Tales of the Slayer, Volume II

by Various

  “No, no, I am sure it is nothing. Wait here.”

  Kishi held very still, hoping she would not be seen in the darkness, hoping the Great Lady would go some other direction. She wished she could call upon the dragon’s protection again, but she knew that bargain was complete.

  Soon she heard the heavy susurrus of brocade silk and smelled the Great Lady’s perfume. I am done, thought Kishi, hanging her head. They will behead me as a traitor.

  “Well, Lady Shobu. I thought I saw you speaking with a priest. Was it Bennin?”

  “I had thought it was Bennin, but it was not. It was his brother.”

  She heard the Great Lady’s sharp intake of breath. “Indeed? Migoto was it? Where did he go?”

  Kishi nodded at the little pile of dust that was already fading away. Since she was doomed anyway, Kishi told Lady Ankimon-in all that Migoto had said.

  The Great Lady knelt down beside her and her warm hand grasped Kishi’s arm. “We on the council had been concerned about Migoto. But Bennin was reclusive himself, so we did not notice any change a year ago. Naturally we assigned him to be your watcher when”—she hung her head—“when my slayer failed. And I failed at my duty as her watcher. As the Council has failed you.”

  “What is done is done,” said Kishi. “How could anyone have known that such an alliance had been made, that such evil deeds had been committed?”

  “Evil deeds are the council’s business, Shobu-san. Let us speak no more on this. I will ask that abundant bandages be sent to your room, and say that you will be staying in isolated meditation for a few days. I will apply to the council to become your watcher now, though that may not be approved. It is highly irregular for a watcher to serve two slayers in a row.”

  “What am I to do?” asked Kishi.

  “Why, Lady Shobu, I will expect the same service of you as before. As I have said, you are not to disappoint or shame me in any way in your duties as a lady-in-waiting of the Imperial Court. Life will appear to have a comforting normality. For without that, we all live in nightmares, no?”

  The Great Lady stood and walked away, her kimonos hissing like sea foam.

  Kishi remained where she was. I am not dead. I am not imprisoned or exiled. I am still to be a slayer. I am to continue serving the Great Lady. Endless days of arranging hair, arranging clothing, koto and calligraphy and poetry. Endless days of acting like a foolish woman of no substance, no power, no strength. More fearful of the humans around her than of the demons she was born to slay. Free only at night, when her warrior nature could be allowed to fully express itself.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. Blessed Hachiman, what did I do in a previous life to deserve this fate?

  Abomination

  Laura J. Burns and Melinda Metz

  BEAUPORT, BRITTANY, 1320

  “Tonight I kill him,” Eliane whispered.

  Across the small room, Isabeau began to cry.

  “In a moment, dumpling,” Eliane called. She used her teeth to tear a strip from the hem of her underskirt. “In just one moment.” Eliane used the piece of cloth to tie a stake behind her back.

  Isabeau’s cries turned to wails. And Eliane’s blouse grew wet with milk. She ignored the dampness. She slid the stake free, then replaced the weapon. Drew, then replaced. Finally satisfied, she rushed to the cradle by the hearth and scooped up her daughter. “Oh, my big girl,” Eliane whispered, summoning the will to keep her voice calm and soothing. “Soon your toes will be pushing between the slats. You’re much bigger than your brother was when he—”

  Gervais. Oh, God, Gervais. It seemed like only a few days ago that she held him in her arms just as she held Isabeau now. Her sweet baby boy. Her firstborn, now five years old, with a laugh that sounded like a jaybird’s squawk. How many times had she woken to that sound, followed by Gervais pouncing on her, waking her with smacking kisses and demands for porridge with lots of honey?

  Gervais is gone, Eliane told herself. I must accept that. Isabeau started rooting around her bosom like a hungry little piglet. Life continues, Eliane thought. She sat down in the rocking chair Michel had carved and freed one breast for her daughter. It felt wrong that it should, after all that had happened, but life did continue. Eliane began to rock slowly as Isabeau fed, a sensation that was half pain and half pleasure coursing from her breast to low in her stomach.

