Barb Hendee - Thief of Lives

He neither relished nor anticipated the task at hand. It was simply one more step upon the path, and he had always been capable of doing whatever was necessary.

Street lanterns, lit by the night watch, hung from high posts and building-side iron mounts at more regular intervals along this street than other places in the king's city. Dim light shimmered on wet cobblestone rather than packed earth, on stone dwellings instead of wattle and daub or timber buildings. This was an elite district, where gentry, dignitaries, and city officials lived just outside the walls of the castle grounds. Light, warmth, and an aura of comfort flowed out between half-drawn curtains hanging in windows with actual glass panes. Here, at night, all was serene.

He watched the street from a side corner, making certain no guard or watchman would pass by anytime soon, then stepped along the cobblestones at a quiet pace.

Night air was seasoned with the wet scent of the bay on the city's west side. The cool breeze carried some chill, but he did not notice the cold. Still, he shifted the long black wool cloak closer about him. Its dark color, melting into the night, protected him from errant gazes by any occupant peering out a window before settling to bed. He tugged his black lambskin gloves, flexing his fingers until the material was smoothed comfortably in place.

Arriving at the house he sought, he entered the iron yard-gate and walked up the path. His hand rested gently on a side railing as he climbed the three stone steps to the large front door. Ornate ash wood was stained in multiple tones to accent detailed doves and vines a patient artisan had carved in its panels. Two lanterns glowed to either side of the door. He reached up and twisted their knobs, first the right then the left, until the wicks retreated and their light dimmed just short of going out altogether. Grasping the large brass knocker ring, he announced his arrival with two raps and no more.

Moments passed. The door cracked open.

A young feminine face peered out. She was small for sixteen, with dark brown ringlets hanging to her shoulders and a dress of muted lavender with light saffron trim. Her expression was hesitant at first, but then she smiled with warm recognition.

He knew she would answer. Her father was away this same midweek evening, playing faro with other gentlemen and nobility. This young one always took pity on their overworked servants, giving them a secret night off without her father's knowledge. She was alone in her house, in the quietest, most respectable of neighborhoods.

"Oh, Father isn't home tonight," she said. "He's gone to the Knight's House for cards again."

He did not answer her. His left hand shot out, gripped the back of her neck, and jerked her toward his open mouth.

She heaved in a breath but never released it.

He bit her exposed throat before her hands could push at him, elongated canines sinking through her skin. His jaws snapped closed as he ripped away flesh to expose open veins. Pain and trauma paralyzed her body, and there was no way she could scream. Her hands, almost to his chest, dropped limp in spasms.

Her weight was nothing, and he supported it by the hand clamped about her neck. Her heartbeat slowed, its rhythm shallow and irregular, so he shook her until the blood flowed freely. It soaked her collar, spreading from the wound, and he watched the red seep into her bodice and across her chest, and downward over her shoulder until it ran along her left arm to drip from her slender finger. The heartbeat weakened until even he could not hear it anymore. He watched as her eyes grew cold and vacant. A ringlet of brown hair adhered to the wet flesh on her throat as her head rolled in his grip.

With his free hand, he ripped her dress open, exposing the bloodstained white shift she wore underneath. He shredded that as well and dropped her body upon the porch like a soiled, broken doll. Turning, he walked back out the front gate to the street, stopping briefly to check both ways. Once certain the path was clear, he returned the way he had come.

Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his mouth.

The coming days had been successfully set in motion.

It was the place he'd nearly died, and here he returned every day before dawn.

Leesil stood sweating in the forest clearing’s cold air, surrounded by sparse-limbed, shaggy firs. The sun had crested the high eastern tree line, and winking sparks of sunlight skipped between ocean wave tops below to the west. Along the shallow bay’s coastal edge sat the small port town of Miiska, its rooftops brightened by the dawn.

White-blond hair matted flat to Leesil's neck, shoulders, and his narrow face, letting the blunt tips of his oblong ears peek out. Faded but still visible scars lined his tan-colored throat and the lower right side of his jaw. The thin beige cotton shirt clung to his back, and his feet felt wet with perspiration in the soft leather boots. Breathing hard, he scowled in irritation, wiping away sweat running into his eyes. He shivered briefly. The chill of a late-autumn morning encouraged him to keep moving for warmth.

"Valhachkasej'a!" he muttered, though not completely certain of its meaning.

His mother-Nein'a, Father had called her-would whisper it under her breath when angered or frustrated, or when she cut herself accidentally while sharpening a blade. Her narrow, triangular face of smooth caramel skin would wrinkle slightly, and high, thin wisps of white-blond eyebrows would cinch together in a scowl as she shifted unconsciously into her native Elvish.

She refused to teach Leesil her language, and her large, slanted eyes would narrow whenever he asked. At her occasional slips, he'd listened carefully to the way she spoke and silently mouthed the words in turn, trying to unravel their meaning. Leesil had heard enough foul exclamations in varied tongues to guess at the meaning of this exclamation. Childhood obsession became unconscious habit. A few times, she had spoken his name with strange inflection-Leshil-and more than once referred to him or herself as "anmaglahk" but he never unraveled its meaning.

Shaking off the memory, Leesil returned to training, collapsing low in a buckled crouch. His right leg shot out to the side.

Momentum pulled him into a backward spin toward his outstretched leg, body pivoting quickly on his left foot. When his right heel had traced one-third of a circle, it bit into the clearing's earth.

His torso spun around, and both arms swung over to his right side. Hands slapped flat against the ground to brace his weight, and his left leg whipped upward.

Today he trained later man ever before. There was so much to remember, to relearn, and it was the last morning he could slip out alone before anyone, including his companion, Magiere, arose for the day. Their routine would soon shift to nightlife again, as they fell back into their roles as the owners and proprietors of the Sea Lion tavern. She would handle the bar, while he ran the card games at their faro table.

He looked down the slope to the town again, his gaze settling upon the nearest building with its new roof, new everything, rebuilt from the ground up. The fresh cedar shakes looked too vibrant amidst the other weathered rooftops. The new Sea Lion tavern was finally finished.

Farther up the shoreline before the small docks was a large empty plot of burned earth between surrounding buildings. The vacancy was easily three times the size of any other building in the town. Although the structure's charred remains had been cleared away, months of fall weather hadn't washed the blackened stain from the ground where once stood Miiska's largest warehouse. It had burned to ash and cinders… burned down by Leesil.