Crimson Bound
Page 4
The other hounds had wheeled to face her. They growled, lips curling as they faced the obscene enigma of a creature who was filled with the power of the Great Forest and yet turned against them. Then they sprang.
Rachelle grinned. Rain and wind and blood flung against her face as she whirled among them, her blade slicing. Moments later she was alone, the bodies of the woodspawn melting into the mud around her.
Gasping for breath, she listened: nothing but the patter of the rain, the whispers of the wind, the faint shouts and clatters that filled the city air even at night. She couldn’t sense anything, either.
The hunt was over, and as she realized that, all her earlier exhaustion washed back over her.
She also realized that the hunt had ended in front of a place where she could get a hot drink. Two doors down, light spilled from the windows of a coffeehouse; its wooden sign rocked in the wind. Rachelle strode through the puddles. As she reached for the door, the wind whirled up again behind her back and shoved her forward. She clattered into the coffeehouse on her toes.
Rachelle squinted against the sudden glare of the oil lamps. She’d never been in this coffeehouse before—it was well away from her normal territory—but it seemed pleasant enough. The air was warm, thick with the scent of coffee. Despite the hour, there were still eight men sitting at the tables. After the cold loneliness of the night, their presence crowded the room: the stubble on their chins, the trim on their coats, the little human noises they made as they breathed and muttered. Behind them, an artist more willing than skilled had painted a swirling promenade of figures from history and legend. By the counter hung a bronze foot enameled red at the ankle-stump: the Dayspring’s left foot, the common devotion for tradesmen.
Glances drifted up to her and stopped. Voices fell silent. It was unusual for a young woman to walk into a coffeehouse alone—especially this late at night—but they didn’t care a whit about that. They didn’t even care that she was one of the rare women with permission from the King to carry a sword and a dispensation from the Church to wear men’s clothing. Not when her red coat was embroidered on each shoulder with a black fleur-de-lis, symbol of the Royal Order of Penitents. The King’s bloodbound.
The King’s pet murderers. That was what the illegal broadsheets plastered on the alley walls called them, and all the people who met her knew it. Rachelle had long since stopped choking when she saw that name in their eyes.
But this time there was more fear than usual. And hatred. These people had probably marched in penitential processions and pasted up broadsheets that all but called for rebellion. They thought that the growing darkness was the judgment of God, brought down by the King’s willingness to make use of the bloodbound’s unholy powers.
She thought, I could kill them all if I had to.
A girl stepped in front of her. She was no older than fourteen, with big eyes and big elbows and pale, twiglike arms that Rachelle could have snapped between her hands.
“What can we do for you, mademoiselle?” she asked, her voice respectful but her gaze flickering nervously around the floor.
Rachelle could fight them all. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to get a cup of hot coffee and sit in a corner, warming herself amid the human clatter while everyone looked past her, the way she could in the coffeehouse back on the rue Grand-Séverin, where the people knew her and remembered the night she had saved four children from woodspawn.
This place was warm and human but hated her, and suddenly the cold, wet night seemed more appealing.
Then she noticed the man seated in the corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His coat collar was turned up and his cap was pulled down, but she would know those sharp cheekbones and lush, arrogant lips anywhere. It was Erec d’Anjou, captain of the King’s bloodbound, masquerading as a common citizen so he could spy out the King’s enemies.
Damned if she was going to turn tail and run while he was watching.
Rachelle planted her feet a little more firmly. “I need coffee,” she said.
Abruptly an older man shoved the girl aside. He had similar lines to his face—father, maybe, or uncle—and corded muscles.
“This is a respectable coffeehouse,” he said, his voice low and rumbling.
“Good,” she said. “I would hate to ruin my reputation.”
“You don’t need to trouble us,” said the man. “For the love of the Dayspring, go somewhere else.”
He was brave, she had to give him that. Her senses had sharpened as they always did when somebody nearby was afraid; she half saw, half heard the swift, desperate pulse in his throat. But he was staring her down as if she couldn’t draw her sword, cut his neck open, and walk away. As if she didn’t know what it felt like to have blood beneath her fingernails and spattered across her face.
She forced the memories back. “I’m a servant of the King. A respectable house would be honored to serve me.”
“You know, you can threaten all you like,” Erec said from his corner, “but they’re still going to spit in your coffee.” He gave her a look of bored weariness. “Why don’t you come back when you’ve learned how to make people do what you want?”
Her throat tightened in helpless frustration. Erec always found ways to tease her when she couldn’t get back at him.
Without a word, she strode to his corner and sat herself down in his lap. “What a considerate young man you are,” she said loudly. “Tell me all about persuading people.”
Nobody could embarrass Erec—it was as impossible as water running uphill—but at least she could make sure that his evening of being inconspicuous was thoroughly ruined.
He slid his hand up her cheek, hooking a thumb under her jaw. “Some things are better shown than told, hm?”
Heat blossomed across her cheeks. Two years ago, he’d found it very easy to persuade her to kiss him, back before she’d learned to tell when he was joking and when he was serious. Before she’d realized his kisses were never serious.
“I don’t need to be shown anything,” she said. “I already know what you are.”
“Do you?” asked Erec, with that oblique tilt of his eyebrows that she knew so well, and her heart thudded.
Then she heard a soft chorus of clicks.