  Is she taking more than nourishment from me, my innocent sweetling? Eliane wondered. Is she taking in my horror and revulsion at what I must do? Does Isabeau know that before morning breaks I will become a killer, taking revenge on those who stole my son from me?

  “It is a curse for what your father and I did,” Eliane murmured, gently stroking the down on Isabeau’s head. “We knew it was wrong. But Michel and I felt powerless to stop it. And this is our punishment, more horrible than we ever could have imagined. The price of our love was the child Michel and I made together.”

  * * *

  “Eliane, pay attention!” Michel shouted as he slashed the sword toward her gut.

  Eliane easily twirled away from him, her bare feet slicked with the meadow’s early-morning dew. How was she supposed to pay attention on a day like this? It felt as if this were the first day ever created, as if she and Michel were the first humans ever to experience the soft, warm sunshine, the cool grass, the song of the stream in the distance.

  “Eliane! This is serious work,” Michel scolded.

  “Serious work, I know,” Eliane answered, stifling a giggle. When Michel tried to sound like one of the strict old priests at the orphanage where she was raised, it always made her feel like laughing. Her watcher was only three years older than she was. And so handsome. No one with lips as soft-looking as Michel’s should ever bother to say a harsh word. All the words that came out of that mouth were sweet. It was no use trying to make it otherwise.

  Eliane fisted her hands in her skirt and pulled it up above her knees, then whirled around and expertly kicked the sword out of Michel’s hand. She swooped it up, but instead of lunging at Michel, she used the blade to slice through the stem of a daisy. “For you.” She tossed the flower to Michel.

  She’d never been quite so playful with her watcher before. But there was something about the day, the glorious day, maybe simply that after such a long cold winter it was so delicious to feel the sun on her face again. “Isn’t spring wonderful?” she cried.

  “Concentrate, or I will double the length of your training session for the rest of the week,” Michel barked out with his soft, soft lips.

  Eliane didn’t attempt to hold back her giggles this time. They flew out of her mouth, tickling her throat on the way up.

  Exasperated, Michel put his hands on his hips and stared at her. “What, pray tell, is so amusing?”

  “Your pretty face doesn’t match your sour words,” Eliane blurted out. She felt a blush race all the way up to her forehead. Had she actually said that aloud? Sometimes, lying on her pallet at night, she would allow herself to imagine that Michel wasn’t her watcher, allow herself to imagine flirting with him the way she’d seen girls flirt with boys in the village. But she’d known she should never attempt to act out her daydreams. She was his slayer. He was her watcher. Love was forbidden for both of them.

  “Pretty face,” Michel repeated. His green eyes bored into her. Was he angry? Had she pushed him past all limits?

  “Yes,” Eliane answered, deciding the best thing to do was get back to work immediately. She swung the sword out in a smooth arc in front of her, forcing Michel to jump back. He was not fast enough, and the blade cut through his linen shirt, lightly scratching his chest.

  Eliane had a wild desire to put her mouth on the scratch and lick the thread of blood away. The thought had her blushing again. What was wrong with her?

  Lightning fast, Michel reached out and freed the sword from her hand. She should have been able to stop him easily, but her hand felt suddenly boneless. Michel dropped the sword onto the grass, grabbed Eliane roughly by the waist, and kissed he
r.

  From the first day we met, this has been wanting to happen, Eliane thought. Then her mind was taken over by a flood of pure sensation: Michel’s hands moving slowly up her spine, then tangling in her hair, Michel’s tongue brushing against hers; the heat of his body flowing into hers until she couldn’t tell where he stopped and she began.

  Then the world turned to ice as Michel wrenched himself away from her. “This is wrong,” he told her, the words coming out thick and harsh. “We share in a sacred trust. Watchers, slayers must be focused only on the fight against the darkness.”

  It was what he had told her every day since he brought her here from the orphanage at the age of thirteen. For two years they had trained and studied, but there was no darkness in their little village. Even the Great Hunger had passed them by. Eliane felt blessed here as if no shadow could cross their doorstep. The evil things Michel described did not seem to exist in Beauport. She did not believe she would ever be the Chosen One.

