Midnight Thief (21 page)

T H I R T Y - O N E

T
ristam dug his hands into his knees so hard as to leave bruises. If he wasn’t careful, he would say something to Councilman Willem that he’d regret.

“Your Grace,” he tried again, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice, “I’m willing to put in extra shifts, as are some of my shieldmen. It needn’t interfere with our normal duties.”

“I believe I’ve made my feelings clear as well, Willem,” said Malikel, seated beside him. “It seems shortsighted to me not to pursue a rescue.”

“I don’t take your counsel lightly, Malikel, and Tristam’s dedication is admirable, but I’m afraid it’s just too dangerous. Your prisoner is most likely already dead at the barbarians’ hands.”

Dead.
The word conjured up images of Kyra, limp and bloody in the barbarians’ arms. Kyra torn limb from limb as demon cats fought over her body. Tristam refused to believe it. “Your Grace, we can’t be certain of this. Our scouts report that she was carried off alive. They could be holding her prisoner.”

Willem’s gaze lingered on Tristam. “You’re still young, Tristam, and unfamiliar with the demands of governing a city. Our coffers are strained due to the barbarian attacks. We simply cannot afford to spread our men any thinner.”

Tristam couldn’t help eyeing the luxurious tapestries hanging around Willem’s study, the gold and silver sculptures on the shelves, and wondering whether they had anything to do with the strain on the city’s coffers. “But, Your Grace, she could be—”

“Do you remember the circumstances under which we met?” Willem asked.

“Sir?”

“How your friend Jack was killed?”

Tristam faltered. What did Jack have to do with this? “He was mauled to death by a demon cat.”

“That’s only half the reason. The other half was because he acted foolishly in his haste to rescue a farmhand. Because of his rash judgment we lost a good knight, and the city will suffer for it. Do you understand my point, Tristam?”

Tristam nodded slowly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well, then.” Willem looked over Tristam’s shoulder toward the door. “Thank you for your service to the city.” It was his cue to leave.

As the door closed behind Tristam and Malikel, the older knight put his hand on Tristam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tristam. I know that was not the decision you were hoping for.”

Tristam’s frustration boiled over at the sheer stupidity of it all. “Sir, she could still be alive.”

“The chairman has made his decision.”

“You could have said something. Willem would have listened to you if you’d pushed harder.” Tristam realized he was raising his voice far beyond what was appropriate for addressing his superior, but he didn’t care.

“Tristam.” Malikel hadn’t spoken any louder, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument. “You’re a knight of Forge. Don’t ever forget that, and the vows that you made to obey the Council. That is your duty, above all.”

And here Tristam had thought that his vows were to protect and serve Forge’s people.

Malikel sighed, and his face softened. “I don’t like Willem’s decision either, but we choose our battles. This one is not worth it.”

Not worth it?
So Kyra’s life was now just a point of compromise. It was hard enough to hear it from Willem, but to hear the same thing from Malikel…Tristam stared at Malikel’s back as his commander strode away. The Council was wrong. Kyra had taken a risk for the city, and now they were abandoning her to the barbarians. She didn’t deserve that, no matter what her crimes.

As he crossed the courtyard, he saw Flick walking toward him. Kyra’s friend had known Tristam was going to appeal to Willem, and the hopeful look in his eyes made Tristam feel ill.

“Flick.” He just wanted to get the bad news out as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. The Council won’t reconsider its decision.”

Confusion flashed across Flick’s face. “Why not?”

“They think it’s too dangerous.”

Tristam watched Flick’s jaw work as the news sank in and he went through the same range of emotions that Tristam had just experienced.

“They can’t—” Flick began.

“I’m sorry,” Tristam said roughly. He was already angry at Willem’s decision, and hearing Flick’s complaints wasn’t helping. “The Council’s decided. There’s nothing more I can do.”

He had been looking away from Flick and didn’t see him raise his fist. As it was, Tristam was a hair too late to duck out of the way. Lights exploded in front of his eyes, and he stumbled back. “What by the Three Cities do you think you’re doing?”

“So this is your knights’ idea of honor? Use a lass for your own devices and throw her to the barbarians when you’re done?”

Shouts of alarm echoed through the courtyard and soldiers came running. As Tristam caught his breath, Red Shields surrounded Flick, knocking him to the ground before dragging him back onto his feet. Tristam put a hand to his still throbbing temple, his own temper flaring. “I’ve no more patience for you, Flick. I’ve broken rules, gone before the Council on your behalf to get Palace protection for you and your wards, and all I’ve gotten from you is—”

“Of course. I’m supposed to be grateful.” Flick strained against the Red Shields holding him. “Kiss your shoes because you used us as bargaining chips with Kyra. Thank you, generous sirs.”

“That’s enough.” Tristam curled his hands into fists and closed the distance between them.

