The sand swift’s body color remained constant. That meant it was not alarmed or threatened by Creed’s presence as it snuffled its broad, ugly snout back and forth along the ground.
With an unpleasant jolt, Creed realized that it was trail-ing his footprints in the dirt. He stroked his hross’s neck, soothing the nervous animal.
“It’s a pity about your calves,” he said. “My name is Creed. I serve the Godseekers and I’m looking for a man named Bear. The sheriff in Desert’s End said he might have some information I need.”
The old man did not dismount. Craftiness entered his ferret-black, unblinking eyes. “You were told wrong. I don’t know much about anything except ranching.”
“Then you know nothing of slave traders who bought a young child from you last year?”
His weasel eyes tracked to the house, then back to Creed. “I know very little of them.”
Creed read truth in his words. Yet also, a lie. This man might not know much about them, but what he did was most likely significant—if not to Creed, then to someone else. His thoughts went to the woman he had surprised. The sheriff had spoken of a slave whore. Since Creed had yet to see signs of another woman, or anyone else here, it stood to reason that she was it. If it was her son the old man had sold, she’d have paid attention. Most mothers would.
Unless it was a child she had not wanted either.
“What of the woman in the house?” Creed asked. “Would she know more than you?”
The old man spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground. It glistened, brown and wet, near the toe of Creed’s boot, although not so close as to seem deliberately offensive.
“Why are the Godseekers interested enough in slave traders to send one of you to investigate them?”
Creed did not miss the slight emphasis on the word you. Bear knew he was an assassin, and it was not likely to make him more forthcoming. He did not wish to cooperate with the Godseekers. It was doubtful he ever willingly cooperated with anyone.
Creed recognized him as someone who enjoyed the suffering of others in an attempt to ease his own. His sister’s stepfather had been a bully such as this. Still, Creed had to try.
He studied the sand swift, wondering what it would do if he chose a different method of getting what he needed from its master. Adult sand swifts tended to be loyal and aggressively protective, and quick to sense any threat to their masters no matter how subtle. The only creatures more dangerous were the juveniles.
He concentrated, sending out calming thoughts as he spoke, not wanting to alert either Bear or the sand swift as to what he was doing.
“Since the end of winter, several children have been reported missing in the area,” Creed said.
“Children are a dime a dozen,” Bear replied. “If they can’t earn their keep, farmers sell them to be rid of them. Or they leave them for the wolven to have.”
Certain slave traders made their profit selling children to brothels. Some might argue that it was kinder of parents, or owners such as Bear, to leave them for wolven if they could not feed them. Such an action would be politely ignored by neighbors who well understood the problem. It would not be remarked upon. Word would not spread.
And yet both things had happened.
Creed was unconvinced that slave traders were responsible for these latest disappearances. The sense he got from Bear was that he did not believe they were either. Therefore, if the disappearances were being remarked upon, it was because there was something unusual about the children. The sheriff was most likely correct, and they were half demon.
Frustration filled him. Regardless of who had fathered them, they were innocents.
The sand swift had not raised an alarm at the slight amount of compulsion Creed unleashed, so he released a little more, although even more carefully. He wanted that invitation to spend the night and Bear was not the sort of man to be magnanimous. If pushed too far, he would question why he did something so out of character and against his instincts.
But Creed did not intend to leave here without more complete answers to his questions. He could not ignore instincts telling him that the spawn woman he hunted, and the children he’d heard whisperings of, including this one of Bear’s, were somehow connected.
…
Slave traders had bought a young child from Bear.
Nieve, eavesdropping at the open window beside the front door, let the plain lace curtain drop from her numb fingers. She braced herself against the wall as the blood rushed to her head and her vision grayed.
He had sold her son. That was what she’d sensed missing from her life. What had caused this raw, gaping hole in her heart.
Once the dizziness passed she pressed a shaking palm to her stomach, afraid she might be sick. She could not decide what was worse—the fact that Bear had done such a thing, or the discovery that she had forgotten. She prayed it was because her son had not wanted her to remember him. He’d always been protective of her, even as a baby—an old soul in a child’s body.
But even so, what sort of mother could allow herself to forget her own child?
A part of her wished she had not eavesdropped on this conversation, because she was not strong enough to deal with it. She had no idea what had inspired her to do so. Perhaps it was a compelling and insatiable interest in the stranger with the beautiful eyes and this one last opportunity for her to gaze at him.
No matter the reason, she could not undo the damage now done. The floodgates opened and memories washed through her, as did the knowledge that an entire year of her son’s life had been wasted. Somewhere in a harsh and unforgiving world, Asher waited for her to come for him.
Pain sliced her heart, so unbearable that she had to pant her way through it. Ash would be almost four years old now, and she knew what could happen to children too young or unable to do physical labor. Most ended up in brothels, where they were used and then discarded.
But Ash was not like other children, and had a knack for deflecting unwanted attention. He’d been slow to speak, preferring to sit and listen to what went on around him. He’d always known when Bear was in a foul mood, and to hide from him.
