“Still. Is she present when you change?”
“Now that’s a complicated theological question.” Clara leaned back against the rock wall. “Some of the sisters say that it’s Her direct blessing that lets us change at all, of course, but it doesn’t feel much like a blessing sometimes. When you’re feverish in a cage and all of you praying not to be the one who goes to the beast…no, I’m pretty sure St. Ursa isn’t overseeing us directly, because that would be monstrously cruel, making us change like that.” She spread her hands. “Sister Mallory always says that if St. Ursa didn’t exist, we’d be obligated to invent Her, just to have an explanation. Or maybe just so we had someone to watch over us.”
“But you have not felt her presence directly?”
Clara shrugged. “Again, how would I know? Perhaps I feel it all the time, and have nothing to compare it to. That’s why it’s faith.” She snorted. “I talk to Her in my head. I pray. If I didn’t have Her, I suspect I’d pray to someone else. Perhaps She’s just the name I put on that which I pray to, and it’s easier to picture the divine as a saint who understands the beast.”
“Interesting theology for a nun.”
She glanced over at him. Blue stubble shadowed his cheeks and his eyes were dark. Even after bandit attacks and long days on the run, he was obnoxiously handsome. She remembered the warmth of his lips against her skin that morning, before he realized what he was kissing, and her gut clenched, but she was determined not to show it. This is why you don’t get entangled. This is why you don’t fall in love. “We’re not an evangelical order,” she said lightly. “But you’re a paladin. You’re genuinely god-touched, aren’t you?”
Istvhan made a small noise of pain. “I was,” he said. “Once.”
Clara frowned. “What? How does that…wait…” A half-remembered memory clicked into place. The Saint of Steel. The god who had died. She’d almost forgotten. It had been years ago and she had never met one of their paladins. “Your god…?”
“Dead,” said Istvhan bleakly. The blue shadows on his face deepened. “Died or was murdered, if a god can be murdered. We still don’t know. Just that He was a golden light in our hearts, and then He was gone.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached out and took his hand before it occurred to her that the touch of a werebear might disgust him. He did not recoil. He gazed down at their hands as if they belonged to two other people, his eyes distant.
“It was almost four years ago now,” he said. “I don’t know how much you know about the order.”
“Virtually nothing. I didn’t know any of you survived.”
He nodded. “We didn’t have a temple up here. Mostly around Archenhold. The Saint was a warrior god. We were—are—berserkers.” One corner of his mouth twisted up slightly. “The priests think—or thought—that His paladins were born berserkers, that in another time and place we would have been the sort of madmen who gnaw their shields and are consumed with battle. Much like your order, now that I think of it.” He glanced up at her and smiled, less with humor and more with recognition. “We were born a certain way, and the god took it and made it holy.”
Maybe he does understand. Can he understand?
No. That’s too much to ask for from someone who is human all the time. Even if he gnaws his shield in battle, it’s still with human teeth.
“So it’s not just Galen,” she said.
“No. He is my brother-in-arms.” Istvhan slowly opened his fingers until her hand lay flat in his palm. It struck Clara again, looking down, that his hands were larger than hers and that was strange. She could not remember the last man that she had known who was built to the same scale. “Once the god died, we no longer had control of the battle madness. The black tide, we call it now. We’re all afraid of it. We’re waiting for the day it pulls us under and doesn’t let us go. But there was a time, Domina, when we were the holiest of killers. We would go into a place and kill those that the god commanded and spare everyone else. The god would literally stop our blades from falling on the innocent. It was...” He let out a long breath. “We were righteous and holy and unstoppable. And it was good, Domina. It was so damn good.”
The longing in his voice was terrible to hear. Clara moved her hand, only a little, and he caught it, thumb lying like a bar across her knuckles. “I will tell you something else,” he said softly, looking up, “paladin to nun, that I dare not tell my brothers.”
