Her body shivered like she was cold, yet her red hair was singed in places as if by fire. The husband set aside the dagger he’d been holding while the wife reached for her, sympathy in her eyes.
“You poor dear,” said the woman. “Come in, please. Cale, go see what you can find for her to wear.”
The ceiling was low, but the house was large enough for several rooms. The walls were old wood, but clean, as the floor was meticulously swept. A fire burned in the hearth, and she fought an urge to sit beside it. As Valessa stepped inside, the woman reached for her. Both flinched at the contact, the woman’s fingers touching her shoulders only briefly.
“Oh my,” she said, pulling back and rubbing her hands together. Her face looked a mixture of sadness and fear. “By gods, you’re cold.”
Cale returned holding a blanket, and he made a point to stare at her eyes instead of elsewhere.
“Here you go, miss,” he said, wrapping it about her shoulders. As the blanket settled over her, she forced herself to concentrate, to remain calm. Part of her expected it to fall right through her, as if she were a ghost, but it did not. There was no warmth to it, no comfort, but at least she wasn’t standing there naked.
“Care to sit with me by the fire?” asked the woman. She gestured to two chairs carved of wood, each on opposite sides of the fireplace.
“I…yes,” said Valessa. She shuffled as if she had been wounded. In a way, she had been, though of her own volition. Every time she closed her eyes to rest, she relived the memory of impaling herself on Darius’s blade. Darius, the betrayer…
“My name’s Dora, and this is my husband, Cale,” said the woman, settling down in her chair. “Might I have your name?”
“Valessa,” she said, wrapping the blanket tighter about her. It wasn’t her nakedness she was trying to hide. It was how with every movement she made, her skin thinned, its color draining away as it became liquid shadow. She was darkness given form, and a soul. That she could hold the blanket gave her hope. Perhaps there was still a chance she might have some decency and normality, even in the form her god had cursed her with.
“Forgive me,” she muttered. Blessed, not cursed. She’d been given a chance to hunt down the traitor, to make amends for her failure. Never should she spit in the face of her god and his gifts.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” said Dora, misunderstanding her. “Truth be told, neither of us were sleeping. The older we get, the more the night seems to like us better than the day.”
Valessa settled in the chair, focusing on every inch that touched her body. There could be no give, no shift. There was still plenty she had to experiment with, but if she were to be the assassin she needed to be, simple acts like sitting in a chair needed to be mastered. So far, so good. Feeling confident, she set her daggers beside her, still hidden by the blanket.
Cale returned, a meager assortment of clothes in his calloused hands.
“It’s not much,” he said, holding them out for her to take. “But it’ll do until we can get you back to your family.”
Valessa tried to smile. As a gray sister, she’d been trained in a hundred different personas, from obedient servants to wealthy noblewomen. She tried to be the wounded victim, to keep her motions quick and startled, her eyes wide, her speech rare. Concentrating amid the pain, though…
“Thank you,” she said, reaching a hand out from underneath her blanket. Her reaction was too fast, despite it being appropriate to the persona she channeled. A wisp of smoke trailed over her skin. Cale didn’t seem to notice, and she thanked Karak for that. Grabbing the clothes, she felt the rough fabric, its touch almost painful. She set them on her lap, and assumed correctly the couple would understand if she remained there, still warming.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
Dora stood, and she motioned for Cale to take her seat.
“I think we still have a bit of soup from earlier,” she said, nodding to a pot set near the fireplace. Retrieving a wooden bowl and spoon from a cupboard, she knelt and scraped up a meager portion of soup. It was a dark brown broth, with hints of meat and vegetables floating inside. It looked appetizing enough. Valessa had yet to eat or drink a thing since her…what should she call it? Resurrection? Recreation? Salvation? It didn’t matter. That was over a week ago. She should have been dead, but she was not. Or perhaps she was.
