Darkwalker by E. L. Tettensor

when he looked up from fastening his cloak, the man was gone. Good.
    He weaved a little as he made his way down the street, but there was no one to see. It was late, and the windows that faced the street were dark. The streetlamps struggled against a moonless night, doing little to illuminate his way. That was just as well too. He had always preferred to abide in darkness.
    As he walked, he became dimly aware that the sound of his own footsteps was echoed by those of another somewhere behind. He turned, angry words on his lips, but there was no one there. Strange—he was sure he had heard something.
    He turned into a narrow alley. His footing was uncertain, obliging him to keep his gaze trained on the ground as he walked. Suddenly, a shadow spilled across the stones in front of him, liquid black, flitting from right to left. He looked up at the rooftops in time to see movement.
    He froze, and there was a moment of stillness. Then the air exploded in whirring and flapping as a clutch of pigeons burst forth from the eaves. The gravedigger’s cry of shock dissolved into a string of curses at the filthy creatures.
    Just ahead, the end of the alley was marked by a shaft of pale light from a nearby streetlamp. But the way was not free: standing silhouetted against the glow was a man. It was the same man, the gravedigger realized, that he had seen in the doorway near the alehouse. Little of his face was distinguishable in the darkness, but his eyes were clearly visible, shining as though lit from within. They were an uncanny shade of green, vivid like those of a cat, only brighter.
    There was something in those eyes, something that caused a cold sliver of fear to slide itself like a blade into the gravedigger’s ribs. He checked his stride and turned, retracing his steps up the alleyway. He moved as quietly as he could, straining to listen to the darkness behind him. Footsteps sounded, echoing closely in the narrow confines of the alley. The gravedigger quickened his step, listening carefully. Sure enough, the footsteps behind increased their pace.
    A sob of terror clutched at the gravedigger’s throat, and he burst into a run.
    He made for the river, taking random turns in an effort to break his pursuer’s line of sight. But he did not know the city well, and soon the street disgorged him onto a bridge. It was horribly exposed, but he had no choice: he pounded on, his head bent low as he sprinted. Only when he reached the far edge of the bridge did he look up, and what he saw stopped his heart. There, waiting for him at the other end, was the man with the flashing green eyes.
    It was impossible, unnatural. The gravedigger’s knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the ground. “Please,” he sobbed quietly as the green-eyed man approached. “Please.”
    The man stood over him now, expressionless. The gravedigger’s last thought was that he looked like an avenging angel.
    So beautiful.

CHAPTER 6
    “B rier and I canvassed most of the town,” Kody was saying, “and nobody could recall seeing a stranger around before we arrived. But then, just as I was getting ready to give up, a laundry girl told us that she had seen an Adali man ride in the night before. She couldn’t tell us much about him—apparently, she didn’t see his face—but she did say he was wearing a purple riding cloak, the traditional embroidered kind. Pretty distinctive, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, she said it was almost dark when he arrived, so he would have had to find a place to bed down for the night.”
    Lenoir was only half listening to the sergeant’s babbling. The other half of his attention, the more interested half, was devoted to spinning a copper coin on the surface of his desk. He let it whirl until it began to wobble, whereupon he slapped it flat and took it up again, flicking it between his thumb and forefinger to set it off anew. He was not normally given to such fidgeting, but this routine of Kody’s had been going on for days, and Lenoir