I’m only a lay sister, Clara wanted to say. I can’t give you absolution. You’ve felt more of your god than I ever have of mine. But she said none of these things, only tilted her head and waited. Even the very lowest of lay sisters knew when someone needed to give confession.
“I think sometimes now, about the guilty and the innocent. Our god was judge and jury and we were His executioners. I never questioned His judgment. I couldn’t have. But the longer I spend around the Temple of the Rat, with all their priests and lawyers, as they try to sort out guilt and punishment and expiation, the more I think that it was all far too simple.” He shook his head slowly, almost incredulous. “When the god died, we ran mad. The priests lit the temples on fire and burned each other alive. There was a place called Hallowbind, and the paladins there tore men apart with their bare hands.”
“I’m sorry,” said Clara.
Istvhan shrugged. “Are these the actions of good men, Domina? Even the mad don’t do this to each other. Perhaps we were always on the edge of this terrible violence, and the Saint was no better than we were. I do not know.” He lifted her hand and Clara felt his breath wash across her fingers. “So you see, Domina,” he whispered, “you are not the only one with a beast inside them.”
The air between them changed instantly, charged and crackling. Clara met his dark eyes and thought we have been talking of gods and murder, this is not the time, you must be mistaken, what is wrong with you…?
The look in Istvhan’s eyes did not make her think she was mistaken.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She licked her lips and his eyes locked on her mouth. No, don’t be ridiculous, you’re barely human, he knows that, he recoiled from you this morning, he can’t possibly mean…
He leaned forward. His lips parted slightly. Dark eyes bored into hers and she could not seem to get enough air. She had been kissed before of course, even by this same man, but never by a man who knew what she was, never by one who had seen her change and wanted her anyway.
You are mistaken. You must be. That cannot be what he means. He cannot want you. You should not want him.
What did she want? She wanted…she wanted…to tear each other’s clothes off and drag him down right there, never mind the stone floor or anything else. Right.
Istvhan was very close. She could feel his breath across her skin.
Outside the cave, birds suddenly started up, shrieking alarm calls. A pebble fell down from the entrance. Istvhan jerked back and both of them looked up, just as a human voice said “Don’t bother, Thom, she’s miles away by now.”
Eighteen
Istvhan cursed the saints, the gods, the world, humanity in general and the men on the ridge above them in particular. He did it internally, however, because neither of them dared to make a sound.
Keep walking, he thought. Keep walking and don’t make me kill you.
His gaze dropped to Clara and he amended that to, Don’t make us kill you.
Her head was cocked to one side, eyes fixed on the entrance to the cave. Istvhan could not even hear her breathing.
He’d heard it just a moment ago. Her lips had been parted, almost panting, and somehow everything had shifted around them. Perhaps it was her explanation that she did not feel her saint. It finally settled inside his head that she was with the convent because of what she was, not because she was dedicated to holiness.
And Istvhan, who could no longer touch holiness, might be able to touch her.
Footsteps scraped on the rock. The voice said, “Look, there’s no tracks. We’d see footprints if she’d come this way.
”
Yes. Excellent. Keep thinking that. Good man.
Someone—Thom, presumably—said, “I want to check anyway. This place is all full of holes. She could be hiding in one.”
The voice was practically over their heads. The men were walking along the ridgeline, and if one found a way down, Istvhan and Clara would be trapped in a cave, trying to fight on their knees.
“Yeah, and so could a snow lion. It’ll take your damn face off.”
“Worth the risk. You know what one of those things is worth in Morstone?”
Those things. Istvhan watched Clara’s face go hard as her jaw clenched.
More footsteps. Istvhan heard the sound of loose rock sliding and stifled a sigh. No hope for it. The man was right there and in another minute, he was going to come around the side of the rock blocking the entrance and things were going to start happening very fast. Istvhan settled his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Look, there’s a cave right—”
Istvhan exploded out of the cave, swinging.
The man named Thom was shorter than Istvhan, but that didn’t much matter, since he was standing and Istvhan was still half-crouched. He had a net draped over one shoulder but certainly wasn’t expecting to use it. Istvhan’s sword whistled through the air.