She looked over her shoulder and cursed herself for letting Erec distract her. Because there were twelve men now, and four of them were holding muskets, their wide brass mouths gleaming in the dim light.
Rachelle grinned. Rain and wind and blood flung against her face as she whirled among them, her blade slicing. Moments later she was alone, the bodies of the woodspawn melting into the mud around her.
Gasping for breath, she listened: nothing but the patter of the rain, the whispers of the wind, the faint shouts and clatters that filled the city air even at night. She couldn’t sense anything, either.
The hunt was over, and as she realized that, all her earlier exhaustion washed back over her.
She also realized that the hunt had ended in front of a place where she could get a hot drink. Two doors down, light spilled from the windows of a coffeehouse; its wooden sign rocked in the wind. Rachelle strode through the puddles. As she reached for the door, the wind whirled up again behind her back and shoved her forward. She clattered into the coffeehouse on her toes.
Rachelle squinted against the sudden glare of the oil lamps. She’d never been in this coffeehouse before—it was well away from her normal territory—but it seemed pleasant enough. The air was warm, thick with the scent of coffee. Despite the hour, there were still eight men sitting at the tables. After the cold loneliness of the night, their presence crowded the room: the stubble on their chins, the trim on their coats, the little human noises they made as they breathed and muttered. Behind them, an artist more willing than skilled had painted a swirling promenade of figures from history and legend. By the counter hung a bronze foot enameled red at the ankle-stump: the Dayspring’s left foot, the common devotion for tradesmen.
Glances drifted up to her and stopped. Voices fell silent. It was unusual for a young woman to walk into a coffeehouse alone—especially this late at night—but they didn’t care a whit about that. They didn’t even care that she was one of the rare women with permission from the King to carry a sword and a dispensation from the Church to wear men’s clothing. Not when her red coat was embroidered on each shoulder with a black fleur-de-lis, symbol of the Royal Order of Penitents. The King’s bloodbound.
The King’s pet murderers. That was what the illegal broadsheets plastered on the alley walls called them, and all the people who met her knew it. Rachelle had long since stopped choking when she saw that name in their eyes.
But this time there was more fear than usual. And hatred. These people had probably marched in penitential processions and pasted up broadsheets that all but called for rebellion. They thought that the growing darkness was the judgment of God, brought down by the King’s willingness to make use of the bloodbound’s unholy powers.
She thought, I could kill them all if I had to.
A girl stepped in front of her. She was no older than fourteen, with big eyes and big elbows and pale, twiglike arms that Rachelle could have snapped between her hands.
“What can we do for you, mademoiselle?” she asked, her voice respectful but her gaze flickering nervously around the floor.
Rachelle could fight them all. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to get a cup of hot coffee and sit in a corner, warming herself amid the human clatter while everyone looked past her, the way she could in the coffeehouse back on the rue Grand-Séverin, where the people knew her and remembered the night she had saved four children from woodspawn.
This place was warm and human but hated her, and suddenly the cold, wet night seemed more appealing.
Then she noticed the man seated in the corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His coat collar was turned up and his cap was pulled down, but she would know those sharp cheekbones and lush, arrogant lips anywhere. It was Erec d’Anjou, captain of the King’s bloodbound, masquerading as a common citizen so he could spy out the King’s enemies.
Damned if she was going to turn tail and run while he was watching.
Rachelle planted her feet a little more firmly. “I need coffee,” she said.
Abruptly an older man shoved the girl aside. He had similar lines to his face—father, maybe, or uncle—and corded muscles.
“This is a respectable coffeehouse,” he said, his voice low and rumbling.
“Good,” she said. “I would hate to ruin my reputation.”
“You don’t need to trouble us,” said the man. “For the love of the Dayspring, go somewhere else.”
He was brave, she had to give him that. Her senses had sharpened as they always did when somebody nearby was afraid; she half saw, half heard the swift, desperate pulse in his throat. But he was staring her down as if she couldn’t draw her sword, cut his neck open, and walk away. As if she didn’t know what it felt like to have blood beneath her fingernails and spattered across her face.
She forced the memories back. “I’m a servant of the King. A respectable house would be honored to serve me.”
“You know, you can threaten all you like,” Erec said from his corner, “but they’re still going to spit in your coffee.” He gave her a look of bored weariness. “Why don’t you come back when you’ve learned how to make people do what you want?”
Her throat tightened in helpless frustration. Erec always found ways to tease her when she couldn’t get back at him.
Without a word, she strode to his corner and sat herself down in his lap. “What a considerate young man you are,” she said loudly. “Tell me all about persuading people.”
Nobody could embarrass Erec—it was as impossible as water running uphill—but at least she could make sure that his evening of being inconspicuous was thoroughly ruined.
He slid his hand up her cheek, hooking a thumb under her jaw. “Some things are better shown than told, hm?”
Heat blossomed across her cheeks. Two years ago, he’d found it very easy to persuade her to kiss him, back before she’d learned to tell when he was joking and when he was serious. Before she’d realized his kisses were never serious.
“I don’t need to be shown anything,” she said. “I already know what you are.”
“Do you?” asked Erec, with that oblique tilt of his eyebrows that she knew so well, and her heart thudded.
Then she heard a soft chorus of clicks.
She looked over her shoulder and cursed herself for letting Erec distract her. Because there were twelve men now, and four of them were holding muskets, their wide brass mouths gleaming in the dim light.
