood want-to-bes. But aside from the woman, the couple was no different from a typical set of well-off merchants.

"Oh," Sapphire exclaimed to her new companions as they crossed the street. "Here are my friends now. I told you they'd be along soon."

She introduced the couple as Simask and Luiza. Toret shook the man's hand and politely greeted the woman.

"Simask is the son of a Stravinan winemaker, and he's in Bela on business," Sapphire continued. "They don't know anyone in town, so I offered to show them a few of our evening attractions. But now that you're here, you can help me entertain them."

Chane focused upon the woman: in her early twenties, with pale skin and dark hair swept up under a little red velvet hat. He was suddenly struck by the growing tingle of hunger. His normal disdainful thoughts were replaced by images of Luiza's soft, warm throat drawn close to his mouth as paralyzing fear stained her face. Even now, he could feel the slight and slow shift of his teeth, canines elongating as saliva built up until he quietly swallowed it down.