Flick glared at him, unflinching. “You go on about honor and service, but you care more for your own skin.”

Tristam stopped short at Flick’s words. For a long moment, he stood, breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. “Take him to his room,” he finally said, his voice cold. “And make sure he stays there.”

Flick shot Tristam a look of pure loathing as he was led away. One by one, the crowd wandered off. Tristam gingerly probed the side of his face with his fingers. If he’d won that fight, why did he feel so disgusted with himself?

“That was some restraint you showed there. I might’ve clocked him myself.”

Tristam looked up to see Martin. “You were part of that crowd?”

“The shouting was hard to miss.”

Tristam shook his head, only to stop when it made his headache worse. “He didn’t say anything that I didn’t want to say to Willem myself.” He sat down on the courtyard grass. It was awkward in his court finery, and he ignored puzzled glances from servants. Martin shrugged and sat down beside him.

“I do feel bad that we lost her,” said Martin. “I like her, for all she’s a criminal.”

“You don’t seem that surprised at Willem’s decision.”

“Guess I expected it, coming from a family of Red Shields. If we get in trouble, they don’t usually come rescue us either.”

Tristam nodded, absentmindedly fingering the insignia on his tunic that marked him as a knight. “When I took my vows, I pledged to obey the Council and protect Forge’s citizens. I never thought those two vows would clash.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Martin.

Tristam squinted in the direction of the forest. “I don’t know.”

T H I R T Y - T W O

K
yra fidgeted in her chair as Brendel strummed his lute. He hummed a short melody, then stopped to jot down some notes.

She finally gathered the courage to speak. “Why end it this way? Why not stop at the point when they fall in love?”

Brendel tapped his jaw with the end of his pen. “You don’t change legends to suit your fancy, Kyra. Ballads tell a truth about the way of things. It means something that Lady Evelyne fell in love with the felbeast in human form. And it means something that she realized he would never turn from his bloodthirsty ways.”

“But the story’s just so…hopeless. Why can’t he change? Why can’t he learn?”

“The story is a warning for those who would be Evelyne. There was a time when you heard the tale and understood it. Remember when James betrayed you?”

Kyra stopped, clenching her fists in frustration. It was true that she’d agreed with the legend back then. “But I don’t like it anymore,” she said.

“Why not?”

She knew the answer, and so did Brendel, from the look in his eyes. But she couldn’t say it.

Brendel smiled sadly. “You’ve realized that you are not Lady Evelyne, haven’t you?”

A new voice joined the conversation, this one achingly familiar. “Don’t listen to him, Kyra.” Bella stood next to her, smelling of flour, stew, and spices. She sat down beside Kyra and stroked her hair. “Evelyne’s not the only legend. Other tales end differently. You’ll find your way.”

Bella stood and offered Kyra a hand. Kyra let the cook pull her to her feet, but Bella winced. “Careful, lass. Not too hard.”

Kyra looked down at her own hands. Where her fingernails should have been, she instead had five sharp claws
….

Kyra woke up feeling deeply and acutely alone. It was dark outside, and the wind had a frigid bite. She clutched her blanket tighter and blinked back tears.

“I’m sorry, Bella,” she whispered. No one replied.

It was funny, the way life turned out. She looked at her hands, half expecting claws. But what did it matter? Her dagger was just as deadly. Her demon cat kin had spoken of murder as if it were simply a rite of passage.

There was a rustling in the trees. Kyra wiped a quick hand over her eyes as Pashla came into view carrying a large bowl. At first, Kyra couldn’t make out what it contained, but then the smell of raw meat wafted over to her side of the shelter.

“Now that you’re awake, you’ll eat raw like the rest of us. We already risked too much building a fire for you.”

Pashla held the meat out to her, and Kyra thought again of Bella, of gentle hands holding a bowl of lamb stew. Kyra’s breath caught and, to distract herself, she grabbed a piece of Pashla’s meat. It was cold to the touch, dark red and marbled with fat. Kyra dropped it into her mouth, suppressing a shudder as the juices ran over her tongue. She couldn’t bring herself to chew, so she swallowed it whole. It slid down her throat in one lump.

“You do well,” said Pashla. “Even some who grow up with us refuse to eat raw flesh when they’re in human form. The taste is more appealing to a cat’s palate.”

If only the woman would stop praising her for being like them. “Do you always eat like this?” Kyra asked.

“We’ve roamed for many years,” said Pashla. “And we live less comfortably when we roam. This country is fertile with plants and fat prey, but the humans here are better armed. So we stay hidden. No fires, no shelters, sleeping in trees. We stay in our fur unless we need to talk.”

“You can’t talk when you’re cats?”

“We can talk in the way of animals, sharing simple desires or commands. But we can’t speak as we do now.”

