False Covenant

between the cobblestones. That weapon-one she'd carried for years, the one that had brought her into the life of Alexandre Delacroix, thus shaping who she was today-had saved her for the final time.

Abandoning the blade, sobbing as much over its loss as for the agony that racked her, Widdershins dashed around every corner she could, keeping to the darkest reaches, using every trace of Olgun's power not to lessen her own pain, but to hide her trail from one whose senses were far more than human. She was blind to the city around her, deaf to its sounds; only the next step, the next stumble, the next pool of shadow mattered. Her trick would buy her only a handful of seconds, before the creature wrenched the sword free or ripped his coat from the blade. She had to be out of sight by then.

It had to be enough.

She needed help; needed a place to collapse, to figure out what to do next. And since she wasn't about to risk leading that thing to her friends at the Flippant Witch-nor did she think it probable that the Finders would appreciate her dragging a second monster into their midst-that left her only one option. If she lived long enough to get there…

“…the patrols along the southwest edges of the district.” The suggestion was coming from one Major Archibeque, a grizzled veteran with leather-brown skin, iron-gray beard, and a perpetual squint. Technically, he held no greater rank than any of the other majors present at the meeting. Unofficially, as everyone expected him to be promoted to commandant of the Guard when their current leader retired, his words carried a lot more weight than his rank suggested. At the moment, he was leaning over a scarred oaken table, gesturing at it as though it held a map of the city. (It didn't-the maps weren't currently handy, as this had been a last-minute, haphazard meeting-but every man and woman present knew Davillon's layout well enough to get the point he was trying to make.) “It'll mean drawing some manpower away from other quarters, but since most late-night travel comes from the direction of the markets, it seems to me that…”

He trailed off with a faint growl at the sound of a fist pounding on the door to the mess-hall-turned- conference-room. “Enter!” Every head in the chamber glanced toward the young constable who appeared in the doorway.

“Apologies for disturbing you all, sirs, but there's a visitor here for Major Bouniard.”

Julien rose from his own seat, cast an apologetic glance at Major Archibeque, then returned his attention to the messenger. “A visitor? At this hour?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can't this wait, Constable? I'm rather-”

“She's insisting that it's an emergency, Sir. And she's injured.”

Julien's fists clenched. Injured? She? Assuming it wasn't a fellow member of the Guard-and the constable would surely have said so, were that the case-he knew pretty damn well who it had to be.

“Major?” he asked.

Archibeque nodded brusquely. “Go on, then. We'll fill you in on what we decide.”

Bouniard held himself to a moderate (if stiff-legged) pace as he departed the room and followed the constable, even as every muscle twitched, demanding he break into a sprint. After what felt to be about three or four years of passing along the drab, flattened carpets, and the pockets of greasy smoke belched forth by the cheap oil lamps that were the hallways' main sources of illumination, he finally reached the door to his own office.

“Didn't know where else to put her, sir,” the constable said in response to the unasked question. “I didn't think we ought to have a young woman bleeding in the foyer, right?”

“You did call for a chirurgeon, I assume?” Bouniard demanded.

“Of course, sir. Not sure why he hasn't arrived, but-”

“Then go see what's taking him!”

The constable recoiled from the abrupt shout, then offered an abortive salute and sprinted away. Bouniard grunted and threw open the door.

Yep, that's who he'd thought it would be.

“Hey, Major,” she said weakly.

“Widdershins, I…Gods!” It was only as she turned away from his desk, on which she'd been leaning (and probably looking for confidential papers, no doubt) that he saw the sheer quantity of blood plastering her tunic to her skin.

“We've got to stop meeting here,” she said with a pale, shaky smile. “I keep mixing with questionable elements like the Guard, my reputation's going to-to…”

Julien caught her before she hit the floor, but it was a very, very near thing.

From yet another rooftop-one several dozen yards from the action, but near enough to make out the gist of what was going on-three fleshy masks of terror had observed the bloody confrontation. They'd marveled at Widdershins's dramatic entrance, widened at the appearance of her opponent, cringed at the horrid death he'd delivered to the first of the black-garbed pair, and struggled to keep up with the inhumanly swift duel that followed. Some long minutes before, the inhuman creature had freed himself from Widdershins's rapier, yanking it free of the stones between which it was wedged and leaving a ragged tear in his coat. Head tilted and muttering to himself, he'd wandered off-perhaps in pursuit of the fleeing thief, perhaps merely on his way to whatever endeavor might appear next on his itinerary.

And still they gawked, unable to quite believe what they'd seen, until the stench of spilled blood and freshly slain bodies wafted over to them on the gentle breeze.

“Well,” Squirrel said, trying to keep his voice from quivering (and, it should be noted, failing miserably). “I guess we have some idea of what's haunting the streets, huh?”

“Are you fucking joking?” This from the larger, lumbering thug on the left. “Yeah, we saw it, but I sure as hell have no idea what the hell it is!”

“For that matter,” said the third, “what's going on with Widdershins? Sure, I've heard she's a fast little scab, but that…”

Squirrel shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe she's a witch. Hell, maybe she's linked to that-that whatever it was. All I know is, we've gotta report all this to Remy, maybe even the Shrouded Lord. They'll know what to do.”

“I don't think anyone's gonna know what to do.”

“Oh, but you're so wrong!” All three Finders went stiff, petrified at the voice that drifted over the eaves. “I know what to do. I always know what to do!”

The wide-brimmed hat hove into view first, followed by the rest of the creature's form, until it crouched upon the shingles, knees and elbows jutting at impossible angles. For a moment only it held that pose, then rose to its feet, seemingly oblivious to the precarious slope at the roof's edge.

“Spying eyes are naughty eyes,” the creature scolded, wagging a single, dagger-long finger at them. “They shall perforce have to be plucked.”

Unlike his two panicked friends, who immediately bolted for opposite sides of the roof, Squirrel held his ground. It wasn't bravery, not in the least; rather, his own dread caused him to freeze instead of flee. But whatever the cause, it saved his life, at least for a moment.

Their enemy sprang, a single leap carrying him halfway across the roof, and a few sprinting steps were more than enough to catch up to the slower of the two fugitives. Those terrible fingers lashed out, snagging Squirrel's companion at the neck and the right side of his ribs. He screamed, even as Widdershins had screamed, as those fingertips fastened themselves to his flesh.

The creature flexed, swinging his hands until his arms crossed at the elbows, and the victim's scream grew shrill as entire swathes of his flesh simply unraveled, peeling away like the outer layers of an onion. The body, glistening in fascinating spiral patterns where raw muscles and organs now lay exposed, convulsed as it hit the rooftop, and the shriek swiftly went silent.

But the thief's murderer wasn't through with him. Allowing the streamers of flesh to flutter away into the darkness, he lifted the twitching body overhead and hurled it just as the other fleeing Finder had begun to clamber over the edge of the roof. The two bodies collided with a dull thump, followed by a second, wetter slap as both hit