Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [98]
We leave him with this, the voices whispered, as a reminder of Our power.
The snakelike creature lashed out at Tarrant’s face suddenly, and such was its speed and its force that it cracked like a whip as it struck his flesh. The Hunter cried out sharply, and his body bent back in agony. Then that creature also slithered away, leaving Tarrant’s body to fall from its unseen frame to a lifeless heap on the floor. A shapeless sack of bones, no more, so tortured and starved and exhausted by fear that it lacked even the strength to cry out as it struck.
The light was beginning to fade, but it seemed to Damien that the source of the whispers was also gone. “Karril?” he dared. “Can you do something?”
He heard something move toward him, and then the demon was by his side. “Here.” She handed him a candle—or the illusion of a candle, more likely—whose feeble light was just enough to illuminate Tarrant’s face. Damien rolled the Hunter gently onto his back. Where the serpentine creature had struck him there was now a scar that glistened wetly as it coursed from his jawline to the corner of his eye. The flesh was puckered about it as if it were a wound badly healed, enhancing its disfiguring power tenfold. He’ll love that, he thought grimly. Tarrant’s eyes were open but glazed, unseeing, their pupils so distended by pain that no hint of the iris was visible. Just as well, Damien thought. Not much worth lookingataroundhere.
He readied himself to lift the man’s limp form up onto his shoulders—and then shuddered, at the thought of where he had to carry it. “Tell me the way back is easier,” he begged Karril.
“It’s easier,” the demon assured him.
He looked up at her.
“It really is. I swear it.” She reached out to the Hunter’s face as if to touch it gently, but then drew back before contact was made. Afraid to share his pain? “You have him now. I can lead you home directly.”
“Thank God for that,” he muttered. For a moment longer he crouched by Tarrant’s side, his body aching from its many wounds. Then, with a practiced grip, he heaved the unprotesting body up onto his left shoulder, and rose with it. The weight hurt like hell—so to speak—but that pain was ameliorated by the knowledge of his victory.
Well—he cautioned himself—partial victory, anyway.
As he turned to follow Karril, the weight of Tarrant’s limp form heavy on his shoulder, he thought, Pray God it will be enough.
Twenty
“Well, well. Look who’s here.”
Narilka looked up from the window display she was working on and blanched as she saw who was approaching the shop. Gresham must have seen her stiffen, for he asked, “What is it, Nari? Something wrong?”
“No.” She whispered the word, wishing she could make it sound convincing. “I was just ... surprised.”
She hadn’t seen Andrys since that day outside her apartment. She hadn’t heard from him at all, other than to process his payments for the work in progress. She was frightened by the lack of contact, frustrated, mystified. Hadn’t he felt something for her that night, that should surely draw him back to her? Could a man expose his soul like that and then just close it up again, as if nothing had ever happened? Or was the whole thing just an act, part of the game his kind played so well—and if so, why had he never come to take advantage of his gains?
It frightened her how upset she was, and how out of control she felt. If any other man had acted like this she would have written him off, or taken matters into her own hands and initiated some new contact. With this man she couldn’t do either. At night she lay awake, hopelessly sleepless, aching with a need that was as much pure sexual hunger as any more civilized drive. She had sensed a like need in him when he had kissed her. So why hadn’t he returned? And if it was just a fleeting moment’s pleasure for him, a brief side-track in his sport, why couldn’t she call it that and forget it?
He was coming across the street now, and there was no denying where he was headed. Her heart pounding wildly, she pushed the last few cake knives into place