Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [225]
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mer Helder.” Forrest nodded what was obviously a dismissal.
But the man didn’t move. “Do you think—” he dared. “I mean, can you—”
“Prey is prey,” he said. “The fact that it’s human in this case makes the game more interesting, but not necessarily more difficult. Intelligence, like instinct, can be anticipated. Manipulated.” He took another sip from the cup, his gaze never leaving the man. “If your children are still alive, then I guarantee results. If not ... then you haven’t spent anything, have you?” The black eyes glittered; in the lamplight they seemed strangely inhuman. “Good night, Mer Helder.”
He managed to get to his feet and head toward the door, even though he longed to beg for better reassurance. Was there really a chance for him to be reunited with his children? Could this strange man succeed where so many had failed? But it was clear from Forrest’s manner that he was no longer welcome in the office, and so he hurried out. The last thing he wanted to do was anger the only man who could help him.
He’ll get them for me, he thought desperately. He will. I know it.
Repeating that thought like a mantra, he made his way out of the strange shop, and started the long walk home.
For a long time after his visitor left, the man called Riven Forrest was still. Waiting for the air to clear, it seemed. Waiting for the psychic dust to settle. At last, when he judged that the atmosphere was right, he reached out and put his hand on the packet the man had left behind. Just that. He could breathe in its contents in images, which was faster and far more satisfying than reading. What were words, anyway? At best they only hinted at the exhilaration of the hunt; at worst, they muddled and obscured it.
Leaning back, he shut his eyes and envisioned the task at hand. She would be afraid even now, after all these months. He would dissect that fear. Fear was what made animals run, and the shape of that fear was what you used to divine their path. Do it right, and the fae itself would vibrate in harmony with your pursuit. There was no escape after that. Not when the planet itself was your collaborator, and every living thing on it an extension of your will.
At last, when he was satisfied that he had absorbed the emotional essence of this new case, he smiled. Plans were already forming in his brain. Patterns were already being sketched out, tested, and adjusted within him, in a process far more natural than breathing. He was in his element now, and he loved every minute of it. Was there any sweeter challenge to court than the hunt of intelligent prey?
He picked up the cup before him. The liquid inside was thick and red, and carefully heated to body temperature. He liked it best that way. Traditional.
The painting which loomed over the fireplace was a portrait of the Hunter. With a smile, the creature called Riven Forrest raised the cup up toward it; the red liquid sloshed thickly inside.
“Here’s to you, Dad,” he whispered.
And he drank.
Forty-five
Damien thought, I can’t believe he’s dead.
People were shouldering their way past Damien in anxious haste, as if afraid that the world might change again before they could profit from it. Newsmongers and merchants and sorcerers and tourists and even one or two who labeled themselves “Earth scientists,” going from south to north in search of new knowledge, or north to south seeking profit for what they had already gleaned, or else staying here, at the midpoint of the journey, to sell their fellow travelers whatever they’d be willing to buy. Human enterprise at its best.
Let it go, Vryce. Just let it go.
The first week he had been here he’d told himself it was because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. In a way, that was true. The priesthood was closed to him, not because he couldn’t get himself reinstated if he wanted to—the Holy Mother in the West would surely respond positively