Was he still alive? If he was, did he think of her?
She had thought all her old hatred for Bear long dulled and expended, but it resurged now along with her grief. Tears streamed down her face.
She brushed at them with the back of her wrist. She did not want Bear to discover her like this. She did not want him to get any joy from it, so she buried her emotions as deep as she could and focused on actions.
For a moment she gave serious consideration to killing her master. Believing her broken, he would not expect it. But she discarded the thought. If she did it, she would never find out where Ash had been taken. For her son’s sake, she had to be strong. Somehow, she had to get the information she needed from Bear.
Then she would kill him.
By the time Bear entered the house Nieve was back in the kitchen and at the wood stove, removing an orange custard pie from the hot oven. She placed it on the counter.
Squeezing his large frame into his usual chair, he settled at the head of the long, bristlewood table.
She dared not look at him as she dished up his steaming dinner from a pot on the stove before setting it in front of him. The glow from the oil lantern sitting in the center of the table reflected off the black windows.
“Fill another plate,” he said. “And take it out to the stable.”
At first, Nieve could not think why he would give her such a task. Her thoughts had been so wrapped around Ash that it was a second before she remembered the stranger.
“That man you spoke with is spending the night?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise. Bear never gave anyone permission to stay for longer than it took them to conduct business.
His harsh black eyes lingered on her, thick, wiry brows casting them into shadow. “What difference does it make to you?”
He was not happy about the stranger’s presence. She tried
to gauge the depth of his displeasure, wondering how best to answer him, although it was possible she was too numb to feel it if he struck her anyway.
“I need to make sure I have enough food prepared for an extra person,” she said.
Bear dipped his spoon in his stew, indifferent. “You’re skinny already. If you have to, missing a meal won’t make much difference to you.”
He stopped, the dripping, overfull spoon partway to his mouth, as if arrested by a sudden and important thought. He dropped the spoon back in his bowl and lifted his head.
She did not like the unexpected scrutiny, or the speculation in his eyes either, because she realized it was not indifference she read in him, but preoccupation.
The stranger’s presence troubled him. Premonition and long experience suggested it was about to trouble her too. His eyes swept her from head to toe and made her feel naked.
“If you changed your clothes and did something with your hair, you’d be a decent-looking woman,” Bear said. “Go clean yourself up. There’s information I want you to get from him for me. If you were once good enough for a demon, you’re likely still good enough for a Godseeker assassin. As long as he doesn’t find out about the demon you slept with,” he added. “It’s possible he’d kill you for it. Something I should have done.”
She inhaled a sharp breath. It had been four years since this was last mentioned, at least to her face, and the past slapped her. This, she would gladly forget. Bear had agreed to marry her when her father first approached him, thinking the baby she carried was mortal, but then Bear had heard the rumors. He had not wanted to so much as buy her after that, let alone marry her. Instead, her father, who she had foolishly believed loved her enough that she could tell him the truth about her baby, had paid Bear to take her.
Bear, however, maintained he would have no demon’s leavings. Other than to beat her, he’d never touched her. She cooked and cleaned for him, and in the yard surrounding the house, did the work of a grown man.
But then last year, with no warning, Bear had sold her son into slavery. And now he wanted her to whore for him.
Hatred bubbled inside Nieve, so thick and hot she could barely breathe. She had endured this life for four long years. The need to do something—anything—to find her son compelled her. Sleeping with a Godseeker assassin, if that’s who this stranger was, would not be the worst thing she had done at another’s command.
She would not, however, do it for nothing. While Bear might own her, she also wanted information.
“I’ll whore for you if you tell me what you did with my son,” she said.
Bear was out of his chair so fast she had no time to do more than take a few steps back, toward the stove, and cover her head. He grasped her shoulder with one hand, then slammed a fist into her stomach. When he let her go, all she had strength to do was fall to the floor and curl in a ball.
Pain and nausea washed through her. She was not as numb as she had thought.
He loomed over her with fingers clenched. “You’ll do as I say.”
If she had no one to worry over but herself, Nieve would simply acquiesce, even though the thought of being possessed by the intimidating stranger terrified her, because she had relinquished her pride long ago. But knowing Ash was all alone, with no one to love and care for him, was far worse than any beating or indignity she might suffer.
Desperation motivated her. Now that she had remembered him, her wrenching heartache was as fresh and raw as if it had happened seconds ago. She might not get another opportunity to find out anything about his whereabouts, and she dared not back down now. Bear could not beat her into submission, then expect her to be able to entice a man. She would do what she had to in order to get her son back, or at least to discover what his fate had been.
She curled in a tight ball. “You’ll only get what information I manage to extract from him. How hard do you think I’ll try if you deny me this?”
Bear glowered down at her. “What difference can knowing who bought the spawn make to you after all these months? He’s probably dead.”
He was not used to opposition from her and sounded truly perplexed. Nieve could hardly blame him. In the past year she had asked no questions about Asher—but only because she had not remembered him. She could not imagine how she had ever forgotten something so important and she swore she would not forget again.
