Again, Stephen felt an odd shifting.
“I had to help—you would have.”
I would have, yes.
A scream broke the night again, shattering the conversation. Cold, long, with a hint of sibilance to underpin its ringing clarity, it gave the shadows more force as they crowded the path.
It certainly made it easy to remain with the light.
• • •
Maubreche Manor was still brightly lit, and even as the path brought them racing across the threshold of the grounds, the strains of orchestral music joined the rustle of leaves. There were guards at the front gate; Stephen saw them as he ran past, at Gilliam’s heel.
Perhaps they were enchanted, or perhaps they were sleeping—although, with Lady Maubreche as their commander, he very much doubted that was the case—but for reasons that he did not understand, they did not stop or challenge the newcomers. Indeed, they stared straight ahead, like the Queen’s guards at attention, rather than stooping to notice the noise and the scramble that passed yards away from their torchlit vision.
“Something’s wrong,” Gilliam said, breathing hard.
“You mean, beside the fact that demons from the Hells are hunting us?”
Gilliam didn’t answer, and Stephen gave up—but he had a feeling that what he had said in sarcastic jest was, in fact, true. Any hunt, no matter who the intended victim and who the hunter, was “natural” to a Hunter; it probably felt somehow natural to Gil. Mouthing a quiet, heartfelt curse at Hunter Lords in general, Stephen dropped his eyes down to the misty path and continued to run along it.
To his great relief—or perhaps just to his relief—the path veered away from the grand manor, with its lovely lights and the carriages that stood as stately emissaries in the long, cobbled drive. He had no idea at all where they were running, but as long as the path still arched on ahead, he didn’t worry.
Until he heard the screaming again, keen and icy. Until he heard the human voices that followed, and quickly died into stillness. The guards. Gilliam slowed; Stephen felt the sudden lurch of tension that revealed itself only in the squaring of Gilliam’s jaw. The thieves had been prowling the lower city on their own, and their death was inconsequential to him. But he had led the demon-kin to Maubreche, where the two guards would never have met them otherwise.
It was Stephen who pushed him on this time; they had exchanged roles, as they sometimes did under duress. For if the demon-kin were so close on their trail, it meant that Evayne—if the ghostly, hooded apparition had indeed been the woman of his dreams—would no longer be there to offer them her protection.
And solid steel had availed them nothing.
The path never forked and never faltered; it remained wide enough to follow easily by foot, and straight enough to follow with eye. And although the moon was at her peak, with no buildings to hide her open face, she cast no shadows to bleed the light from the mystical road.
Stephen wasn’t sure exactly when it all changed; he was too concerned with running, and too certain that their flight would soon be halted by the demon-kin. He had seen how quickly they moved, and was certain that they were mere inches away, waiting and preparing. They didn’t come, but the hedges did, springing up like dark life on either side, with a scent of dirt and water, of leaves and bark—of green. In the night, they had no color, but they had shape and height, and they were so perfectly kept, so solid in appearance, they seemed to be walls.
Looking down at his feet, Stephen saw the only shadows there were the ones the moon cast. He took a deep breath, tried to hold it, and winced as his lungs expelled air, seeking more.
“Stephen?”
He shook his head and kept running.
• • •
They came at last, through a maze of dark hedges and perfect new grass, to light’s end. The hedges stood at a respectful distance in an almost uninterrupted circumference. There was only one way in—and one way out—from this center. The light crawled the last leg of the journey, and ended abruptly at the base of a tall, solemn statue. Even in the poor light, it was obvious that this was carved in the likeness of a man—one tall and proud, perhaps a little severe. He stood, completely straight, and a simple robe fell gently to his feet. His face was long, his chin rounded gradually to a point; his hair, long as well, fell away from his face and forehead, trapped only by a circlet across his brow. It was hard to read his expression, and Stephen would not have been surprised to find that that expression was both changeable and changing. One hand was raised, palm out; the other held a spear or like weapon that ran from his feet past the height of his shoulder. Stephen had no doubt that one maker-born had fashioned the likeness, and he wondered who the original model had been; something about the man was familiar.
