Midnight Thief

by Livia Blackburne

  A slap across her face stopped her short. Kyra slumped back, peering at Pashla through watery eyes, terrified that the woman would change shape again.

  “Your wounds are fresh. If you struggle, you will die. If you can’t understand that, I will tie you down.”

  Kyra stared at the woman. “You’ve made a mistake.”

  “You’ve noticed that you’re different, have you not? You can see better, do things the humans can’t.”

  “There are others who can move like me,” Kyra said. Like her, but not exactly, a small voice insisted. No one else from the Guild could have broken into the Palace like she had.

  “And you smelled our blood in your own. You can’t deny it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Very well, tell me this. How do other animals treat you? Do they fear your scent?”

  “I’m a dog talker,” Kyra said. “But there are plenty of dog talkers in Forge.”

  For the first time, Pashla looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “We call them beast talkers. Animals are drawn to them and do their bidding…” Kyra trailed off upon hearing her own words. The truth was, she’d never been a proper beast talker. Amongst the street children, there had once been a bird talker. Birds had flocked to him and sung him songs, perched on his arms. They’d adored him. Animals had never responded to Kyra like that.

  “They fear you, don’t they?” said Pashla. “They cower or run away or panic. If our blood was weaker in someone, diluted by generations, perhaps animals would be drawn to him. But with you, they would flee.”

  Pashla gathered Kyra’s soiled bandages. Kyra watched the way Pashla walked, the grace with which she negotiated the uneven floor. She felt an involuntary tightening in her own limbs as part of her recognized the woman’s movements as her own.

  When Pashla returned, she made no further effort to convince Kyra, but settled in front of her and waited.

  “There must be some mistake. I never even knew you existed. And I can’t—” Kyra waved her hand vaguely toward the corner of the tent where the woman had changed shape. “If I were one of you, I’d know.”

  The woman nodded. “Your blood is mixed, and the ability to change shape doesn’t always pass on to those with human blood. But you’re right. Even if you couldn’t change, you would know. It would show through in dreams and the way you move, see, and smell, the speed with which you heal, or a preference for the darkness….”

  The woman continued, but Kyra stopped listening. She was suddenly inundated with memories of countless nights roaming the city. Kyra had always thought she was nocturnal because her job demanded it, but if she was honest with herself, that wasn’t the whole story. Kyra had chosen that life because she loved the darkness. It had felt natural, safe somehow. Even now, she found herself longing for a shadow to hide in. Unbidden, the puzzling memory of someone carrying her through the forest came into her mind. And what about her childhood nightmares, the ones with the bright heat and sharp fangs?

  “Have you killed?” asked Pashla.

  Kyra went still. Did they know?

  “If you’ve hunted or taken a life, our blood would call to you.”

  Bile rose in her stomach. “What do you want from me?”

  “Tell me about yourself first. What do you do for James?”

  The question grounded her and reminded her to be careful. They didn’t know she had left the Guild. That meant they didn’t know that she had been working with the Palace against them.

  “He hired me to sneak into the Palace. As you said, I can do things they can’t.”

  “And why did James want to kill you?”

  Kyra hesitated for as long as she dared. “I went against his orders. He wanted me to kill the Minister of Defense,” she finally said.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t part of our original agreement. He hired me as a thief, not an assassin.”

  “And he tried to kill you when you refused him?”

  “Aye.”

  Pashla seemed to accept her answers. “A few months ago, we raided a marketplace in the city; do you remember that, Kyra?”

  “I do.” How could she not?

  “I was the one who chased you onto the rooftop.”

  For a split second, Kyra relived that moment, watching the creature delicately sniff, then taste, her blood. She had thought that the cat had retreated because of the arriving soldiers.

  “That’s why you spared me.”

  Pashla nodded, eyes distant. “We’ve known about you since the attack. Afterward, I told Leyus about you, but we never saw you again. It was only when we heard you scream at the Guildhouse. The smell of your blood was so thick in the room. It was unmistakable.”

