The Warlock's Daughter (4 page)

“No doubt,” she
answered,
her gaze stark. “But what of the one left to live with the guilt and sorrow?” Putting her head down, she swung once more and moved quickly to the gate. She slipped through it and started down the street.

Renfrey
followed her with his gaze while he breathed slowly in and out against the pain inside him. It was her pain, readily assumed, deeply felt, in the instant when she had allowed him to see it. He had that gift, at least.

He had also seen days and nights set apart. He knew, because he had assimilated her desolation. He saw her future with no one and nothing to love because human beings were too fragile, too mortal.

She faced it with such courage, was so unwilling to inflict the consequences of her wayward passions on someone else. She made him ashamed. She made him ache somewhere deep inside where nothing and no one had ever touched.

He wanted her as he had never wanted anything in all the long, eventful days of his life.
Regardless of the consequences.
Or possibly because of them.

And yet, he was not without his own loneliness, or his own expectations. He required something more than merely to become the answer to another person's need.

Love, freely given, was essential. He needed to be wanted for himself alone, not for what he could withstand or perhaps give, especially not for
who
and what he was by an accident of birth.

Obtaining what he needed might be something more of a challenge than stealing a kiss. Giving what she required could tax his strength to the limit.

She was magnificent. It had been underhanded to provoke her to such a display of
temper,
still he would not have missed it. There had been a practical purpose; he had wanted to see what forces she could rally against him, what methods she would descend to using in order to prove a point or gain a victory.

Magnificent, but a lady even then.
Yes, it would be a challenge, but one worth winning.

He glanced at the fire. It flared high and hot, but he gave a single negligent nod and it settled into sizzling black ash. He shot the cuffs of his shirt, settled his cape, and returned his clothing to dry perfection again. Retrieving his hat without effort, he swung immediately in the direction
Carita
had taken. His footsteps were silent, but they were sure.

Overhead, the moon sailed at treetop level, following them. There were no streetlamps here; the only illumination was faint glimmers from houses closed up behind shutters, fences and gates. The leaves of the oaks overhanging the uneven wooden sidewalk spoke in sibilant undertones while crickets and peeper frogs sang from damp garden corners and amid tangles of waning fall flowers. Somewhere a dog barked and was shouted into abeyance.

Ahead of
Renfrey
,
Carita
moved with the agitated rustling of skirts that came from haste. Sometimes she glanced back, or else broke into a run for a few steps as if she knew she was being pursued. She was paying little attention to where she put her feet, none to what lay ahead of her.

Until she stopped with a sudden, bell-like sway of skirts.
Renfrey
saw the two men at the same time, and broke into a run.

Carita
was not frightened so much as startled. She was usually more aware of her surroundings; it was a sign of the dazed condition of her mind that she had not noticed the thugs bearing down on her.

They were out of place, those two, bullies who had wandered away from the wharves along the river, or else from around Gallatin Street or the Irish Channel. She could smell the liquor on their breaths, see the glaze of drunkenness and lust in their eyes. There was also the avid gloating of the hunter in their faces; they thought she was defenseless, at their mercy.

“Well, now, look what we got here,” the bigger of the two growled as he swaggered closer.
“Nice a bit of tail as I ever seen.
Think you can hold her, Jack, whiles I tears me off a piece?”

“
Hol
' her,” Jack said with an owlish leer,
“ 'en
have her, too.”

Carita
had been walking alongside a wrought iron fence with palings formed like ornamental arrows. She glanced at them with speculation. The barking dog heard minutes ago also sprang to mind; if summoned, it might be a deterrent.

Then she heard the soft thud of running feet. There was a flash of movement and
Renfrey
appeared at her side. Hard fingers fastened on her arm, dragging her behind him.

“No!” she said sharply. She fought his grasp for an instant, but it was strong and would take too long to break. Subsiding, she stood in strained readiness.

“Here now,” the leader of the two thugs said with a crude oath. “
We'uns
seen
her first!”

“She's mine,”
Renfrey
said with quiet precision. “Move on while you can.”

Carita
gave
Renfrey
a swift glance. At the same time, she saw the leader of the thugs grope at his waist. Light flashed silver along a blade.

The burly man gave a coarse laugh. “
Your'n
is she? We'll just be seeing about that.”

“Yeah,” the other man echoed. Half drunk, it took a moment before he fumbled another long knife into view.

They were crude but vicious weapons, honed to a razor's edge and measuring more than fifteen inches from welded hilt to tapered tip. The two men held them with ease shaded by eagerness, as if they had used them before against flesh and bone and enjoyed the feel of it.

“What you think of this, my fine buck?” the first man growled, lifting his lips in a hard grin marked by missing teeth. He swept his weapon from side to side, feinting with quick, hard jabs.

“Not a great deal, actually.”
Renfrey's
reply was without heat. Hard on it
came
the slicing hiss of a drawn sword. It was followed by the hollow clatter as he discarded the useless portion of what had been his sword cane.

Moonlight tested the limber blade in his hand for sharpness with a silver glimmer, winking at the tip. Eying it, the leader let out an oath. “You got yourself a fine frog-sticker there, friend, but we still be two to one.”