“This is it,” Gilliam said, softly and irrelevantly.
Stephen barely heard him. He walked quietly, his steps gentle and almost hesitant, his right hand outstretched. “Is it a King, do you think? Maybe the founder?”
“It’s no King,” was the quiet reply.
And hearing the voice, Stephen lost his own. He spun in the darkness, his heart ice. Hidden, until this moment, by the folds of the robe and the base of the statue’s pedestal, was Lady Cynthia of Maubreche.
• • •
She was pale, white even in shadows and moonlight. Her dress was of a simple and pleasing cut—but its make was no such thing; it had cost a fortune. Stephen had, many times, bought the bolts of cloth and the reams of lace that Lady Elseth and Maribelle required, and he knew how dear they could be.
“Stephen?” She stepped out and away from the statue; her finger trailed along its hem before pulling away. “What are you doing here? I wouldn’t have thought you could navigate the maze on your own—not in this light.”
He swallowed; the sides of his throat formed a neat trap for words—none came. Her smile faltered; her eyes widened, and even though he couldn’t see their color, he knew how brown, and how deep, they were. Then they narrowed; her shoulders straightened, her jaw came up. Even her voice changed subtly. “Is that Lord Elseth, then? And who is your companion?”
“It’s—”
The shrieking of demon-kin rescued Gilliam from a rather large social crime. A plume of fire flared up into the sky, dampening the light of the moon with its brilliance and its harshness. It burned itself into Stephen’s vision, lingering until the very slight breeze, carrying the smell of burning leaves and wood, arrived.
“What was that?” Cynthia said softly. Her voice was steady and very cold.
“What are you doing here?” Stephen’s words overlapped hers, but where she had chosen ice, he held fire. She was no Hunter Lord, trained to death or dying—she was a Lady, skilled in lore, history, politics, and the management of the Maubreche preserve, which would one day be her own. He felt certain she would die here, because she had been rude enough to leave a gathering held in her honor alone. A few short hours ago, he would have been overjoyed.
Another person would have taken a step back from the force in his voice. Her nostrils flared, and perhaps her cheeks grew a little more red. “I could ask the same of you, Lord Stephen. This is a private area of the Maubreche Estates, and is never open to the . . . public.”
“Ask later!” Gilliam snarled. He had no sword, but his dagger was readied—and useless. He hated it.
Silence reigned a moment. The moment stretched.
“Why are they waiting?” Gilliam muttered at last. “They’re fast enough to have followed.”
Fire answered, stronger and closer. The smoke that the hedges surrendered drifted up in a thick, pale cloud. During the day, it would have been darker; now it wended its way on the thin breeze, the ghost of flame.
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “They’re—they’re burning the maze!”
“Maybe they can’t follow,” Stephen offered quietly. “There’s no shadow here, Gil. Lo
ok at the ground.” It was a faint hope, but better than none.
Gilliam nodded; the shallow dip of chin told Stephen that his Hunter wasn’t really listening. He was testing the wind, seeking the unfamiliar scent, readying himself for quick action and quicker response.
Slim fingers, strong and firm for all their lack of size, closed tightly around Stephen’s forearm. “Stephen, who are they?”
He swallowed, fear for himself and fear for her becoming so tightly entwined they were inseparable. “Demons.”
“Demons?” She laughed in astonished disbelief; her eyes seemed to sparkle.
“Damn it, Cynthia—demons! Look at Gil—I know he’s barbaric, but he usually doesn’t run around in bloodied rags!” She didn’t have the chance to follow his command; Stephen caught her shoulders.
Angry, she wrenched herself free. He reached out again, but his hands met the invisible wall of her icy wrath. They fell, shaking. “Maybe,” she said, and for a moment she reminded him of Gilliam—her jaw was clenched, and the tone of her voice walked the thin, tight line between anger and all-out fury, “they’re of the mage-born.”