Thom’s reflexes were good but his balance was not. He managed to jump back, only to lose his footing on the rock and slide down the hillside on his back.
His companion shouted from the ridge. Istvhan turned to meet the second man, jammed his sword upward and took the man in the gut. He nearly lost his own footing as the shock traveled through his arm.
Someone else shouted. Saint’s balls, there had been a third man who hadn’t spoken. Istvhan tried to haul his sword out of the dead man without falling down the slope himself.
A bear roared practically in his ear.
Istvhan skidded downhill a few feet, regained his balance, and looked up just in time to see the bear bite the third man’s face off.
The bear who was also Clara.
The man had been shouting. He stopped. The crunch of massive teeth into bone was horribly loud. The bear shook her head and the man dropped down the slope, a red ruin where his face had been.
All right, Istvhan thought. All right, that was…that was a lot. Okay.
Small black eyes turned toward him. Blood ringed the bear’s muzzle and stained her chest. She growled.
“Easy,” said Istvhan. “Easy. Nice bear?” The bear had seemed friendly enough the day before, but blood lust was something else again. Clara spoke of the bear as if it were another person inside her. Instead of lusting after her and interrogating her about comparative theology, maybe you could have asked a useful question like, “Does the bear always remember who your friends are?”
The bear made a low grumbling sound and pawed at her muzzle, turning away. Istvhan thought she looked almost embarrassed, although how a bear could look embarrassed, the Saint only knew. Either saint.
He looked downslope and discovered Thom was gone. “Oh hell,” he said aloud. “I think one of them got away. We’d better get moving before he brings reinforcements.”
“Hrrwwuff.” The bear nodded and started over the ridge.
“Wait for me!” He scrambled into the cliff and grabbed his pack. The bear waited. Her long pink tongue came out of her mouth and licked at the blood, which was…yes, it was a lot to take in. Everything was a lot right now.
They started down the far side, slipping and sliding on the loose scree. The dead man had fallen over the ridge and rolled a few yards downhill. Istvhan wiped his sword on the dead man’s tunic, then took his money. The bear snorted approvingly.
The bear who had bitten a man’s face off.
It’s not like you haven’t seen worse. Istvhan came from a berserker order. He had seen every possible variation of what swords could do to human flesh. Frequently his brothers and sisters in arms had been the ones doing it. It was just…well…
The crunch replayed in his head. The bear had fangs as long as his thumbs.
Right. Okay. Woman with sledgehammer surrounded by dead bodies, weirdly sexy. Woman turned into giant bear, biting faces off, deeply not sexy. Please make a note of it.
He immediately resented himself for being an idiot. What, did you expect her to stand around and get murdered just so you could keep your cock hard?
No, obviously not. That was just…a lot.
Clara stomped downhill, feeling the scree slide under her paws. She could hear Istvhan on the slope, though he was starting to fall behind. She didn’t know whether to slow down so that he could catch up or to start running and never stop.
Clara’s eyesight wasn’t capable of the fine close focus of a human, but it didn’t need to be. She’d been able to see Istvhan’s expression just fine. Shock. Horror. Something like that. Well, what did you expect? You bit a man’s head in half right in front of him. However close they’d come for a moment in the cave, it was definitely over now.
It’s for the best. This is why you never sleep with anyone who knows what you are. Men say they want an animal in bed, but they don’t mean one that weighs seven hundred pounds and eats elk.
“Bear—Clara—wait for me…”
Bears do not grit their teeth normally. Clara could feel the puzzlement of the beast, wondering why it was keeping its jaw tight. She grimly relaxed and paused at the bottom of the slope, waiting. It would do no good to get separated. He’d just try to find her, because he was a paladin and no matter how disgusted he was, his sense of duty would keep him going. If only he’d truly been a mercenary, he would probably have decided to cut his losses. Damn, damn, damn.