Something else said by the men when they were outside in the yard niggled at her. The assassin claimed children were missing and the trail he followed had led him to Bear. Hope flared like a torch. There had to be a connection. She could ask the assassin a few questions of her own. If whoring got her that opportunity, then she would do it.
But Bear would only get what he wanted if he told her what he had done with Ash.
She got to her knees in the over-warm kitchen, one hand pressed to her sore stomach, the other ready to protect her head from any more blows. “I want to know what you did with him,” she said. “I’ll do anything you want if you tell me where he went.”
“You’ll do it regardless.” Bear stared at her, his anger with her changing to ugly frustration. Rather than striking her again, he lowered the fist he had raised. “There’s something not right about that assassin. I can’t quite place it. I don’t want him coming back here, or spreading stories. If you find out anything I can use against him, something that will discredit him with the Godseekers, then not only will I tell you who I sold the spawn to, I’ll set you free to go find him.”
Nieve’s heart expanded in her chest, squeezing her lungs. Under any other circumstances being set free was not something to anticipate, but to fear. A woman alone would have protection from nothing and no one. Wolven, while fearsome enough, were far from the worst predators she might face. But Nieve had grown up in the desert’s foothills.
“I’ll do my best.”
He brought the back of his hand hard across her cheek, a blow she was not expecting, and her head snapped to the side, wrenching her neck.
“That’s not enough to earn your freedom.” Bear went back to the table and his meal. His chair legs scraped along the floor as he sat.
Nieve groped for the counter and drew herself to her feet. Even though her cheek throbbed and her stomach ached, nothing seemed ruptured or broken.
He swung his head around to glare at her as he swallowed a mouthful of the thick, hot stew. “I want to know what led a Godseeker assassin to me. I want him to stop asking questions. And I don’t want him ever coming back here again. Even an assassin has a weakness.”
He glanced at her bruised face as if well satisfied with what he saw.
“And I think his might just be the weak.”
…
The small jailhouse in the tiny mining shantytown was not as secure as Willow had feared it might be.
Little more than a hastily erected shack, it had not been intended to hold anyone for more than a day at most. It had never been meant to contain a half demon. From her position in the shadows behind an abandoned shed, she waited for an opportunity to approach it without being seen.
The smells of human waste and the rotting, discarded remnants of meals filtered past the fresher tang of the surrounding mountain pine, and had her pressing a hand to her face. Willow’s disgust for the mortals who lived here, and in this manner, could not be suppressed. She had grown up in slavery. Never again would she—or any other half demon if she could help it—serve crude, filthy men such as these.
Her demon father had once ruled this world. He was dead now, killed by the Demon Slayer after another of his daughters betrayed him. That daughter had then joined with the Demon Slayer against her own kind.
Willow planned to avenge her father’s death. Then, she intended to rule the world in his stead. Godseekers would not be allowed to determine the futures of half demons. And no true daughter of the Demon Lord would be allowed to consort with the Slayer.
All was silent in the neighboring shanties, and had been for quite some time as the moon
shifted position above her. Willow moved with swift, cautious steps toward the sagging door of the jail. She inched it open a crack, peering inside.
The lone man on guard duty sprawled in a crudely crafted chair, a stoppered flask clutched in his hand. Soft snores drifted from beneath the hat tipped to cover his face. His chest rose and fell in a deep, even rhythm. Other than that, he showed few signs of life. She wrinkled her nose. The stale smell suggested he was drunk.
So much the better.
She slipped inside and eased the door shut behind her. It closed with a faint snick and she leaned against it, listening for any unexpected movements. The sleeping man stirred, shifting in his creaky chair, but did not awaken.
A lantern hung from a hook on the wall. Its frail streams of yellow light saved her from having to expend valuable energy by summoning demon fire. Willow snapped her fingers shut over her outstretched palm and lowered her hand as she examined the prisoner she had come to rescue.
A sullen boy lounged on the dirty cot in the single jail cell. He had a knee pulled up to his chest, one foot on the tattered gray wool blanket and the other firmly on the floor. His back rested against the wall. Unwashed brown hair, with a fine curl to its tips, touched the collar of an ill-fitting, thick plaid coat. A small hole, edged by a large, suspicious stain, plus an enticing coppery smell that made Willow breathe a little deeper, suggested that the coat’s previous owner had fallen victim to a gunshot wound.
“What are they holding you for?” Willow asked the boy.
He stared at her long and hard before answering. Then, “Claim jumping,” he replied with a shrug, as if speaking of an inconvenience and not a charge that was about to get him hanged.
“Is that how you got your coat?”
“So what if it is?” His eyes, filled with insolence, came back to her face and ran over her in a way that made her itch to slap him. She had killed the last man to look at her that way, but this was a boy—and if he wished to be a part of her growing family, he would learn some respect. Half demons would not turn on each other the way mortals did, and females would not be the servants of males.
The Demon Creed (A Demon Outlaws Novel) (Entangled Edge) Page 3