Another scream, chill and loud. Yet another bolt of flame. Smoke and the smell of fire had become so common they barely noticed it.
“Oh?” He turned away, feeling a helpless anger of his own. “And what gives you that idea?”
“This is the Hunter’s Hallow.” Her lips curled up in what might have been a smile; it was an unpleasant expression. “The mage-born have no easy entrance here.”
“It doesn’t have to be easy,” Stephen snapped back. “If they get here, we’re lost. We met them in the lower city. We tried to fight. Steel doesn’t affect them at all. Does that sound like the mage-born to you?”
“Not immediately, but mages are cunning and capable creatures.” Her voice lost a bit of its edge. “Why did you call them demon-kin?”
“It’s what she called them.”
“She?” The edge returned, redoubled.
“Will the two of you shut the Hells up?”
Both Stephen and Cynthia spun, their mouths open in angry unison. The odd, dirty girl sprang suddenly to life, half-leaping and half-running to stand between Gilliam and his huntbrother. Her throat seemed to grow larger and thicker; the sound she made was unmistakable and loud. She was growling.
Cynthia took a step back; she couldn’t help it. The black tongue, darkened teeth, and wild, wide eyes made the girl look mad, and dangerously so.
“No!” Gilliam shouted. “Get out of the way!”
Stephen’s bond with Gilliam was strong enough that his shouted warning was unnecessary; he was already flying through the air with the force of his leap.
But Lady Cynthia did what a normal person would do in the face of just such a command. She spun around to see where the danger lay, her hand already falling to a well-adorned hip, and a lovely, functional dagger.
The hedge-wall erupted.
• • •
She would never laugh at Stephen again. It was absolutely clear, from the moment the strangers burst into the maze-heart, that they weren’t mage-born. They weren’t even human. Shreds and scraps of dark clothing barely clung to their arms and legs; their faces, in all their dark glory, were obsidian, ugly masks. But the teeth that rimmed their lips like serpent fangs were white and gleaming.
The demon-kin were children’s games and children’s fears. Cynthia was suddenly a child again. But not a foolish one. Her knees bent into a roll; her shoulders and upper thighs provided the necessary momentum. The long, plush skirts she wore were heavy and impeding, but she didn’t take the time to fuss with them.
“CYNTHIA!”
• • •
Gilliam, Lord Elseth, had his dagger to hand in the shadows. His breath was harsh and heavy; he had pushed the Hunter’s trance almost to its upper limits, and once his endurance flagged, not even the benefit of consciousness would be left.
He knew it; he even considered it on an instinctive level. But he showed no sign of doubt or hesitation as he leaped forward, dagger extended like a claw. He had pushed himself to survive to reach the center of the maze; he pushed harder, finding new strength. He was terrified, yes—terrified that it would not be enough.
The first of the demons touched earth, slamming its hands into the ground; catching folds of velvet and embedding them in the dirt. Lady Cynthia jerked, hard, to a stop; the demon’s obsidian hands came up.
Cynthia raised her pale hands to her face; they were white in the moonlight and shadows. A ring glinted as her fingers trembled. She opened her mouth; her lips parted as if in a scream. But the scream held a word, and the word held command.
“Sanctuary!”
The demon’s hand sliced down in the darkness; Gilliam cried out, a rush of air against a raw throat. But before the lethal blow could cut across Lady Cynthia’s face, another shadow met the first, snarling in dark fury.
• • •
Stephen had his dagger as well; he gripped it tightly, his fingers almost molding themselves to the bound twine of its hilt. He had no words at all, and very little breath; his knees were weak with momentary relief as the dirty, wild girl—somehow at the heart of this conflict—hurled herself at the demon who stood, like a death, over Cynthia’s fallen body.
He was four feet from her spilled, torn skirts, but the distance seemed immense, uncoverable. Whatever anger or pain he had felt at the beginning of the evening was gone, a victim of the fear of her death. He ran, his free hand outstretched.
