Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

sleeve.

“Take it away!” the hunter exclaimed. “You are destroying the test. You might as well have brought Enyo a bloody ham.”

The unicorn snapped its jaws and lunged. Bisou squealed. Elise grasped him and fled, racing through the house and back up the stairs to her room. Bisou leaped from her arms and darted beneath the bed. Elise gasped, yanking at her stays until she could breathe again. The hunter had set the monster on her.

Eventually, she squared her shoulders and marched back downstairs. Sister Maria Brigitta of the Order of the Lioness could have as much contempt as she wished for her French hosts. But she could not mistreat her in her own house. Elise’s father never would have stood for it, so neither would Elise de Commarque.

Back in the courtyard, she found a scene of carnage. The unicorn had caught one of the lawn peacocks and was engaged in tearing it to shreds. The hunter stood apart from the spatters of blood and calmly sharpened her knives.

Elise screamed, covering her hands with her mouth. The unicorn paused, its snout a mess of gore and green feathers, dropped the carcass of the bird, and began to approach her. The hunter glanced over. Spikes of greasy black hair had escaped her scarf and hung in her amber-colored eyes.

“Sister!” hissed Elise, freezing where she stood. “Your ... animal.”

“Sorry,” said the hunter. “Enyo was hungry, and after the dog ... well...” She shrugged. “Was the peacock worth so very much?”

But Elise had forgotten about the peacock entirely. She backed up a step, whimpering as the beast drew near. If she reached out, she could almost touch its long, sharp horn. But then the unicorn stopped, lowered its head, and knelt. Elise was so surprised, she almost curtsied in return.

Across the courtyard, the unicorn hunter stood, her knife gripped firmly in her rough, weathered fist. “Touch her,” she commanded.

Elise obeyed, not for the sake of the hunter, but for that of the unicorn. There was something in its eyes. Something she’d seen before in Bisou, or in her father’s horse Templar, or in Noir, the cat who lived in the kitchen. She leaned and slid her fingers along the unicorn’s brow. Its hair was softer than she’d thought it would be. Tangled and filthy, to be sure, but silky and fine. The unicorn, still bowing before her, bleated.

“I don’t believe it,” said the hunter. “You are a daughter of the blood.” Her tone was one of awe, but her expression remained locked in a scowl.

Elise withdrew her hand and somehow resisted wiping it off on her apron. “Of course. We traditionally hunted unicorns. That is why you are here.”

The hunter laughed. “My lady, do you know how many great houses I visit where they claim their girls are daughters of the blood?”

Elise chose not to respond. The de Commarque claim was true. What did she care about some other house? “Does this make your task easier? To—train me for this, I mean.”

“Yes,” replied the hunter stiffly. “It shall be easier if you hold Enyo still while I kill her.”

“Enyo,” said Elise. “That is the animal’s name?”

The hunter looked away. “Yes.”

“Enyo,” repeated Elise. The unicorn looked up at her, its eyes watery with age. “I have never heard that name. Is it German?”

“Greek.” The unicorn hunter made a small sound in her throat, and the animal snapped to her side, a move so quick Elise was surprised she could follow it. “It is the name of one of Ares’s companions.”

Elise smiled as the hunter crouched low over her unicorn, pressing her scarved head against the animal’s neck. “That is nice. I am not familiar with this Ares. My doggie’s name is Bisou. You know—”

“I know what it means,” the older girl hissed, straightening. “And Ares, you illiterate prig, is a god of war.”

Elise blinked in shock. No one had ever been allowed to speak to her in such a manner. And now, this—this nun, with her dirty clothes and rusty-handled knives and filthy animal with its strange, foreign name—

“Forgive me, my lady,” said the hunter, her rage vanishing as quickly as it had flared up. She bowed her head. “I should not have said that. It was uncharitable.”

And untrue. Elise had read—well, a large part of the Bible. And a whole book on herbs. In Latin, no less! Plus her elementary readers, and a history of France. Lots of books. “You forget yourself, Sister,” she said, her tone haughty.

The hunter nodded, eyes still cast downward. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I am used to a degree of camaraderie among my fellow hunters. Your power took me by—” she trailed off. “You’re right. I’m very sorry. I am tired, from my travels. And ... hungry.”

Elise sighed. “Go around to the kitchen. They’ll see to your food and find you a place to sleep. It’s two days yet until the wedding and the hunt. I assume you will be able to teach me better starting tomorrow?”

The hunter stared at the ground.

Elise snapped her fingers and the older girl looked up. “I trained for ten years to become a unicorn hunter,” Gitta said. “But if we only have a day, we will have to settle for teaching you how to stay alive.”

* * *

The cook gave Gitta a pallet in a room with two scullery maids—an offer Gitta might have accepted if she didn’t have Enyo to think about. Her living arrangements in the Cloisters hadn’t been better, but there, at least, she and the other hunters kept their pet zhi by their sides at night. If left unchecked, Enyo would eat the scullery maids, and Gitta might even let her. After all, the poor thing deserved a good last meal, and from the look of the scullery maids, they wouldn’t mind shrugging off their miserable mortal coils.

Enyo remained hungry. That peacock had been nothing more than a scrawny snack. Perhaps she should have let the zhi eat that stupid dog as well. With any luck, Elise de Commarque would have had Gitta and Enyo driven from the house, and then no one could blame Gitta for her failure to complete her mission. They could take off again—go somewhere new. Somewhere wild.

Instead of the pallet, Gitta took Enyo out into the forest beyond the fields and gardens surrounding the château, and slept with her there, her arm curled tightly around the animal’s throat. She’d only had the unicorn for a year, but Enyo had lived with hunters for all her life. She’d been given to Gitta by Sister Maria Artemisia when she’d left the order to care for her widowed niece. Gitta had recently lost her third zhi, Brunhild, to a village festival near Seville. The villagers had attempted to eat the meat of the corpse. Gitta had refrained from warning them against it, for which her superiors in the Order had reprimanded her harshly, though the villagers’ illness had only lasted a few weeks. Artemisia took pity on her, though. The old nun was pushing fifty, and knew what it was like to outlive one’s unicorns. Enyo, Artemisia had explained when she passed the animal over, was old and wouldn’t mind dying so much. Gitta soon learned differently. Enyo might be old and frail and nearly blind, but she was every bit as fierce as her namesake. Together, they’d survived three of these so-called hunts thus far.

How sad, then, that Enyo would be sacrificed for some petty ceremony that no one in this de Commarque house seemed to actually want.

This wasn’t what a hunter was, Gitta reflected as she lay in the dim forest and let the scent of the earth wrap around her. Not what it used to be, anyway. Once upon a time, her sisters had protected estates like this one. They’d come when the residents were threatened by wild unicorns. When a hunt was necessary. Now there was nothing but playacting. It was a disgrace, not only to the Order of the Lioness, but also to the families, whether truly of the blood or otherwise.

The unicorn moaned softly and kicked its hooves in its sleep. Its belly rumbled. It would need to eat something soon. Gitta hoped there were deer in these woods.

She curled her body around the beast’s for warmth. Gitta could speak seven languages and had traveled all over the continent. Why then, here in this little French woods, did she suddenly feel so small?

* * *

As he did every evening at sunset, Bernard de Veyrac appeared beneath Elise’s bedroom window with a flower twined round a little scrap of paper. And every day, Elise lowered a little basket for him to put the flower in, pulled it back up to the window, and read the poem he’d inscribed on the paper. Today’s was very good, comparing