Kyra studied Pashla’s profile in the dim moonlight. If these people aged like humans, the woman was probably about ten years older than Kyra. It would have been easier to hate her if she’d matched Kyra’s expectations of barbarians. But she was gentle when she spoke. Her hands were as soft and deft as any Palace healer’s, and she confided in Kyra as an ally.

A distant roar echoed through the trees, momentarily silencing the chorus of insects around them. Kyra instinctively lifted her head toward the sound.

“Come,” said Pashla. “The clan is gathering. Don’t worry. Leyus is a fair leader.”

The Demon Rider helped Kyra up and wrapped her in animal hides. She let Kyra lean on her shoulder as they ducked out from underneath the makeshift tent. The sky was beginning to lighten, and a hint of red stained the eastern side of the trees. Around her, the forest was surprisingly empty. She hadn’t exactly expected to step into a camp of Demon Riders, but the forest looked completely wild. The only sign of human habitation was her own shelter.

Kyra shivered despite her wrappings as they wound their way through the trees, growing warier as other figures converged on their path. At first, the majority of them were in cat form, with leather pouches around their necks. But as they traveled, more and more of the beasts stepped off to the side and changed shape, dressing themselves in tunics they’d carried in their pouches. Most of the Makvani were tall and long-limbed in their human skin, certainly taller than the average citizen of Forge. If Kyra was indeed related to them, she must have gotten her height from her human side. But the way they moved was unmistakable. It was the same inhuman and uncomfortably familiar grace she had seen in Pashla. Kyra stared at them, unable to help herself, and the Demon Riders made no effort to hide their glances back—some friendly, some disdainful.

Pashla’s arm was firm around her waist, gently supporting and steering her through this forest of trees and faces. Finally, they reached a small clearing where a group of Demon Riders was already gathered in a loose circle. The clear focus of the crowd was one figure—a man, half a head taller than the others, who held himself with a strength that signaled authority. He looked older than Pashla but was still in his physical prime.

“This is Leyus,” said Pashla, slowing Kyra to a stop in front of him.

What was she supposed to do? Bow? Curtsy? Beg for mercy?

Leyus looked her over with a careful eye, and Kyra immediately felt her guard go up. Something in his manner reminded her of James. He had the same air of power, the look of someone who was used to being obeyed. “You call yourself Kyra? Pashla says you know nothing of us.”

“I grew up amongst humans.” It felt strange, talking of humans as if they were a separate group.

“What did James want with you?”

Kyra repeated what she had told Pashla earlier, hoping that any quaver in her voice would be interpreted as nervousness instead of deception. She stuck to the truth up to the point where James commanded her to kill Malikel. Then she told the story as if the disagreement had happened right before James tried to kill her.

Pashla stepped in front of Kyra. “Our blood runs strong in her. You can’t see it because she’s injured, but you can smell it clearly in her blood.”

“Let me see.” Leyus held out his hand.

Pashla nudged her toward him. “Let him smell your blood.”

“What?”

Pashla motioned with her hand toward her mouth. “Draw blood, like I did to show you.”

Kyra stared dumbly at her palm. Choking down raw meat was one thing, but this…Her hand refused to move any closer to her mouth.

Pashla exhaled in frustration and grabbed Kyra’s arm, clamping her teeth down before Kyra had a chance to react. Kyra flinched, but she felt only a pinch. When Pashla released her arm, a small patch of skin was broken and a drop of blood pooled on top. With one last exasperated look, Pashla offered Kyra’s arm to Leyus. He pulled her closer and held her arm beneath his nose the way a nobleman might sample fine wine.

“Half human,” he finally said. “Can you change?”

“I’ve never done so.”

“We can try after her injuries heal,” said Pashla.

Leyus regarded her closely. “It’s unusual to find a halfblood so far from any clan. Are you sure you remember nothing of where you came from?”

She wished people would stop asking her that. “I’ve always been in the city, amongst humans.”

“Her injuries are severe,” said Pashla. “She must stay at least until she heals enough to travel.”

“In these times, it may not be wise to harbor a halfblood,” said Leyus.

A chill went up Kyra’s spine as she looked from Leyus, to Pashla, and back to Leyus. If it wasn’t wise to harbor a halfblood, what was the alternative? She doubted it involved sending her off with a basket of food and well-wishes.

“She’s under our care now,” Pashla said. “I found her and brought her here on your orders.”

Pashla switched to their own language as Kyra studied their faces, trying desperately to read their conversation. It was madness to escape death just to be executed here, but she was too weak to run. After a few more exchanges, Leyus put up a hand.

“You’ve made your case. We will keep her with us until her injuries heal,” he said.

“This is madness!” shouted a man from the crowd. Everyone turned to find the new speaker.

“You speak out of turn, Brona,” said Leyus.