“My favorite odds.”
Renfrey
released
Carita
, gave her a small thrust farther behind him. The swordsman position he assumed was easy, classic.

“We'll see about that. Now, Jack!” Hard on the yell, the first thug plunged into an attack.

Carita
gave the men only a small portion of her attention. Staring at the iron fence, she issued a mental order.

Arrows of iron strained, snapped with the dry showering of paint and rust. They broke free, hurling themselves with hard purpose on a direct and driving course toward the pair of thugs.

The thin and narrow blade in
Renfrey's
hand flashed with the moon's cool silver light. It struck twice, faster than the eye could
follow,
a meteor's explosion of fire in its trailing tail. The thugs howled as the knives flew from their hands to clank away into the darkness.

Before the two could draw breath, the fence palings with their blunt arrow heads took them in belly and chest, thigh and groin. The two were flung back while the heavy bars of iron clanked and clattered around them. Hoarse screams tore from their throats as they wallowed on the ground, clutching their bruises.

Renfrey
advanced a step.
Carita
moved at his side.

The thugs heaved away from them, clawing, scrambling to their feet. Staring wild-eyed back over their shoulders, they plunged away across the street and down an alley.

Renfrey
lowered his sword point until it touched the broken stone of the walk. His voice musing, he said, “Just think of the tales those two will tell.”

“
Sotted
ramblings,”
Carita
answered shortly as she knelt in a settling island of skirts to retrieve his cane cover before rising and handing it to him. “Who will listen?”

He put out his hand to take the cover. Clasping it, he paused. His gaze sharpened, and he transferred his grip to her fingers. “You're trembling.”

“My usual reaction to brutality, pay no mind,” she said in brittle tones. Dragging her hand away, she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

“You were afraid for me,” he corrected her with amazement in his voice.

“I was enraged that you would risk so much.” She stopped while appalled consideration rose in her eyes. “But that's the same thing, isn't it? Never mind. I am not yours. And now it's over.”

She backed away from him for several steps before she spun around and began to walk again. Her skirts and her hair reflected moonlight with pearl-like sheens that danced away, ghost-like, into the dimness. They had not quite vanished when
Renfrey
sheathed his sword with a sharp click.

“Oh, no,” he said in grim resolution as he began to follow her once more. “It's just begun.”

~ CHAPTER 3 ~

It was not far from the cemetery to her aunt's house.
Carita
walked the remaining distance with swift steps.
Renfrey
was behind her; she knew it with certainty. She was as attuned to his presence now as to her own conscience.

She opened the gate before the plain, narrow, two-storied house,
then
paused. She had meant to go inside without looking back. Somehow, she could not bring herself to do it.

She would just say good-bye. It was such a small thing; surely there could be no harm in it. It was perhaps natural to feel the urge for a final gesture, an end to all the things that might have been.

Or perhaps it was merely an excuse; she couldn’t say. She didn't understand herself tonight. Her powers inherited from her father had never failed her before. The fault must lie within
herself
; she had been unable to maintain her concentration back in the cemetery because she had been unclear in her mind as to what she wanted to accomplish. She had not, in fact, wanted to send
Renfrey
away. Still didn't.

She closed her eyes, resting her head against the tall, arched top of the gate. Why did it have to be so hard? Why?

He was coming. She could hear his quiet tread, the silken swish of his cape. She lifted her head and waited for him to emerge from the street shadows.

The gray cat came first, stepping as light and proud as the most pampered of house pets, though he was an old tom and skittishly wild. It was odd that he had abandoned his cemetery haunt to escort
Renfrey
; he was usually wary of both familiar visitors and strangers alike. He might have felt the call to prowl, of course, and recognized in
Renfrey
a source of protection.

There was little doubt that
Renfrey
could provide it. He had been alert back there, also valiant and strong—all the things expected in a man, yet so seldom found. She could admit that much, if only to herself.

Behind her, there came a low growl. Her aunt's boxer dog must be out of the house. Aunt
Berthe
had probably released him into the fenced yard thinking
Carita
would let him back inside when she returned. No doubt he had seen the cat; she could hear his toenails clicking on the walk as he trotted toward the open gate.

The gate!
Carita
stepped back and gave it a hard swing, trying to slam it closed.

It was too late. The burly dog barreled through the opening. Tearing past her skirts with the ruff on his neck standing high and a threat rumbling in his throat, he charged the cat.

The old stray feline leaped high and came down on all fours with a savage hiss of warning. The boxer skidded to a stop.

“Down, boy!”
Carita
shouted. “Stay!”

The boxer gave no sign of hearing. Feet planted, lips drawn back in a snarl, he watched his adversary. His chest rumbled and saliva dripped from his muzzle.

Bow-backed, the cat faced the dog with its fur in wild spikes, its fangs bared and fierce challenge in its yellow eyes. Abruptly there was only a blurred tangle of legs and claws. Frenzied yowls and dust rose from it.

The fight was furious, but the boxer was heavier and more powerful. With a hoarse growl, he lunged. The cat twisted away, spitting, but was caught by the scruff of the neck. The boxer shook the soft, limber body and prepared to toss it high, ready to seize a killing hold.