She took the bowl, slowly. This was it, she knew. She dipped the spoon into the bowl, then brought it to her lips. Her hand shook, and its color faded. Opening her mouth, she slipped the spoon inside. She imagined the taste, heavy and meaty, but it was not there. No sensation, just the texture, and an awareness of its lukewarm temperature. The only thing she felt was pain. Every second, day and night, she felt a throbbing ache everywhere she once had muscle and flesh. The taste of food was just another sensation, without pleasure or satisfaction. She wanted to cry, but tears would not come. Her new form refused such a weakness.
Valessa swallowed. Instead of traveling down her throat, the liquid passed through the bottom of her chin and neck, dripping across her blanket.
“Careful dear,” Dora said when she saw the mess. Cale had not seen at all, too busy staring into the fire with a half-asleep expression on his face. Fighting down her fury, Valessa offered the bowl back to Dora with one hand. Too fast, her hand became shadow and smoke. The bowl fell right through her, hitting the floor with a dull thud. This time Dora saw, and her mouth dropped open.
Valessa moved before she could scream. She grabbed her daggers and shot from her chair. She didn’t cast aside the blanket, for she passed right through it. In a single smooth motion, she slashed open the woman’s throat, then turned to Cale. The man was still trying to get up from his chair when she jammed a dagger into his chest and twisted. He coughed once, his knuckles white as he clutched the arms of his chair, and then he died. Blood poured across the handle of her dagger, but when it reached her quivering flesh, it slid past and down to the floor.
She dropped the dagger, and naked on her knees, she howled out in mindless fury. Softness, pleasure, comfort, a loving embrace…all denied to her. And why? Because she had failed her duty, failed to kill that bastard, Darius. Hatred seethed in her heart at the mere thought of his name. He’d suffer, oh, how she’d make him suffer. Her new form might be a penance imposed by Karak, but there would be no penance for Darius, only torment. When finished, she’d use her daggers to send him to Karak, and let her deity deliver for an eternity all the suffering Darius deserved.
Stop it, she told herself even as she continued to shriek. Karak was not a god of love. He was a god of order. Darius had broken that order, as had Valessa in failing to kill him. She couldn’t be angry. Not at Karak. No, that wasn’t fair. It took all her willpower to choke down her fury at her beloved deity. Now was not the time for weakness. It was time for revenge.
She looked down at her naked form. Valessa was not ashamed of exposing her body in any way (and in truth, had seduced many in the name of her god, all to execute the unfaithful), but trying to go about unnoticed would be impossible. She needed clothes. Returning to her chair, she grabbed a shirt and slid it over her head. It was too big, and left much of her breasts exposed, but it was better than nothing. Pausing for a moment to focus her thoughts, she took a single step. Every inch of fabric brushing against her shadowed flesh itched in her mind, but she remained solid. Another step, still good. But she could not waddle everywhere like a lame animal. The real test came as she lifted her arms above her head and twirled in a half-remembered dance that had been common in court.
The shirt fell through her to the floor, her body a whirling creature of shadow and smoke.
“Why?” she shrieked. Her fists pounded against the floor until her hands began to pass through, striking nothing. It made no sense! How could she perform her god’s will when saddled with such difficulty? How could he expect her to stroll naked through open streets in a hunt for his fallen paladin?
“Please,” she prayed. Her body might not create tears, but she was sobbing anyway, her grief overwhelming her. “Please, help me, Karak. Show me the way.”
She heard no answer, which perhaps she deserved. Trying to overcome her grief, she looked at her naked body and began to think. Her body was not real, only an illusion. She could make parts of it solid, particularly through concentration. Was her skin not also an illusion? As she stared at herself, she tried to see what she truly was, not what she remembered. Before her eyes, she became darkness. The sight terrified her, but in it, she found hope. Perhaps there was more to it than that. Closing her eyes again, she imagined her old leather armor, covered with dull plain clothes, and a long gray cloak wrapped about her shoulders. She’d worn such an outfit so often it was natural to her. She could still imagine the way it felt, and how her cloak would billow in the wind.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer naked.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She moved her arms, watched the sleeves fade along with her skin. Her body