  “Who’s Leyus?”

  “Our leader. We’ll talk to him tomorrow, now that you’re awake. He will decide your fate.”

  T H I R T Y - O N E

  Tristam dug his hands into his knees so hard as to leave bruises. If he wasn’t careful, he would say something to Councilman Willem that he’d regret.

  “Your Grace,” he tried again, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice, “I’m willing to put in extra shifts, as are some of my shieldmen. It needn’t interfere with our normal duties.”

  “I believe I’ve made my feelings clear as well, Willem,” said Malikel, seated beside him. “It seems shortsighted to me not to pursue a rescue.”

  “I don’t take your counsel lightly, Malikel, and Tristam’s dedication is admirable, but I’m afraid it’s just too dangerous. Your prisoner is most likely already dead at the barbarians’ hands.”

  Dead. The word conjured up images of Kyra, limp and bloody in the barbarians’ arms. Kyra torn limb from limb as demon cats fought over her body. Tristam refused to believe it. “Your Grace, we can’t be certain of this. Our scouts report that she was carried off alive. They could be holding her prisoner.”

  Willem’s gaze lingered on Tristam. “You’re still young, Tristam, and unfamiliar with the demands of governing a city. Our coffers are strained due to the barbarian attacks. We simply cannot afford to spread our men any thinner.”

  Tristam couldn’t help eyeing the luxurious tapestries hanging around Willem’s study, the gold and silver sculptures on the shelves, and wondering whether they had anything to do with the strain on the city’s coffers. “But, Your Grace, she could be—”

  “Do you remember the circumstances under which we met?” Willem asked.

  “Sir?”

  “How your friend Jack was killed?”

  Tristam faltered. What did Jack have to do with this? “He was mauled to death by a demon cat.”

  “That’s only half the reason. The other half was because he acted foolishly in his haste to rescue a farmhand. Because of his rash judgment we lost a good knight, and the city will suffer for it. Do you understand my point, Tristam?”

  Tristam nodded slowly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Very well, then.” Willem looked over Tristam’s shoulder toward the door. “Thank you for your service to the city.” It was his cue to leave.

  As the door closed behind Tristam and Malikel, the older knight put his hand on Tristam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tristam. I know that was not the decision you were hoping for.”

  Tristam’s frustration boiled over at the sheer stupidity of it all. “Sir, she could still be alive.”

  “The chairman has made his decision.”

  “You could have said something. Willem would have listened to you if you’d pushed harder.” Tristam realized he was raising his voice far beyond what was appropriate for addressing his superior, but he didn’t care.

  “Tristam.” Malikel hadn’t spoken any louder, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument. “You’re a knight of Forge. Don’t ever forget that, and the vows that you made to obey the Council. That is your duty, above all.”

  And here Tristam had thought that his vows were to protect and serve Forge’s people.
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  Malikel sighed, and his face softened. “I don’t like Willem’s decision either, but we choose our battles. This one is not worth it.”

  Not worth it? So Kyra’s life was now just a point of compromise. It was hard enough to hear it from Willem, but to hear the same thing from Malikel…Tristam stared at Malikel’s back as his commander strode away. The Council was wrong. Kyra had taken a risk for the city, and now they were abandoning her to the barbarians. She didn’t deserve that, no matter what her crimes.

  As he crossed the courtyard, he saw Flick walking toward him. Kyra’s friend had known Tristam was going to appeal to Willem, and the hopeful look in his eyes made Tristam feel ill.

  “Flick.” He just wanted to get the bad news out as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. The Council won’t reconsider its decision.”

  Confusion flashed across Flick’s face. “Why not?”

  “They think it’s too dangerous.”

  Tristam watched Flick’s jaw work as the news sank in and he went through the same range of emotions that Tristam had just experienced.

  “They can’t—” Flick began.