The challenger, a young man with a striking mane of silver hair, pushed his way forward to the center of the circle. He threw Kyra a look so hostile she had to fight the urge to back away. “I speak because it’s important,” he said. “The girl’s human blood makes her untrustworthy, especially since she was raised amongst them. She’ll betray us first chance she gets.”

Leyus, Brona, and Pashla stared at one another over Kyra’s head, completely ignoring her presence as they discussed her fate. “She’s too injured even to leave the camp,” said Leyus. “She’s unlikely to betray us in this condition.”

“We only have the halfblood’s word for that,” said Brona.

“And Pashla’s.”

“And that’s just as worthless,” said Brona. “We all know her past. Pashla pretends to be a member of the clan, but she’s still a stray at heart. She thinks nothing of the clan’s welfare.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, which Brona seemed to acknowledge with satisfaction. Kyra took a half step back.

“Those are strong words, Brona,” said Leyus.

“I stand by them,” he said. “For the good of the clan.”

Leyus turned slowly to Pashla. “Do you have anything to say?”

Pashla’s jaw was clenched in anger and she stared Brona down as she spoke. “I serve the clan.”

“Your lies convince no one, foundling,” spat Brona.

“Enough!” said Leyus. “I don’t believe the halfblood is a threat to us right now.”

“I disagree,” said Brona, “and if you won’t do anything about this, I claim my right to Challenge Pashla on this question.”

Leyus narrowed his eyes. “Are you doing this for the clan, Brona, or for your personal grievances?”

“My loyalty is to the clan. Always.”

Leyus looked at him long and hard. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “You may Challenge. Pashla, do you accept?”

“This is not the best time,” said Pashla.

“I will decide what time is right,” said Leyus. “Do you accept?”

Pashla’s eyes snapped with fury. “If I must.”

She untied her belt in a routine quickly becoming familiar to Kyra. Again, her body was shifting, changing. Brona moved to the other side of the circle, slowly assuming the shape of a silver cat. The crowd stepped back, widening the ring as Kyra struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Kyra gasped as firm arms gripped her from behind and pulled her backward, wrenching her wounded middle. A Demon Rider she didn’t recognize stared down at her. She pulled away, but his grip stayed tight.

“Watch her until this is settled,” Leyus said to him.

Her guard was already leaving bruises on her arms. A Challenge, Brona had called it. Did this mean they would decide her fate based on who won? Kyra gritted her teeth and twisted, fighting her guard’s hold, but she might as well have wrestled a tree.

She cast about for a way to escape, but the scene before her soon drew her attention. A few times at Forge she’d seen gamblers stage dogfights for sport. She sensed the same bloodlust now, the raw aggression between the combatants and the crowd’s expectation for a good show. The air was tense with excitement as the two cats circled each other, punctuating their movements with low snarls and growls. Unlike the dogfights, however, the demon cats gave a clear impression of intelligence and restraint. There would be no rush to destruction here.

There was a collective gasp as Brona made the first swipe. Pashla reared up on her hind legs to avoid his claws. The fight began in earnest, a confusion of limbs, fur, and snapping teeth. Brona was larger, but Pashla was faster, and neither had the clear advantage.

Suddenly, Pashla charged. Brona roared as Pashla’s teeth sank into his shoulder and both cats went rolling backward, colliding hard with a tree. A murmur went up as the two cats staggered apart. A new energy ran through the crowd. The circle seemed to press in closer to the two fighters, though Kyra didn’t see anyone move.

“First blood,” someone whispered.

And Kyra smelled it too. The musky fragrance teased at her nostrils, awakening an ominously familiar hunger in her that cut through her fear. With a start, she recognized it as the same bloodlust from her dreams—the dreams that had started after her first kill.

The crowd’s energy roused her from her shock. Pashla moved aside to reveal a deep gash in Brona’s shoulder. When the silver cat turned to face her, he moved with a pronounced limp. Pashla shook herself and lunged again, attacking with renewed fury. Brona fought back, hissing and blocking, opening his own gashes in Pashla’s paws and flank, but he was weaker now. Pashla seemed to feed off the crowd’s excitement, advancing with unrelenting focus. It was over in a few moments. Pashla sank her teeth into Brona’s neck and held on until he stopped convulsing and lay still.

A bloodcurdling scream split the air and a woman hurtled into the circle, pushing Pashla aside and throwing her arms around Brona’s neck. She was followed by several others. Kyra stared, transfixed by their grief, until she realized that everyone else was ignoring them. A Demon Rider woman picked up Pashla’s tunic and ran to her, holding it out as Pashla shifted back. Pashla’s blood-smeared arms shook as she retied her belt, and her face was lined with exhaustion as she met Leyus’s eye. The clan leader inclined his head and grasped her hand.