shadows. There she watched with growing horror as her attacker's head was jerked backward and his throat ripped through, cutting off the name he called again.
"Stri—"
His blood flowed for only a moment. Then a shadow covered and seemed to close the wound, a shadow that slowly solidified into dark hair and pale face, the long, thin arm that held him, the long, thin hand that grasped his grimy hair, holding his head up and back.
Colleen choked back a scream, turned and lurched down the road, then up a hill and into a stand of trees. There she crouched, trying to keep her knees from shaking, her breath slow and silent.
Joanna found her anyway. The woman's face and hands were smeared with blood, and there was a dark, shiny stain of it on her tattered black dress. "Come," she ordered and held out her hand. Colleen cringed at the sight of it but stood and, resigned, followed her mistress down the hill and into the firelight.
The body lay where Joanna had dropped it. The throat was ripped open, the head at an odd angle to the rest of the corpse. He had died horribly, yet Colleen was hardly sad that he was dead. She looked from the corpse to her mistress, noting the flush of pink in Joanna's cheeks, the fiery flash of life in the centers of her emerald eyes.
"What are you?" she whispered.
Joanna repeated the dying man's word, adding another.
" Strigoaica mort ." The words were said with no emotion, as if she were beyond caring what Colleen thought of her.
Colleen wanted to step back, to run. Reason might have told her it was futile, but something else intervened before it could.
She looked from the corpse, bloodless and still, to the one who had killed him. And for the first time in all the fear-filled weeks of stealth and hiding, she relaxed. Convinced that loyalty was the only thing that could save her now, and that loyalty would somehow keep her safe, she bowed to the woman who stood before her and humbly took her outstretched hands.
For the first time since they'd met, she saw Joanna smile. Her canines were far too long, too sharp. Her look too triumphant.
Colleen stifled a shudder, pulled away slowly and crouched beside the body. She pulled the knife from her belt, only half aware of how Joanna crouched beside her, how she nodded as Colleen whispered, "Damn you!" She lifted the blade and brought it down hard into the man's belly, once then again and again, repeating the curse all the while until, finally, the tears began to flow. She fell against her pale mistress, lay her cheek against the lifeless breasts, cold, sticky with blood.
She cried, hardly aware of the one who held her, moving her wrist to Colleen's mouth. Blood pooled along a wound the man had made in his struggles. Without thinking. Colleen sucked it as she had her little brother's frequent scratches, pulling out the dirt so the wound could heal cleanly.
But this was not a protective gesture. There was too much purpose in how Joanna had held up her wrist, too much strength in how Joanna gripped it, holding the wound open so it would bleed freely.
And too much emotion in how she trembled as Colleen took in that small bit of herself. Tangy. Smoky as a long-aged red wine. Colleen swallowed and felt a fire not unlike that of strong drink fill her. As she moved her lips to the wound again, Joanna pulled away.
"Enough," she whispered. Her form thinned to a mist and vanished.
Colleen built up the fire, and sat with her back to the corpse.
staring into the comforting light. She thought not of the attack but of the creature who had saved her. Oddly, she felt no fear until she sensed rather than heard Joanna return.
She'd found some river or pond and washed the blood from her clothes. Now they clung to her body, weighted down by the water, showing how thin she was, how seemingly frail.
Joanna grabbed the body by one foot and dragged it effortlessly into the trees. "Wait!" Colleen called. "He may have some money. We ought to take it."
A tinkle of laughter
"Stri—"
His blood flowed for only a moment. Then a shadow covered and seemed to close the wound, a shadow that slowly solidified into dark hair and pale face, the long, thin arm that held him, the long, thin hand that grasped his grimy hair, holding his head up and back.
Colleen choked back a scream, turned and lurched down the road, then up a hill and into a stand of trees. There she crouched, trying to keep her knees from shaking, her breath slow and silent.
Joanna found her anyway. The woman's face and hands were smeared with blood, and there was a dark, shiny stain of it on her tattered black dress. "Come," she ordered and held out her hand. Colleen cringed at the sight of it but stood and, resigned, followed her mistress down the hill and into the firelight.
The body lay where Joanna had dropped it. The throat was ripped open, the head at an odd angle to the rest of the corpse. He had died horribly, yet Colleen was hardly sad that he was dead. She looked from the corpse to her mistress, noting the flush of pink in Joanna's cheeks, the fiery flash of life in the centers of her emerald eyes.
"What are you?" she whispered.
Joanna repeated the dying man's word, adding another.
" Strigoaica mort ." The words were said with no emotion, as if she were beyond caring what Colleen thought of her.
Colleen wanted to step back, to run. Reason might have told her it was futile, but something else intervened before it could.
She looked from the corpse, bloodless and still, to the one who had killed him. And for the first time in all the fear-filled weeks of stealth and hiding, she relaxed. Convinced that loyalty was the only thing that could save her now, and that loyalty would somehow keep her safe, she bowed to the woman who stood before her and humbly took her outstretched hands.
For the first time since they'd met, she saw Joanna smile. Her canines were far too long, too sharp. Her look too triumphant.
Colleen stifled a shudder, pulled away slowly and crouched beside the body. She pulled the knife from her belt, only half aware of how Joanna crouched beside her, how she nodded as Colleen whispered, "Damn you!" She lifted the blade and brought it down hard into the man's belly, once then again and again, repeating the curse all the while until, finally, the tears began to flow. She fell against her pale mistress, lay her cheek against the lifeless breasts, cold, sticky with blood.
She cried, hardly aware of the one who held her, moving her wrist to Colleen's mouth. Blood pooled along a wound the man had made in his struggles. Without thinking. Colleen sucked it as she had her little brother's frequent scratches, pulling out the dirt so the wound could heal cleanly.
But this was not a protective gesture. There was too much purpose in how Joanna had held up her wrist, too much strength in how Joanna gripped it, holding the wound open so it would bleed freely.
And too much emotion in how she trembled as Colleen took in that small bit of herself. Tangy. Smoky as a long-aged red wine. Colleen swallowed and felt a fire not unlike that of strong drink fill her. As she moved her lips to the wound again, Joanna pulled away.
"Enough," she whispered. Her form thinned to a mist and vanished.
Colleen built up the fire, and sat with her back to the corpse.
staring into the comforting light. She thought not of the attack but of the creature who had saved her. Oddly, she felt no fear until she sensed rather than heard Joanna return.
She'd found some river or pond and washed the blood from her clothes. Now they clung to her body, weighted down by the water, showing how thin she was, how seemingly frail.
Joanna grabbed the body by one foot and dragged it effortlessly into the trees. "Wait!" Colleen called. "He may have some money. We ought to take it."
A tinkle of laughter
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