  Instead of preparing for the darkness, she would embrace the light.

  “It can’t be wrong,” Eliane said. She took his hand and then sat down in the meadow, pulling him with her. “Not when it feels like this.”

  “But your destiny—,” he protested.

  Eliane slid her arms about him. “My destiny is you.”

  “Our destiny,” Michel agreed, his face so close to hers that his lips brushed against her mouth with each word.

  * * *

  Isabeau’s mouth slid free of Eliane’s breast. Although the baby slept, Eliane continued to rock in the chair that Michel had made. Perhaps if she didn’t move from this spot, the day would remain where it was, the sun suspended in the sky.

  “Foolishness,” Eliane whispered. “Cowardice.”

  Already the shadows on the stone floor were lengthening. Night was coming. He would be here soon, the monster who had taken Gervais. Her little boy with the jaybird laugh.

  My darling boy is dead and cold, she thought. And that has made me into a monster too. Tonight I will make the town run red with blood. Eliane closed her eyes and pictured the small village of Beauport. She had not been to the village center in years now, but still she could see its semicircle of stone cottages in her mind’s eye. Is there anyone left alive there? Have they all been murdered by the demons too?

  Eliane rose slowly and managed to return Isabeau to her cradle without waking her. There was much to do before dark.

  Eliane gathered her long, pale hair in to a tight knot. Then she began stretching out her body the way Michel had taught her. How long had it been since they trained together? Years. Lovemaking had taken the place of training, and still no evil threatened. The Watchers Council never even sent messengers. She and Michel had grown complacent. Happy. Did Eliane any longer possess the strength and agility she would need this night? She glanced at the cradle, at her sleeping daughter. “I will protect you,” Eliane vowed. “Even if I must die to do it.”

  Isabeau was all she had left. Michel was gone. Gervais . . . Gervais was gone too. Eliane would not allow Isabeau to be taken from her as well. A whimper escaped Eliane’s lips. She clamped her teeth together hard. This was a time not for tears, but for fury.

  * * *

  Tears streaked down Eliane’s face, mingling with the sweat. “What if they find out?” she asked Michel, panting between each word.

  He used a damp cloth to bathe her cheeks and forehead. “They won’t,” he promised. “They won’t venture out this far. And we will be very careful.”

  “But the priest must have registered our marriage. Surely they will become aware—”

  A fresh bolt of pain sliced down Eliane’s back, cutting short her words. Her stomach tightened until she wanted to scream.

  “I see the top of the head,” Michel cried. “It’s our baby! Our baby’s head!”

  Eliane choked out a laugh. She’d been so worried about giving birth, especially because she hadn’t been able to talk to any women in Beauport about it. She’d kept her pregnancy a secret, not venturing away from home after her condition could no longer be concealed. She and Michel lived in the cottage farthest from the center of the village, and because they had always kept to themselves, unexpected visitors were not a problem.

  And it turned out that she hadn’t needed any advice from the village matrons. Her body knew what to do with no instruction. Without actually deciding to do it, she began to bear down, pushing the baby along.

  Michel grabbed her hand so hard she felt the small bones grind together. “Eliane, wait! Stop!”

  Stop? Has he gone mad? Eliane thought. It was well past the time that anything could be stopped. Her muscles tightened, pushing, pushing.

  “Eliane, no! The cord. It’s wrapped around the baby’s neck,” Michel explained. “You have to stop pushing or it will choke.” Michel pulled his hand free of Eliane’s. “I’ll get it. I’ll fix it. Just stay still.”

  Eliane dug her fingers into the blanket beneath her. She clenched her jaws until it felt as though her teeth would snap. She curled her toes tightly. And she willed the rest of her body to relax. What was happening? She couldn’t see Michel’s hands over the slope of her stomach. Had he freed their baby? Did it still live? It couldn’t have died, she told herself. Not without her knowledge. She and the babe had been connected for too many months; it was almost as if she could hear the child’s thoughts, as if they dreamed the same dreams. It would be impossible for it to die without Eliane feeling it to her core. But why wasn’t Michel saying anything?