At least this side of the ridge was warmer. The trees started much closer to the ridgeline and the snow only clung in the deep shadows. The wind was not nearly so fierce. She did not feel obligated to give Istvhan a ride on her back, and thus could not be hurt when he recoiled in horror at the thought.
Hours passed, while Clara brooded and Istvhan crunched through the pine needles. She thought they must be getting close to the road now. If they were being followed, she had heard no sign yet. How long would it take for the man who had escaped to bring back his fellows? I suppose it depends on how badly he was hurt, falling down the slope. Clara hated to hope for a man’s injuries, but it would certainly make her life easier.
She lifted her head, sniffing for the scent of horses, and smelled something unusual.
Burning? A fire? No, it wasn’t quite right for that. It smelled burnt the way that a skunk did, a choking scorched-hair smell, but there were undertones like rotten milk and something else. It smeared the scent landscape in the bear’s head. She sneezed twice, then turned in place, trying to place where it was coming from.
“Problem?” asked Istvhan.
“Hrrrffff…” She didn’t like the smell. More importantly, the beast didn’t like the smell. That was unusual. The beast was agnostic about most odors. Food smells were good, fire was bad, all other smells just existed without any particular emotional context.
The heavy smell seemed to be concentrated on a spot between their position and the road. Clara debated the possible ramifications, then decided that it was too important to make the decision alone. Go to sleep, she told the bear. Go back down for a little while.
The excitement of the fight had worn off. The beast did not resist. She shook herself and stood up. Istvhan hurried to put the cloak around her shoulders. Just like a paladin.
“Pursuit?” he asked.
“No, not close by. I smell something else. It’s very odd. Burnt and sort of rotten. I don’t know what it is, but we should probably go around it. That’ll be a bit out of our way, though.”
Istvhan went very still. “Burnt,” he said slowly. “Like burnt hair? A thick smell?”
Clara blinked at him. “Yes. Exactly. Do you know what it is?”
“Unfortunately I might.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, but I need to see it. If it’s what I think it is�
��”
Clara raised her eyebrows. “More secrets?”
He laughed, although not with a great deal of humor. “Yes, I suppose. I should have told you, but…would you believe that I’d forgotten this one completely, what with the last few days?” He waved a hand vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of their pursuers.
“I suppose I would,” Clara admitted. “Very well.” She started to turn into the bear again and…
…found herself on her knees, the woods spinning around her.
“Domina!”
“It’s all right,” she muttered, trying not to faceplant in the pine needles. “It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not.” He went to his knees next to her. “Are you ill? Injured?”
“No. Too many changes too fast, that’s all.” She mustered a smile. “It’s like running. It’s not hard to do once or twice, if you’re used to it, but too many on top of each other and you start to get winded. Give me a minute.”
“Stay human,” he suggested. “If it’s what I think it is, the smell will be strong enough for our noses to pick up once we get close.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Severed heads.” He handed her her clothes, and helped her to her feet while she considered this.
“Your wandering killer?”
“Yes. At this point, trying to keep any more secrets feels extremely silly. If you’re a spy for an unknown cult, you’re hiding it well.”
“Well, St. Ursa’s real. I might be a spy for a known cult.”
“Yes, but are you really a spy at that point?” They started down the slope together. Istvhan stayed within arm’s reach, probably in case she fainted again. Clara did not know whether to be grateful or to wish he’d go farther away. The bear hadn’t cared that he smelled like ginger. The human cared very much indeed.
“Galen and I work for the Temple of the White Rat,” Istvhan explained. “There’s been a series of murders in Archon’s Glory. One of my brothers found out what was doing it. We call them the smooth men. They’re a…well, we aren’t sure what the hell they are. The best guess is some kind of golem. They make heads in a kiln and then stab the heads into decapitated corpses to control them. The bodies eventually decay away and they have to kill another one. When one was caught in Archon’s Glory, the rest fled. Reports started to come from the north, so Galen and I came to follow them.”
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