  “I’m sorry,” Tristam said roughly. He was already angry at Willem’s decision, and hearing Flick’s complaints wasn’t helping. “The Council’s decided. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  He had been looking away from Flick and didn’t see him raise his fist. As it was, Tristam was a hair too late to duck out of the way. Lights exploded in front of his eyes, and he stumbled back. “What by the Three Cities do you think you’re doing?”

  “So this is your knights’ idea of honor? Use a lass for your own devices and throw her to the barbarians when you’re done?”

  Shouts of alarm echoed through the courtyard and soldiers came running. As Tristam caught his breath, Red Shields surrounded Flick, knocking him to the ground before dragging him back onto his feet. Tristam put a hand to his still throbbing temple, his own temper flaring. “I’ve no more patience for you, Flick. I’ve broken rules, gone before the Council on your behalf to get Palace protection for you and your wards, and all I’ve gotten from you is—”

  “Of course. I’m supposed to be grateful.” Flick strained against the Red Shields holding him. “Kiss your shoes because you used us as bargaining chips with Kyra. Thank you, generous sirs.”

  “That’s enough.” Tristam curled his hands into fists and closed the distance between them.

  Flick glared at him, unflinching. “You go on about honor and service, but you care more for your own skin.”

  Tristam stopped short at Flick’s words. For a long moment, he stood, breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. “Take him to his room,” he finally said, his voice cold. “And make sure he stays there.”

  Flick shot Tristam a look of pure loathing as he was led away. One by one, the crowd wandered off. Tristam gingerly probed the side of his face with his fingers. If he’d won that fight, why did he feel so disgusted with himself?

  “That was some restraint you showed there. I might’ve clocked him myself.”

  Tristam looked up to see Martin. “You were part of that crowd?”

  “The shouting was hard to miss.”

  Tristam shook his head, only to stop when it made his headache worse. “He didn’t say anything that I didn’t want to say to Willem myself.” He sat down on the courtyard grass. It was awkward in his court finery, and he ignored puzzled glances from servants. Martin shrugged and sat down beside him.

  “I do feel bad that we lost her,” said Martin. “I like her, for all she’s a criminal.”

  “You don’t seem that surprised at Willem’s decision.”

  “Guess I expected it, coming from a family of Red Shields. If we get in trouble, they don’t usually come rescue us either.”

  Tristam nodded, absentmindedly fingering the insignia on his tunic that marked him as a knight. “When I took my vows, I pledged to obey the Council and protect Forge’s citizens. I never thought those two vows would clash.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Martin.

  Tristam squinted in the direction of the forest. “I don’t know.”

  T H I R T Y - T W O

  Kyra fidgeted in her chair as Brendel strummed his lute. He hummed a short melody, then stopped to jot down some notes.

  She finally gathered the courage to speak. “Why end it this way? Why not stop at the point when they fall in love?”

  Brendel tapped his jaw with the end of his pen. “You don’t change legends to suit your fancy, Kyra. Ballads tell a truth about the way of things. It means something that Lady Evelyne fell in love with the felbeast in human form. And it means something that she realized he would never turn from his bloodthirsty ways.”

  “But the story’s just so…hopeless. Why can’t he change? Why can’t he learn?”

  “The story is a warning for those who would be Evelyne. There was a time when you heard the tale and understood it. Remember when James betrayed you?”

  Kyra stopped, clenching her fists in frustration. It was true that she’d agreed with the legend back then. “But I don’t like it anymore,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She knew the answer, and so did Brendel, from the look in his eyes. But she couldn’t say it.

  Brendel smiled sadly. “You’ve realized that you are not Lady Evelyne, haven’t you?”

  A new voice joined the conversation, this one achingly familiar. “Don’t listen to him, Kyra.” Bella stood next to her, smelling of flour, stew, and spices. She sat down beside Kyra and stroked her hair. “Evelyne’s not the only legend. Other tales end differently. You’ll find your way.”

  Bella stood and offered Kyra a hand. Kyra let the cook pull her to her feet, but Bella winced. “Careful, lass. Not too hard.”