  Her body begged to be allowed to push down. It was the only thing that could stop the agony. Eliane tightened her grip on the blanket. One of her fingernails broke free, and she savored the small pain, focusing on it to keep her mind off the horrible urge to push and push and push.

  Michel muttered under his breath. Eliane couldn’t make out the words. She wanted to ask him what he had said, but she was afraid to loosen the muscles of her jaw. If she did, she might push without meaning to, might squeeze the breath from her child.

  “Almost,” Michel called. “Almost, Eliane. Yes! Yes! The cord is out of the way. Push! Push now!”

  Eliane let her fingers and toes and jaw go slack. All that tightness rushed into her belly, and she bore down with a strength she hadn’t been aware she possessed.

  “I have him!” Michel exclaimed. “A boy, Eliane. Our baby boy.”

  Eliane struggled up onto her elbows. She couldn’t wait a moment longer to see their child. Michel lifted the boy by his tiny feet and smacked him on the rear. Silence. There was no comforting wail from the baby. Another smack. Silence.

  “Do something,” Eliane begged.

  Michel lay the baby on Eliane’s belly. He used his little finger to clear the baby’s throat and tiny nostrils. “He’s not breathing.”

  “He can’t be dead. I’d feel it! I know I would!” Eliane cried.

  Michel lowered his lips to the baby’s tiny mouth. He blew in a puff of air. Another. And the baby let out a glorious shriek. “We have a baby,” Michel said, sounding awestruck.

  “We have a baby,” Eliane repeated. “Our little baby, Gervais.” She raised her eyes from the baby to Michel. “This is our family, Michel. This is the most important thing to me now.”

  “I know, my love,” Michel replied.

  “More important than being the Slayer,” Eliane whispered. “If they tried to come between me and my family, I would go mad.” Eliane felt a sort of hysteria growing within her. “What would they do if they knew about him, Michel? Would they—”

  Michel silenced her by putting a finger to her lips. “The Watchers Council will never know.”

  * * *

  Will Michel ever know what happens here tonight? Eliane wondered. Does he know they’ve killed Gervais, and that I let it happen? I’ve betrayed not only my own calling, but his calling as a watcher. Will he be able to forgive me?

  It’s no time to indulge yourself with questions such as those, Eliane admonished herself. She b
egan to perform the pattern of feints, jabs, rolls, and spins that Michel had devised to keep Eliane’s slaying skills sharp. There had been a time she’d gone through the routine several times a day. Now caring for the baby and amusing little Gervais—

  Eliane stepped on the hem of her skirt and stumbled. She fought back tears as she thought of Gervais. The demon, she decided. She would only think of the demon who had taken her boy. There was nothing she could not do to a demon, no pain she could not inflict.

  She had been born to be the Slayer. Tonight the demon would discover what that meant.

  * * *

  “What do you think of this funny little creature?” Michel asked Gervais. “Do you think maybe our real baby was switched with a wood sprite?”

  “Don’t say that to him,” Eliane protested. “Isabeau’s your little sister,” she told Gervais. “Not something out of a fairy story.”

  “She looks like a troll,” Gervais answered, then he gave his caw of a laugh. “Beau the troll!”

  Eliane smiled, pushing back the strange feeling that had crowded her all day. She’d slept ill; that was all. She’d had dreams, ghoulish dreams, like nothing she’d ever known before. Still she could feel the dreams, licking at the edge of her thoughts.

  But the sun was warm and her children were radiant with life. She breathed in the sweet air and determined to ignore the uneasiness in her gut. Eliane reached out and tickled Gervais under the ribs, his best tickle spot. “Do you think you didn’t look the same when you were less than a year old?”

  “You always said I was the most beautiful baby in the world,” Gervais reminded her. “Tell me that story again. About how I almost died when I was getting born.”

  “You didn’t—,” Michel began.

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Eliane’s eyes flew to Michel, the old fear of discovery springing up inside her. It had been five years since Gervais was born, and the fear had faded every year. She hadn’t received the call to become the Slayer, and both she and Michel had grown more and more convinced she never would. Almost all slayers were called before they reached Eliane’s age, never experiencing marriage or motherhood.