He was not gentle as he pulled her to her feet; even less so as he shoved her, hard, toward the statue in the maze’s center. If he’d had voice or time, he might have broken all etiquette and commanded her to hide—but he had none. Gilliam’s sudden terror, bright and clear, hit his throat through the Hunter’s bond. He jumped, wheeling, and felt a sharp sting at his back.
Without thought, he struck out, his dagger only an extension of his hand.
Against hope, the demon growled. Stephen drew back. In the dim light the moon cast—if it was dim; it seemed now, to his eyes, bright and luminescent—he could see the trail of dark liquid that ran the runnels of his knife.
What he knew, Gilliam knew; in danger, their bond had always been strongest. He did not need to shout or gesture or otherwise catch his Hunter’s attention. Instead, he began his dance across the grass and the flower beds, his pale eyes narrowed, his attention upon the demon.
But if the demon was somehow vulnerable now, it had not lost its great speed; lunging in, in off-step to Gilliam’s attack, all concentration bent upon his opponent, Stephen almost lost his arm.
He screamed as something wide and sharp scraped bone.
• • •
Even had she been so inclined, Cynthia could not hide; the cry that Stephen uttered, his voice barely recognizable, pulled her forward. She saw him fall; saw it clearly, as she saw all things in the Hunter’s Hallow. She saw Gilliam’s desperate lunge; heard his low-throated, guttural snarl, and saw his dagger deflected.
Demon-kin. She took a breath, trembling. Let her eyes flicker off the second demon. He was shadow, tall and narrow, to the red-tinged back of the wild child who attacked him. She, too, growled—like a Hunter boy, too new to his pack, gone feral. There was none of Gilliam’s control or concentration about her—yet somehow, she still stood.
Somehow.
Slowly, the shock began to drain out of Cynthia. She took a deep breath, and leaned back, gripping the pedestal of the Hallow’s single statue in tight white fingers.
She was the heir to the Maubreche demesne, with its country preserves and its near-legendary labyrinth in the very heart of the King’s City. And although she had never been given to the care of a weaponsmaster, never run or linked with a pack of Hunter dogs, never faced the truth of the Hunter’s Death and all its implications—she had nonetheless learned to fi
ght.
But her voice was thin and young and vulnerable as she began to speak.
“I am of Maubreche,” she whispered, her voice slowly gathering strength, “and I am of your line. We have kept this garden and this maze and this mystery that is the Hunter’s Hallow.”
Stephen cried out again, and sudden tears welled up in her eyes, filming their surface without falling. Her throat grew tight. She struggled with the words, won, and continued to speak. But she closed her eyes, flinching and turning from his cries; she could no longer watch.
“We have kept our pledge and our word, and now I turn to you, Keeper and Lord of the Covenant. Grant me your Sanctuary!”
• • •
Stephen heard her pale, trembling words; heard them above the din of his own pain and his own cries. He looked up weakly, his eyes seeking hers in the shadows, as her words rippled through him with the force of an oath made, an oath kept. What she had said sunk roots and became planted in memory. He would not forget it.
Only twice before had he felt so.
But never so strongly and so completely. Dawn came to the clearing, springing like life into the heart of the labyrinth. A nimbus of light touched leaf and branch and bent, sticky blades of grass, spreading outward. He felt it along his upturned face, and his lips turned in a smile of sudden, inexplicable jubilation.
And the demon-kin screamed, both at once, their fight momentarily forgotten. Stephen rolled, almost drunkenly, to his feet, clutching his wounded arm, his shredded jacket. He glanced up, and up again, to the very height of the skies; they were dark and clear.
The dawn that prevailed in the Hunter’s Hallow had nothing to do with the turning. His eyes followed the light as it grew stronger and clearer, and at last his eyes found its source: the statue at the center of the maze.
No light this bright should be easily viewed, and Stephen raised his hands automatically to shield his eyes, before he realized that he felt no pain, saw no searing intensity. As the demons screamed, and the dark smoke of burning flesh reached his nose, Stephen gazed into the stone face of an angry God.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 31