  Kyra looked down at her own hands. Where her fingernails should have been, she instead had five sharp claws….

  Kyra woke up feeling deeply and acutely alone. It was dark outside, and the wind had a frigid bite. She clutched her blanket tighter and blinked back tears.

  “I’m sorry, Bella,” she whispered. No one replied.

  It was funny, the way life turned out. She looked at her hands, half expecting claws. But what did it matter? Her dagger was just as deadly. Her demon cat kin had spoken of murder as if it were simply a rite of passage.

  There was a rustling in the trees. Kyra wiped a quick hand over her eyes as Pashla came into view carrying a large bowl. At first, Kyra couldn’t make out what it contained, but then the smell of raw meat wafted over to her side of the shelter.

  “Now that you’re awake, you’ll eat raw like the rest of us. We already risked too much building a fire for you.”

  Pashla held the meat out to her, and Kyra thought again of Bella, of gentle hands holding a bowl of lamb stew. Kyra’s breath caught and, to distract herself, she grabbed a piece of Pashla’s meat. It was cold to the touch, dark red and marbled with fat. Kyra dropped it into her mouth, suppressing a shudder as the juices ran over her tongue. She couldn’t bring herself to chew, so she swallowed it whole. It slid down her throat in one lump.

  “You do well,” said Pashla. “Even some who grow up with us refuse to eat raw flesh when they’re in human form. The taste is more appealing to a cat’s palate.”

  If only the woman would stop praising her for being like them. “Do you always eat like this?” Kyra asked.

  “We’ve roamed for many years,” said Pashla. “And we live less comfortably when we roam. This country is fertile with plants and fat prey, but the humans here are better armed. So we stay hidden. No fires, no shelters, sleeping in trees. We stay in our fur unless we need to talk.”

  “You can’t talk when you’re cats?”

  “We can talk in the way of animals, sharing simple desires or commands. But we can’t speak as we do now.”

  Kyra studied Pashla’s profile in the dim moonlight. If these people aged like humans, the woman was probably about ten years older than Kyra. It would have been e
asier to hate her if she’d matched Kyra’s expectations of barbarians. But she was gentle when she spoke. Her hands were as soft and deft as any Palace healer’s, and she confided in Kyra as an ally.

  A distant roar echoed through the trees, momentarily silencing the chorus of insects around them. Kyra instinctively lifted her head toward the sound.

  “Come,” said Pashla. “The clan is gathering. Don’t worry. Leyus is a fair leader.”

  The Demon Rider helped Kyra up and wrapped her in animal hides. She let Kyra lean on her shoulder as they ducked out from underneath the makeshift tent. The sky was beginning to lighten, and a hint of red stained the eastern side of the trees. Around her, the forest was surprisingly empty. She hadn’t exactly expected to step into a camp of Demon Riders, but the forest looked completely wild. The only sign of human habitation was her own shelter.

  Kyra shivered despite her wrappings as they wound their way through the trees, growing warier as other figures converged on their path. At first, the majority of them were in cat form, with leather pouches around their necks. But as they traveled, more and more of the beasts stepped off to the side and changed shape, dressing themselves in tunics they’d carried in their pouches. Most of the Makvani were tall and long-limbed in their human skin, certainly taller than the average citizen of Forge. If Kyra was indeed related to them, she must have gotten her height from her human side. But the way they moved was unmistakable. It was the same inhuman and uncomfortably familiar grace she had seen in Pashla. Kyra stared at them, unable to help herself, and the Demon Riders made no effort to hide their glances back—some friendly, some disdainful.

  Pashla’s arm was firm around her waist, gently supporting and steering her through this forest of trees and faces. Finally, they reached a small clearing where a group of Demon Riders was already gathered in a loose circle. The clear focus of the crowd was one figure—a man, half a head taller than the others, who held himself with a strength that signaled authority. He looked older than Pashla but was still in his physical prime.

  “This is Leyus,” said Pashla, slowing Kyra to a stop in front of him.