The Lost

They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

A young Princess Yancy ap Kaziel was proof of this, letting loose her untried magic to curse the lover who'd spurned her.

That curse had unforeseen results that turn the princess into a fugitive, and turned the lover into a devil no hell would ever lay claim to.

Zirland, 1512 Anno Domni Nostri Jhored.

It was after midnight. Too late to be out, but this staid neighborhood held no threats for Yancy.  Her back ached from ministering countless bodies and her fingers were numb from wielding her blades, and all she craved now was the comfort of her bed.

Was it any wonder she’d dropped her guard?

Not even the graveled road betrayed his step. He came from behind, clamping one powerful arm round her middle, while a callused hand stifled her cry.   “Listen well, Princess.”

And Yancy’s struggles ceased. 

Hearing the long disused title scared her far more than the cold voice that blew hot at her temple.  She’d come to this exotic land—foreign to the council’s majik—seeking safety in the countless miles and yawning years.  Yet still they’d pursued her.  Now the hunt was over.

“You can run no longer.  It’s time to return home.” 

She shook her head violently and his hold tightened. 

“Would you die here, like a dog in the streets?  Or will you own up to your crime with honor?”

Her gaze skittered down the deserted road—desperate for a sign of horse or carriage. Knowing the high stone walls that hid the private homes also kept her and her assailant invisible made Yancy tremble, her body turned to ice; but her feet were hot.

She looked down to the dropped torch licking danger at her hem, yet one step back had her pressed against hard muscle and breathing panic.

She griped her basket tighter.  What need had she of oils and tinctures now?  Better she’d dropped the blasted basket and held fast to the blazing weapon.  Then in the midst of berating herself she spotted a mongrel across the road, slinking through the bushes from shadow to shadow.  Hiding, scared, and alone—  To die like a dog.

“Will you own it?”

Despair clogged her throat.  She nodded.

“Make no sound; give no fight.”

His words were hypnotic, settling an odd calmness upon her, and Yancy acquiesced by leading him to her rooms rented nearby.

They entered the yard silently through a pair of iron gates.  Then with only the rise and lull of the crickets’ chirrups to mark their progress, they crossed the lawn.  Her assailant took care to keep them along the edges, beneath the fig, mango and banana trees, but as they passed the main house a voice sang out.

“Sikatrix?”

The man’s hand moved from her waist.  Gone.  Then back with the sharp bite of a blade.

“Sikatrix, is that you?” Shadows played against the interior wall, dancing towards the open window.

He moved them to one side, into some Frangipani growing against the house. The plant’s waxy leaves eclipsed the star-laden sky, and its rich fragrance threatened to smother her.  Yancy’s skin itched with the sensation of being trapped and she clawed at her abductor’s hand, desperate to catch her breath.  His grip dropped to her neck and she filled her lungs in heaving gasps.

“Y-yes.”  She cleared her throat and swallowed against his hold.  “Yes, it’s me, Mistress Murielle.”

“How can you rush by like that?  Come, come.  I’m dying to hear about your new client.”

“It’s just as easy for two to die.”  His whisper was black gossamer: soft threat.  He released her.

“Is it true what they say about the Senator?” Giggling, Murielle leaned out the window and Yancy quickly stepped forward, else the woman see what danger stood in darkness.

“I’ve heard he’s had his sheath’s cowl removed.  Is it true?  Did you see it?” Murielle’s eyes danced with mischief.  “To serve the goddess Sikaah has its many benefits, yes?”

Yancy pursed her mouth.  To serve Sikaah in Pantangua, scribing tattaus of fate onto flesh, was not about titillation. Silly woman, pampered and without a thought in her head—

Her anger died away as suddenly as it had sprung up.  She’d been just as silly, once....

“Well, never mind,” that lady went on with a careless wave of her hand.  “My shoulder’s been bothering me again.”  She rubbed it, wincing dramatically.  “Can you see me tomorrow?  It’s not your usual service, I know, but you have such a healing touch.”

Yancy didn’t reply.  Tomorrow she’d be dead. 

Her gaze darted off to the side, where a shadow shifted within other shadows, and a glint of metal caught moonlight in the bushes.

“Sikatrix?”

Yancy pressed her hand to her stomach and attended Murielle once more.  “I believe I am spoken for, Mistress.”

“Maybe later in the week then?”

“Yes. Perhaps.  I bid you good night.”   She steepled her fingers, bowing her head.

“And I you.”  Murielle returned the gesture.

Yancy turned to face the darkness, then started down the walkway.  He slipped in behind her, making no move to stop or slow her.  Not surprising—because it had occurred to her, he didn’t want her dead.  Just yet.

There was something he needed.  Something she could bargain with?  It wasn’t sex.  He would’ve forced her already. Even now he could pull her down to the ground, knife at her throat, taking his pleasure before taking her life.

No, there was something else he wanted.

Which meant she still had a chance to live.