Then-suddenly-the howling stopped. She held her breath, listening for any other sounds of pursuit, but all was silent now. Whatever had been crashing through the Forest in pursuit of her was no longer moving.
Shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, she caught her ankle on one of the vines and tried to shake it loose. But it was caught on her greave and would not come off. With a wary glance at the shadowy tree line head of her, she reached down with her sword to cut herself loose — but her arm would not move freely. Then something took hold of her other ankle. And her left arm. And her chest. By the time she realized what was happening there were vines all over her, gripping her body like steel bands. She knew that she could not pull free of so many at once, and that her only hope was to cut her way out, but her sword arm was so entangled that she could not get it free. Panic flared in her gut as she felt one of the vines wrap itself around her head, but try as she might she could not shake it loose.
And then something stepped out of the Forest’s shadows that was not a wolf, and it stood in the moonlight before her.
A man.
He was tall and thin, with delicate features and skin so pale that in the moonlight he seemed to be carved from alabaster. His shoulder-length hair would probably have glowed a warm golden-brown beneath the sun, but in Domina’s cold light it was an eerie, ashen hue, and the halo of moonlight that crowned it lent to his entire face an unnatural luminescence. And he was clean. Unnaturally clean. His midnight blue surcote did not have so much as a speck of dirt on it. Even his boots looked spotless, though the ground beneath his feet was a muddy mess, and the hilt of his sword gleamed brightly in the moonlight. Suddenly she felt acutely aware of her own degraded state, mud-splattered and sweat-stained and probably reeking from all the vile slime she had been crawling through. It made his fastidiousness seem doubly unnatural.
His pale eyes fixed on her with an intensity that transfixed her, much as the gaze of a cobra might transfix its prey. It was impossible for her to look away.
“Who are you?” she whispered hoarsely.
His eyes were cold-so cold! — human in form but without a trace of humanity in their depths. She saw him glance down at her sword, and a strange expression crossed his face. Was he a creature of the fae, sensitive to the aura of faith that clung to the blessed steel? She tried to raise the weapon up so that she could protect herself with it, but the effort was hopeless. A fly in a spider’s web had more freedom of movement than she did right now.
He began to walk toward her. A knot of fear twisted in her gut as she tried to draw back from him; inwardly she cursed herself for her weakness. What was it about this man that unnerved her more than all the demons she had fought? Was it because the darkness she sensed within him had left no mark upon his physical person? With his delicately beautiful features and the halo of moonlight glowing about his head, he looked almost angelic. Benign. Was it easier to deal with monsters when they looked like monsters?
Then he was in front of her. It took all her strength of will not to flinch before the power of his gaze.
“So very brave,” he said softly. There was a faint inflection to his voice that she could not identify: an echo of lost lands and forgotten times. “You would fight me if you could, wouldn’t you? Even though the battle would be lost before you began.”
He reached down for her sword. She tightened her hand around its grip-but then he touched her and her fingers froze, and he lifted the weapon from her hand easily as if he were taking a toy from a child. For a moment he just looked at it, studying the Church insignia that adorned its grip. Whatever hope she might have had that the religious symbol would repel him faded as he ran one finger slowly over the design. A hint of dark amusement flickered in his eyes.
“What are you?” she whispered.
“A servant of the One God, in ways that you will never understand.” He put the sword off to one side of him, sliding its point into the ground so that it would stand upright just beyond her reach. Then he reached out to touch her face. She tried to pull away from him, but the vines were wrapped about her too tightly to allow her more than a few inches of leeway. His pale fingers stroked her cheek gently, a mockery of a lover’s caress. “Helplessness,” he murmured. “That’s your greatest fear, is it not? Better to suffer a thousand wounds in battle than to surrender control of your fate to another.” He smiled coldly as he brushed a lock of sweat-soaked hair back from her face; the grip of the vines was so tight that she could not even turn her head away from him. “How very sad, that in the end you must die in a state of submission.”
Anger welled up inside her suddenly, driving out all the fear and the despair; her entire soul was alight with white-hot indignation. I will not be your plaything! her soul screamed. She stared into his visage-so beautiful, so clean, so perfect in its vanity-and realized that she did have one weapon left. Perhaps it would not be enough to win her freedom, in this life, but she could claim her freedom as she headed into the next.
I know your weakness, she thought.
She hawked up phlegm from deep within her lungs. It wasn’t hard to do; her chest was full of the stuff.
“Fuck you,” she growled.
And she spat in his face.
He was clearly unprepared for such a move, and for a moment he did not react at all, as the glob of blood- flecked spittle on his cheek began to slide down his face. Then the human facade seemed to give way, and with a cry of fury he grabbed her by the edge of her helm, jerking her head to one side, bearing her throat. The spittle exploded into a thousand frozen fragments and fell from his face, but she knew he could still feel it there, like a slow-burning brand. Imperfection. Filth. Denial of his dominion. There was a black rage burning inside him now, more intense than any emotion a mortal soul was meant to contain, and she could sense the bloodthirst that welled up in its wake. Better than she could have hoped for.
Shutting her eyes, she muttered a prayer under her breath as she braced herself for death. Receive my soul, God of Earth and Erna, that I may serve you in the next world forever.
But s econds passed, and nothing happened. She could feel his hand tremble where he held her, fingers digging deeply into her flesh, but otherwise there was no motion.
Let the rage overwhelm him. Please, God. Allow me to die quickly.
Finally he lowered his face to her throat, and she braced herself to have it torn open, or sliced through, or whatever other form death might take. But death did not come. She could feel his cold breath just above the edge of her gorget, and then-unexpectedly-the touch of his lips upon her skin. Disarmingly gentle, perversely intimate. She felt more violated by that kiss than she had by all the rest of what had happened to her, and she shivered as his cold breath raised goosebumps along her neck.
“Tell your masters that the Forest is spoken for.” He whispered the words softly into her ear, a lover’s intimacy. “Tell them that trespassers will not be received well.”
Then he let go of her and stepped back. The vines that had been binding her twitched, stiffened, and then shattered like glass. Frozen black crystals showered down around her as she was suddenly freed from bondage. The unexpected absence of support left her unprepared, and she stumbled to her knees. For a moment it was all she could do to catch her breath, trying to absorb what had just happened. Then she looked up at him. The storm of emotion that had briefly possessed him was gone now; his gaze was as steady as a frozen lake, and equally unreadable.
He pointed to the depths of the Forest, in the direction she had been about to run. “South is that way,” he said. And he added, “Nothing will stop you.”
Then he turned and slipped into the shadows of the Forest, and a moment later was gone from sight.
Faith shut her eyes and trembled. Every survival instinct in her soul warned her that that guidance of such a creature was not to be trusted. The wolves had wanted to drive her into that very same darkness, for reasons of their own; how could she be certain his motives were any different? But logic, too, had its voice. There was no point in his giving her a message for the Church if he did not expect her to deliver it, was there? If he sent her to his death he would be defeating his own purpose.
Tell your masters the Forest is spoken for.
She took one last look at the glimmering stream of water, then turned away from it and limped into the shadows of the deep woods, in the direction she prayed was south.
“She won’t make it out.”
